0001-03-06 - The Story of a Marriage (Part 3, The Finale)

Pregnancy is not a good look for Sevyli. Physically, she looks pale and too thin in certain places for someone whose belly indicates she is quite far along. It's deepened lines of fatigue about her face and sharpened her cheekbones and collarbones. Her misery is written in nearly every turn of her hand or movement (waddle, really), of her lopsided body, and it's become quite clear, she's forgotten the in-the-moment absolutely delicious ever practiced hijinks that landed her into this situation. This desired situation. This very much wanted situation.

Right now, it's easy to forget all of that as she slams hands onto Laurent's study desk, uncaring of what or who she's interrupting when she's stormed in. "Out," she says through gritted teeth.

Clearly, Laurent has the easier end of this stick, though his perpetual guilt for having gotten Sevyli into this condition makes him occasionally over-protective and at least a little inclined towards being controlling. At the same time, it's easier for him to put it all out of sight and thus out of mind when he's working, leading to situations like this one, where he (and Claiven) blink upwards in surprise and bewilderment when Lady Keroon herself enters the Lord's study, interrupting their discussions.

"I'll... speak to you later," says Claiven, hastily, grasping for his files and hurrying for the door.

"Sev--" begins Laurie, making no acknowledgement of his steward's departure. "Do you want some tea? A stool? What is it you need?"

Claiven can be ignored. He is not important in this moment. "Explain. This." A letter from Fort Hold is under her palm from where she initially slammed her hand down. "Why are you talking with my brother?" Why are you going behind my back? Why didn't you discuss this with me? Why are you leaving me out? Those are all questions that could be said in lieu of what she actually said, what's writ all over her angry, angry face. The day didn't start off well anyway, there were no smiles at breakfast, despite their promise, even if breakfast is shared begrudgingly.

Poor Laurent ('poor' Laurent?) drops his gaze towards that letter, then lifts it back towards his wife, his frown seemingly unfeigned. "Mighel and I have any number of dealings, Sev," he says, in a tone that is low and perhaps intended to be soothing. "And despite their generous settlement," her dowry, presumably, "we are still working off our debts to them. In another few turns, that will be a thing of the past."

See? Why would he bother her about this? Such an inconsequential thing.

Does Sevyli look like this is an inconsequential thing? Her pale face turns bright red with a fury that's not entirely rational and she flings the letter at her husband's face. "It involves my family, not yours! Just because you don't have a family anymore, doesn't mean you get to talk to mine about things that concern me over my head. I should know about everything that deals with my family." It would be unkind to blame it solely on her pregnancy. But... in this case, if the shoe fits? And then she bursts into tears, because she is that angry.

It's a low blow, and it hits Laurent like a physical one: he recoils, the sympathy and patience in his expression dropped in lieu of anger and hurt. The letter falls, and he makes no move to pick it up. Instead, his fingers wrap about the leather-wrapped arms of his chair, knuckles white, as he stares at his wife. "I don't give a damn that they're your family," he says, voice raised. "I don't give a damn what you think you should be involved in. These are my dealings, with my allies, and you have better things to think about, like keeping my heir alive."

By the end of that, it's pretty certain the entire corridor is aware that there's an argument going on.

This may very well be the first time he's spoken such harsh words to her. If she weren't already crumpling to the floor in hot, angry, and now hurt tears, she might react differently. Shock. Fear. But Sevyli just cries in a way, where this issue is not the only one that's been on her mind, it's just the only one that's cracked the surface. They're not pretty tears, or silent ones, but ugly loud, wailing cries.

Well... shit.

It's one thing to have an argument with your pregnant wife, apparently, and another to leave her wailing on the floor of your office.

Truthfully, Laurent doesn't seem to know what to do: he's not equipped for this. This is beyond his experience.

"Sevyli," he says, caught between stern and sorry and slightly sanctimonious. "Sevyli."

"Don't!" Sevyli finds a voice in between those sobs. "Don't," even though the repetition is less forceful, it's more chilling as it coincides with her wailing dying down. She wipes at her tears with the palm of her hand and when that fails to remove the constant stream, she uses the back of her hand, much like finding a dry area of towel. Awkward as it is, she tries to pull herself up and should he even try to help, she'll say, "don't," again.

"What do you want, Sevyli?" is exasperated. It's hardly fair, given she's just made it clear what she wants.

He doesn't help her up-- doesn't make any effort to move, even, from that chair, with his hands still clutching the arms, knuckles still white with tension.

"Why are you so impossible to understand?" is just about plaintive.

Why is she so impossible to understand? Those innocuous words will haunt her forever, and Sev has no response to that. His question, that was answered before he asked it; her preemptive response apparently not enough of a want for him to grasp. And what is, ultimately, wrong with her. So she sits, quiet, still crying, but quieter, and unable to heave herself up at this point. Maybe they sit like this for hours or ages, or whenever Laurent gets tired of waiting for her.

Not hours, but certainly ages. Laurent doesn't seem capable of moving, or talking, or anything, really.

He's (deep down) too nice of a person to walk away from his crying, pregnant wife, but also too awkward about this emotional stuff to know what to say. Flirting and fine words is one thing; this is completely different.

In the end, it's likely the arrival of a third party who ends their impasse, whose interruption results in Laurent requesting one of Sevyli's ladies be called.

It's a tense few days. Weeks.

And then... one day, finally, there is a baby.

The baby arrives before Keroon's lord and lady completely make up, though they do make up, sort of. In the awkward way couples can coexist in tepidly polite fashion, that hopes that today is somehow a better, nicer, kinder day, but isn't willing to quite budge yet.

Sevyli is in early labor for days, and ends up bedridden in the dark, any light causing migraines. At various points, she complains that full labor would be more welcome than this tiresome holding pattern, but when active labor starts, and persists for hours and hours, with agonizing sounds at intermittent intervals, she screams her regrets several times.

Then. Then! There's a baby, the wailing cries audible to the hallway just outside her chambers, and the triumphant cry of the midwife: "It's a boy!"

Superficially, Laurent has been all that is good and supportive-- but 'superficial' really is the watch-word. The silences are long, the politeness stilted.

Those days of early labor are excruciating for Laurent (hush), caught between wanting to do something, anyway, for his wife, and equally, wanting to stay as far away as possible. It's the same when it comes to active labor, though this time he waits in the hallway outside, pacing back and forth, and pausing every so often to have a drink.

He's not drunk when he bursts in to the room, but there's a tipsy flush to his cheeks, and his eyes are shining with emotion.

"Sev," he says, dropping to his knees beside the bed. "Are you well?"

By the time the attendants let him in the room, Sevyli and her son have been cleaned and the former has been changed into a robe. The wet nurse is in an adjacent room with the child for now, and Lady Keroon sits, exhausted, in the center of her bed. Her smile for her husband is wan, her two hands moving to try and sit herself up a little better. "Oh, Laurie," she breathes out, eyes shining as bright as his in spite of their tiredness, "He is so perfect. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, my love." Hearing the Lord outside the door, the wet nurse finishes the boy's first meal and brings him out, standing to the side until called upon with the wrapped little, red-faced bundle.

Laurie reaches out to grasp for Sevyli's hands, to squeeze them in earnest, eager excitement. "I'm the one who's sorry," he murmurs, temporarily heedless of the wet nurse and yes, even his son. "I was wrong, and we're going to do better. For our son. And for us, too. I love you, Sev. You're amazing."

"So, so sorry," she murmurs again, bringing his hand up to her mouth and kissing it all over, affectionate and all in the glazed triumph of having brought new life into the world. Sevyli ignores his appreciation and apologies, entreating with her deep brown eyes, "Forgive me, by naming our son, Laurie."

The wet nurse watches the pair, without any indication she's really paying attention. She may have seen this kind of scene, along with its extreme contrast, several times in her career.

"Are you sure?" Laurie looks like he might almost cry. Without question, he's emotional: finally, they're a proper family. Maybe, finally, they will make things work. If they're not careful, they're going to end up playing tug-o-war over their hands and mouths, because he reaches in to aim a kiss to hers, too. "You're the one who's done all the work. But--" Now, finally, he turns about to see the nurse, and to beckon her forward so that he can take that precious bundle into his arms. Clearly he's not going to fight her on this.

Is this the first time he's held a baby? Possibly. Does she need to adjust the way he's holding his son? Yes.

"Theoden," he says. "What do you think, Sev?"

Theoden. Sevyli mouths the name and smiles, her kissed hand falling limp to the bed. Her lack of disapproval paired with the hand that beckons him closer, to bring him and her son to her bedside, is enough of an approval right now. When he sits, she tucks her head against his shoulder, much like when she was a young child and he was attending to her every, tiny, girlish whim.

There are celebrations in the Hold for a week after, the Hold generous with its largesse in light of such fortunate news. A new child, and a boy at that. An heir to such a charming Lord and virtuous wife, so Keroon's Bloodline can continue unquestioningly. Every household receives some sort of extra foodstuffs and fabric.

Peace reigns in the household for many months, maybe even turns with small arguments here and there about her involvement in Hold business, or lack there of, but there is always something that requires only her attention, whether it's contrived or actually spontaneous, that these little slights never fully resolve despite explosions here and there. Somehow, they always make up, eventually, though each time seems harder to recover from than the last time. Her home Hold is always a sore subject between the pair, but soon, there are other subjects to be at odds over.

A decade remains before the supposed end of the Interval, and Sevyli and Laurent have been married now for fourteen turns now. The Weyrs come requesting, no, demanding repairs and upgrades to the Hold's Thread warning systems, as well as more tithes leading into the Pass for preparation.

If you asked Laurie, fourteen turns into their marriage, if he loved his wife, his immediate answer would always be yes. He loves his wife, and he loves his children, and plenty of couples fight-- everything is fine.

The turns have been good to Keroon. With their debt to Fort paid off, and no unfortunate gambling emptying their coffers for a second time, it's been possible to add all kinds of improvements, and to make a difference to the lives of the Keroonian people, here and there. Laurie is by-and-large considered to be a good Lord, appropriately protective of his people and keeper of their futures.

Laurie has little time or patience for Weyrfolk, with their ever-changing leaders and peculiar systems of governance. (Sex is no way to decide anything, surely.) He meets the Igen delegation in the grand chamber of the hold, but only after he's left them waiting for some time. When he arrives, it's with Sevyli on his arm, escorting her to the dais with their raised chairs in what, unfortunately, is more intended as a gesture of power than one of inclusiveness.

The Weyr presents their case. Lord Laurent remains utterly impassive. "Keroon's coffers serve Keroon," he tells them. "We have nothing spare to devote to your games."

Knowing nothing different than this kind of marriage and love, Sevyli would answer the same, though a neutral gaze might consider their relationship co-dependent of the worst kind. But Sev believes she loves Laurent, and loves him fiercely, in spite of her persistent, low simmering hurt and anger.

When he invites her to this audience, those little bubbles of hope surge to the surface and she takes care with her appearance and demeanor. She listens in on the case and parts her lips to comment, when he speaks first and she blurts out, unthinkingly, "Games?" Did they listen to the same words?

Can she feel the way he stiffens beside her, his whole body suddenly as taut as a bowstring, and his temper equally as dangerous.

"Games," he repeats, with emphasis. "You say Thread is returning, but I see no evidence of it. You say we must do things that you have decided matter; but we are not subservient to you. Keroon makes her own decisions. If you think these repairs and upgrades are so important, set your own people to it. People who have grown fat on our largesse. If Thread returns-- if -- we will consider an altered arrangement. But now? See to your own concerns, and I will see to mine."

The delegation hardly looks fat on anyone's largesse and Sevyli's brown eyes ruminate on these dragonriders -- allegedly people just like she and the man beside her -- and she frowns.

One of the men catch sight of that expression, his flashing eyes dark with held back anger, and nods stiffly to the Lord and Lady of Keroon. "As you wish, Lord Keroon." His deep voice is less politely acidic when he adds, "Lady Keroon." He can't help the parting shot of, "I hope your Hold harpers teach your children the duties to dragonkind better than they have you."

Sevyli's breath catches, and what sympathy she had sharpens to something significantly less kind. She will, however, wait until they are gone, out of the Hold, just in case those dragons can hear things they shouldn't, before turning to her husband. "Thread will return."

In the moment, it might be difficult for Laurent to determine who it is who makes him more anger: the dragonmen or his wife.

That Sevyli gets her words in first only shows how deep that anger runs-- though it certainly provokes a response. His hands grip the arms of his chair (sound familiar? it's a common sign of his emotions), his knuckles white, and when he speaks it is low and sharp and fierce. "And how would you know that?" You.

"How dare you undermine me."

The look she gives him is one of pity, there's no masking it or softening it. There's unintentional contempt in that pity. "Because my grandparents lived Thread." Because he, presumably, did not know his grandparents in that way, "It's what we are taught every day of our childhood, that Thread returns every one hundred fifty turns and it will happen in our lifetime." Sevyli cannot, cannot even begin to with the last words, and how much they visibly pain her behind that contempt. "And should it not return, what does it harm us to give a tiny bit of our riches to people in need. Did you see their-," she pauses, bereft of words to describe the thinness she saw.

Pity is not a great emotion to throw at Laurent, whose pride resists such things. It sharpens the line of his shoulders, and draws his mouth into a sneer. Maybe, in time, he might have relented; might have listened (maybe not). But now? Now, it is a matter of pride. "That's ten turns away, if it even happens," is a throwaway, not the important point here. "And in the meantime, they've had a hundred and forty turns to live off of us, while they give us... what? Nothing."

He rises now from his seat, as if to walk away, but no: he turns back on his heel. "If you ever dare to contradict me in front of anyone else again, I'll send you back to Fort, since you clearly can't be trusted to mind what's best for Keroon."

"In front of anyone else? Or ever?" Sevyli dares, rising from her seat when he turns back. "You don't ever like being contradicted, ever. Even when you are, clearly, abso-fucking-lutely wrong." The woman is only slightly shorter than her husband, and she brings her head back proud, chin thrust forward and daring him to fight back.

Laurent is not, thankfully, a violent man, though his hands form fists at his side: clenching and unclenching and then clenching again. "I am the Lord," he says, his voice not quiet but outright loud, ready to fill this chamber. "I am Keroon. And if you want anything left to hand over to our son when I am gone, you will shut your dammed trap. I won't have it, Sevyli. If you cannot be trusted to mind yourself, you clearly cannot be trusted to represent this Hold."

"Send me back to Fort then and see how fast your coffers dry up," Sevyli taunts him, her voice low and angry. He can boom like a petulant child, she will take the road of pretended civility, "I've given you four children. FOUR. I turn my gaze away when you stray. I even ignore the fact that you say you loved me always but I know you loved someone else. I heard the rumors. Maybe you'd respect her more than some twelve year old you were forced to marry because no one else would have you." The thirty-something year old she's become doesn't break down in tears, but storms out, her pretty, specifically selected dress swirling in the yellow and green of her adopted Hold. "Go fuck yourself. Or Nabol. I don't care."

Except she totally does. Maybe she is actually crying now as she attempts an escape.

Maybe he has, should have, some kind of comeback to that. After all, there are factual inaccuracies throughout Sevyli's statement, and Laurent has, in his way, receipts to prove it.

But there's something about the fact that she knows at least something about Eisha that breaks something inside him. How easy it is to imagine his childhood love to be a superior wife in every way to the one he has (and how wrong he would be, let's be honest).

"Sevyli," he says. His voice is less boomingly angry, now. Not ashamed, not sad-- just tired, maybe. Tired of fighting. Tired of being unable to understand what this creature in his life wants. Tired of being the bad guy, when all he wants is to do well by those in his care: his wife, his children, his hold.

Tired. So tired.

She ignores him and walks out. Tired doesn't even begin to describe it. This one will be hard to recover from, but eventually, they do, because they have no other option. He can't send her back to Fort. She can't leave him.