γ the sunlight room is one of few comforts aboard the ximilia. impossible as it is—in the midst of so much strangeness— the green of the leaves, the soft snapping of branches underfoot prove soothing.
little relief, however, exists within the wide space today.
by the bridge spanning the frozen stream, helen stands as unmoving as a statue. dressed in white, she appears carved from marble. her arms wrap around her middle. she only shifts when she senses someone come near—then only a turn of her head enough to catch glimpse of who has joined her. sorrow softens her beautiful features, lends them a timeless poignancy.
[Though the sunlight room is rarely empty, Yujin doesn't a habit of stopping for his shipmates. Not beyond quick greetings, anyhow. He values how meditative this place can be, when all else here isn't-- and particularly after how eventful his first month aboard the Ximilia's been.
So, at first, Helen escapes his notice. And then, as he draws nearer, his footsteps tapping lightly upon the bridge, he actually observes her, rather than merely looking. Guarded and tense. When she whirls around, there are tears in her eyes. It's enough to tug at anyone's heartstrings, really.]
My dear... [he begins, voice reassuring. If his tone is anything, it's that of a father. This is the sound that goes with skinned knees, bruised egos, childhood failures, runaway teenage boys.]
Is everything all right?
[He's at her side with the handkerchief from his breast pocket already in his hand, offered out to her.]
γ dear child, she hears in priamβs kind tonesβher father-in-law who ever spoke to her fondly despite the doom with which she darkened his doorwayβ
the handkerchief is pressed to her belly. her head shakes. her voice thick, she warns, γ
You should pass me by. Reproach me here, an evil-thinking dog before whom all shudder. Only grief is my trade.
γ silence is yujin's answer, and silence may have been all he received. until, eyes fixed unseeing in the distance, the terrible confession issues between her lips. γ
Day after day, I looked out from the city walls, hoping to find among the multitude the familiar faces of my brothers. We were born together: two brothers and two sisters. So much of their life passed in defense of me, wretched sister that I am. And each day that I could not descry them I wondered why. Why do they not come when I need them most.
γ her face falls. her breath shudders. γ
Here, I learned they could not. For the earth had covered them ten years past. γ the cruelty is she never knew. γ
Ten years past... [Yujin repeats. Echoing those words, inconceivable as they are, is all he can think to do. To have lost her flesh and blood is injury enough, but to have done so unknowingly-- for ten years?
He holds his years of grief close. The pain, though dulled now, is its own memorial to the people he's loved and lost more than a decade ago now. Being robbed of those is unthinkable to him. Immediately, that pang of sympathy for her deepens.
Yujin rests a gentle hand upon her arm. First:] I'm sorry, Helen. You deserved to have known far sooner.
[And after a moment to let those words rest:] Would you like to do something, in their memory?
γ her eyes slant to the touch on her arm. overly familiar, presumptuous…and a kindness she has scarcely received in the past decade. she wants to slap him away; she wants to take his hand.
in the end, helen does neither. drawing her veil closer around her, she draws in another trembling breath. γ
I must. Far as I am, the proper rites must be observed.
γ there will be games, a sacrifice. there will be wine and stories. her brothers' names will be known and remembered. but tonight…tonight—
her voice breaks. γ Is it selfishness to wish this night to only mourn?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action.
little relief, however, exists within the wide space today.
by the bridge spanning the frozen stream, helen stands as unmoving as a statue. dressed in white, she appears carved from marble. her arms wrap around her middle. she only shifts when she senses someone come near—then only a turn of her head enough to catch glimpse of who has joined her. sorrow softens her beautiful features, lends them a timeless poignancy.
her tears fall easily, have fallen a while. γ
no subject
So, at first, Helen escapes his notice. And then, as he draws nearer, his footsteps tapping lightly upon the bridge, he actually observes her, rather than merely looking. Guarded and tense. When she whirls around, there are tears in her eyes. It's enough to tug at anyone's heartstrings, really.]
My dear... [he begins, voice reassuring. If his tone is anything, it's that of a father. This is the sound that goes with skinned knees, bruised egos, childhood failures, runaway teenage boys.]
Is everything all right?
[He's at her side with the handkerchief from his breast pocket already in his hand, offered out to her.]
no subject
the handkerchief is pressed to her belly. her head shakes. her voice thick, she warns, γ
You should pass me by. Reproach me here, an evil-thinking dog before whom all shudder. Only grief is my trade.
no subject
[And an all too familiar one, he is loath to admit.]
I would happily listen. If you cared to speak, of course...
no subject
Day after day, I looked out from the city walls, hoping to find among the multitude the familiar faces of my brothers. We were born together: two brothers and two sisters. So much of their life passed in defense of me, wretched sister that I am. And each day that I could not descry them I wondered why. Why do they not come when I need them most.
γ her face falls. her breath shudders. γ
Here, I learned they could not. For the earth had covered them ten years past. γ the cruelty is she never knew. γ
no subject
He holds his years of grief close. The pain, though dulled now, is its own memorial to the people he's loved and lost more than a decade ago now. Being robbed of those is unthinkable to him. Immediately, that pang of sympathy for her deepens.
Yujin rests a gentle hand upon her arm. First:] I'm sorry, Helen. You deserved to have known far sooner.
[And after a moment to let those words rest:] Would you like to do something, in their memory?
no subject
in the end, helen does neither. drawing her veil closer around her, she draws in another trembling breath. γ
I must. Far as I am, the proper rites must be observed.
γ there will be games, a sacrifice. there will be wine and stories. her brothers' names will be known and remembered. but tonight…tonight—
her voice breaks. γ Is it selfishness to wish this night to only mourn?