Hills to Die On

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Leander
Posts: 122
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 16
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbour
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Writer: Dizzy
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Thu Sep 19, 2019 3:52 pm

24th Day of Loshis, 2719
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The few days following the... altercation with Silas Hawke’s contact had been quiet. Leander had returned, disheveled and with blood on his clothing to Resha. The splattered blood wasn’t his, though, he had gruffly informed his master and, excepting the minor limp he had for the day or so immediately after the incident, he was no more worse for wear than after any other night after a gander around the local pubs.

Leo was noticeably more agitated: somewhat jumpy and irritable, lashing out at the smallest thing. Resha had, in hindsight, done the best thing for his young charge. He had piled on the work, some menial tasks, others that required more thought, but it kept Leander busy, which kept his brooding mind away from over-analysing the events of that awful night. For his part, Resha didn’t pry, but he hovered slightly more than usual, even staying up when Leo inevitably went out each night... he always had an excuse, but the passive knew each time that Resha was silently examining him when he walked through the door in the early hours of the morning.

Hawke didn’t come to see him, as Leo had predicted. Nor did he send any of his lackeys to complete a debrief. Leander received no official news of what happened to the surviving, incapacitated galdor that Niccolette had put down. But Old Rose was a small place, in the sense that it was like a hive. Nothing stayed secret in the Harbour, and rumours were the life blood of its taverns and inns.

Gossip surrounded the King of the Underworld and his minions. Leo’s name was not mentioned this time, but Niccolette’s was. Leander learnt of the wick’s displeasure with the galdor, a long-standing feeling apparently. This displeasure had, word had it, been aggravated by her unannounced arrival at his door, and the unceremonious dumping of her captive. Whispers surrounded her failed mission - the decision to kill rather than to preserve life temporarily in favour of learning more. She was unstable and unreliable, gossip told.

Now, Leo wasn’t one to believe all rumours, having heard enough in the past to know they couldn’t always be accurate. But, Circle did he want them to be real.

He didn’t know quite what brought him to her door. He hadn’t been drinking, and had no particular purpose in his arrival at her door. Yet, here he was, outside the woman’s front door, staring at it. He knocked on the door and took a step back. He was rewarded for his unconscious decision to find Niccolette when she opened the door. Leander said nothing, but his facial expression said everything he didn’t.

Last edited by Leander on Fri Sep 27, 2019 7:37 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
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Writer: moralhazard
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Thu Sep 19, 2019 9:53 pm

Afternoon, 24 Loshis 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords
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Niccolette had woken to rays of sunlight streaming in through the window, sharp and vicious and all together too bright. She did not remember her dreams, but she woke nonetheless with a painful sense of loss, with the half-remembered notion that she had been whole again. Then her head began to ache, even before she had lifted it from the pillow, and the last of that imagined comfort was gone.

She threw up, next, for a long time. She staggered to the bathroom and threw up once, and then curled on the tiled floor, shaking, only to rise and throw up again. Somewhere in the midst of it, she lost track of the number, and she did not trouble to begin counting again. There seemed to be little point. She stopped, eventually, although the spasms seemed to last long past the point of anything resembling food or fluid in her stomach.

Eventually, she could rise; she bathed, rinsed the sticky sour sweat of alcohol from her skin with clinical precision, brushed her teeth, and drank what she could of water. She did not trouble to eat, but brushed out her hair sitting on the edge of her vanity’s seat, without looking in the covered mirror.

She dressed in a shift, and made her way across the house, bare feet cold against the floor; at the end of the long empty hallway, past the rooms shuttered and covered by sheets, past the clean but empty dining room, past the study Uzoji had once called his own, past her own notes and grimoires and into the room of candles at the end of it all. Niccolette knelt in the center of them, and called to the mona to light the candles, a wave of flame sweeping out with her exhale, flickering out along the edges of the plot.

For some time, she knelt in stillness and in silence, and she only breathed, clinging the rhythms of each breath in her head, falling effortlessly into the familiar patter . The candles shifted with each breath, the little flickering flames straining toward her as she inhaled, and easing away as she exhaled, the pattern of their lights woven across her pale skin and the white shift, over the whitewashed walls of the little room.

Then, slowly, she began to speak. It was monite, not Estuan, and it dripped from her lips between the breaths, never interrupting them. It was the same long series of syllables, over and over again, lasting the length of that pattern of breaths. It never broke or faltered. Once, and only once, the door opened and a sharp, frantic squeak emerged; it shut, much more quickly. Niccolette did not even look up.

There was no sense of time in the meditations; there never had been. One could not ask the mona to count the moments; one could not bring oneself forward, every bit yielding and demanding all at once, and then trouble to be on a timer. For however long she knelt, Niccolette simply was; she held herself in a place beyond the slow ticking of the clock, where there was only her breath and her field and her will.

But eventually she did stop; her voice guttered out, and she chanted the monite that would put the candles out, glowing the flames outward into nothingness once more with something like an exhale. Niccolette cleaned the plot next, scraped the bits of wax from the side of the white candles one by one, cleaned it from the floor, and left it all in a covered basket by the door.

Niccolette was soaked in sweat again when she left; the whole house was warmer, the heat having risen through it, echoing across the floors. She bathed again, brushed her hair, and stood in her towel for a long moment before the wardrobe. Then, unhesitatingly, she reached inside; she felt her way through the folded slacks, and slipped out a pair. She eased them on, rolled them up so they should not drag on the floor, found the belt with the extra hole gouged past the rest, and pulled it on as well. She took a shirt next, pale orange silk, and had to put it down to weep. She wept like a storm; it blew over her, sharp and fierce, and she could not but yield. When it passed, Niccolette blew her nose into a handkerchief and pulled the shirt on, buttoned it down her front and folded the collar carefully, and tucked it into the waist of the pants, before pulling the belt taut.

Niccolette made her way to the dining room; she ignored the soup and bread sitting on the table, and went for the wine instead, pouring it for herself. She sighed, leaning back against the wall, and took a sip - she felt the throbbing in her temples ease, felt some tension she could not name in her chest loosen. She took another sip.

There was a knock at the door of the Quarter Fords house; it was unusual for someone to come so far, all the way to this tucked back little pocket of the Rose, a tiny petal of wealth hidden amidst all the rest. It was still given out as empty, half the time, and it looked it from the outside; the growths of springs were trimmed back, but without any joy or direction, and the windows were closed, all but one.

Niccolette made a face, hardly happy with how this boded. She did not trouble to change or to hide; she carried the glass with her down the hall, bare foot against the carpet, and opened the door. She stood there a long moment, wearing her husband’s slacks and orange silk shirt, her hair loose and still damp against her back. She wore no make-up; her eyes were red and swollen from the tears.

Niccolette sighed, slumped against the door frame, and took another sip of wine. “What do you want?” She asked, staring at Leander.

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Leander
Posts: 122
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 16
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbour
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Writer: Dizzy
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Tue Oct 01, 2019 4:33 pm

24th Day of Loshis, 2719
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The sight before him was... whilst not funny, was surprising. It caused the corners of his lips to curve upwards into something that could best be described as a sneer. “Well, aren’t you a little ray of sunshine this fine day,” the passive replied breezily, knowing - or hoping - his tone would likely infuriate Niccolette even more. “Good afternoon to you too.

Leander glanced behind the woman, into her house. “I was hoping, initially, to be invited in. Small talk on the porch is all well and good, but we wouldn’t want word of your anti-social behaviour being added to your...ah, ” the boy licked his lips, “colourful reputation as it currently stands.

The woman moved, though everything about her body language screamed that she was not happy about inviting the passive into her home, let alone further into her life. Leo, for his part, paid no mind to the sub-zero emotions radiating off of her, stepping in with a practiced air of indifference.

The first room with an open door led to the sitting room, and Leander walked in without a backwards, questioning, glance. It was something else that he had worked on - acting as if he had every right to be wherever he was, and do whatever he wanted. The room was rather bare: two armchairs facing towards an empty fireplace. The hearth was utterly bare, with no trace of what Leo expected to see.

It surprised Leander to see the galdor’s home as empty as his own room above the Attic. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find in Niccolette’s home… family heirlooms - weren’t they common among the galdori? Something to present to the world, displaying an opulence and wealth only found among the most privileged. In fact… the fireplace barely looked used, dust rather than ash lining the stone. The forger stared at the hearth as he heard Niccolette enter the room and seat herself in one of the armchairs.

Turning, Leo inclined his head towards the other chair. Niccolette had not looked up, though, so the passive cleared his throat, “May I?” He was, all of a sudden, feeling uncomfortable about taking liberties and assuming his license to claim a seat there. Despite the sparse decorations within the room, the ghost of the woman’s dead husband lingered.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
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Writer: moralhazard
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Tue Oct 01, 2019 5:18 pm

Afternoon, 24 Loshis 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords
Niccolette pressed her lips together at Leander’s ‘greeting,’ such as it was, and lifted the glass of wine for another sip. She did not make the faintest effort to respond when he wished her a good afternoon, still standing solidly in the door. Her field held crisp and indectal around her; to Leander, it was like an sharp, almost bright feeling; it wasn’t flexing or powerful in the air like it had been when she cast, but still impossible not to notice.

Niccolette’s face didn’t change much as Leander’s descriptions of his hopes, nor at his jab about her colorful reputation. She did not much care what they thought of her in the Rose, and nor was she particularly worried about anyone seeing her standing in her own doorway talking to a passive; she could not imagine anyone coming down this quiet street in Quarter Fords and peering through the walkway from the road to the door. As for antisocial behavior? Stripe them, Niccolette thought. Stripe them all; she owed them nothing.

All the same –

Niccolette moved.

She could not have said why she did it; she did not try to explain it to herself. But she shrugged, faintly, and she stepped aside, and glanced over her shoulder down the hallway as Leander went past her. Niccolette closed the door behind him, and rested against it for a long moment, her forehead pressing against the hardwood. She shuddered, once, took a deep breath, and when she opened her eyes, there was not even a trace of tears.

Niccolette followed Leander down the hall, into the only open door – the sitting room and study that had once been Uzoji’s. There were two comfortable chairs in front of the bare, empty fireplace, uncovered; there were shelves with a handful of books in eclectic topics lining them, a long couch against one wall, a small table, empty, and a desk at the back of the room, empty and bare. The only thing remotely personal was the small model of an airship that sat on one of the shelves, small and black and sleek; it looked hand-carved.

Niccolette stepped past Leander and sat in the armchair closer to the door, the one Uzoji had always preferred. She crossed her legs at the ankle, and stared at the empty fireplace, not looking at the hovering passive. There was a long stretch of silence, and Niccolette rather wished he would get to the point; she took another sip of her wine, then set the glass down on the table between the armchairs.

When Leander spoke again, Niccolette glanced over at him, and pursed her lips again. “As you like,” she said, and went back to looking at the fireplace. There was none of the anxious energy of a few nights earlier; she was utterly still, curled a little into the side of the chair, her hands resting together on her lap. Her gaze drifted, slowly, to the nearby shelves – settled on the model of the airship. Her lips pressed a little firmer together – something like a shiver ran through her, and Niccolette slowly brought her gaze back to the fireplace, and blinked away the faint shimmer of tears in her eyes.

“We are inside,” Niccolette said, finally, and took a deep breath. She straightened up a little in her chair, settled her hands against the arms of it, and looked firmly at Leander. “Surely there must be some reason that you are here.” There was a faint but sharp challenging sound to her tone, a little prick of life that flashed in her eyes again, and she raised an eyebrow to go along with it, her attention fixed solidly on the passive now.

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Leander
Posts: 122
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 16
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbour
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Writer: Dizzy
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Mon Jan 06, 2020 10:00 am

24th Day of Loshis, 2719
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The worst flaw a person can have is that of self-deception. Leander was just so. He acted on impulse and only created the reasons for his actions after the fact. He could always justify anything she did, if questioned on it: always part of a grander plan, and everything worked out in the end. He felt like his good deeds meant he was a good person and his bad deeds were justified. In truth he never thought before he acted or spoke, he never stopped to ask himself if his response was the right one, or merely the first knee-jerk reaction that sprung to mind. Whatever he said was almost never true, or at least it was only "true" for him.

So when Nicolette had invited him in, he found himself actually surprised that he sold with enough self-authority to look like he was a man with a plan. The reality couldn’t have been farther from the truth. He lived his life following the orders of others, and hating himself for it. That hatred grew deeper as he pushed his way through it with a bottle often found in one hand, the other dealing cards or up a woman’s skirt. The hedonistic nature of half of his life left his crippled with little regard for his own well-being, or so he thought. Did it matter if one night he past out on the streets and drowned in a puddle, or choked on his own vomit? Of course it did - he had plans for a life as yet unlived. But he never got to thinking about such things, with drugs and alcohol dulling his mind, and treating everything - especially women - like it had an expiry date.

Yet, more days ago, he had found himself in mortal danger. Not that he hadn’t been before, Hawke and Corwynn had seen to that numerous times.

He remembered the words of Resha: “Do you know why I loathe the teen-aged mind? Because it's impenetrable; nothing can get in that the damn fool teenager doesn't permit. You're all so bloody certain of everything… But I suppose that's what youth is: cast iron convictions and a dearth of contemplation. And if it's the belief you can drink a bottle of whisky and not get drunk, then that's fine. You're an idiot, but you get a hangover and learn. But dangerous times breed dangerous mistakes, Leander. At your age things seem so crystal clear, but sometimes the crystals are dew. They evaporate, and what you're left with can be terrifying.” And, for the first time, he understood what those words meant.

It was not the first time he had been in mortal danger, but it was the first time he had been somewhat sober to experience it, experience the fear that accompanied such an impending, unavoidable fate. He had been So what came out of his mouth next was perhaps the most genuine thing he had said since his childhood was ripped away from him. “I never had the chance to thank you,” he says after a few seconds, because he feels like he has to bring it up. The passive swallowed, feeling every bit the naïvety of his age all at once, “for saving my life.

It was so much easier to slip on his armour and not have to deal with a bunch of preconceived notions about who he was or what his life meant. This… openness, this raw truth… this was harder. There was no sarcasm, no flippant comment, no pride or ill-placed demands for respect. It isn’t quite total abjection, but it wasn’t far off. Honesty, that was what it was.

He finally sat down. “That’s… that was my reason, I suppose.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
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Writer: moralhazard
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Mon Jan 06, 2020 7:50 pm

Afternoon, 24 Loshis 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords
Leander was still lingering, standing behind the chair. Niccolette watched him, curled into the side of Uzoji’s chair. Her legs were crossed at the ankle against the ground, small bare feet tucked against one another and the chair’s leg. The tan slacks were loose on her legs, just barely pulled taut at the knees, and the rolled cuffs were not precisely crisp, but they held. As if only just thinking about it, she smoothed the pale orange shirt with a trembling hand; her breath caught, and then evened out again.

Carefully, Niccolette’s right hand settled delicately against her side; it crossed the front of the body, and her fingers curled into her waist, holding. She could feel the scar through the thin silk, not that she needed to feel it to find it. She knew it; she knew its every contour, every inch. She could find it with her eyes closed, through layers more of fabric. Usually she could not feel it, but the touch of it through the silk was welcome, grounding.

Why had she let the passive in? Niccolette was still not sure, and she remained unsure when – finally – Leander spoke.

The Bastian pursed her lips faintly, her head tilting to the side. She sat up a little more, and let go of herself. Carefully, Niccolette pushed her hair back off her forehead, and sighed. He had sat, finally, as if mentioning that he owed her thanks relieved him of some heavy, worrisome burden.

“You had the chance,” Niccolette said, coolly, unimpressed. She looked at him once more, deliberately, lingeringly, so that he would know she saw him; an expression of distaste flickered over her delicate features. She turned away, just as deliberately, and looked at the fireplace. “You did not take it.”

Niccolette’s hand settled on the arm of the chair; her fingers tapped, tapped again. She reached for her wine glass, and swirled the thick red liquid, slowly, watching the legs slide slowly down the side. She took another sip, slowly, and set the glass back down with a careful, even clink. She supposed it had taken something like courage for the passive to come here. He had not, Niccolette noticed, actually thanked her; he had merely noted that he had not. She supposed she was meant to have accepted, or thanked him, or expressed some sort of mutual gratitude. But Nicolette had never had any patience for meaningless platitudes; they seemed to her a waste of time. She did not owe him thanks; she did not even owe him the acceptance of the thanks he had offered. She would not pretend otherwise.

All the same, she was starting to wish him out of her house.

“But fine,” Niccolette shrugged, and turned back to Leander. “You may consider your thanks offered, if you wish. Shall you leave now?” She raised her eyebrows once more, challengingly, looking directly at him. The light through the window caught her face; it shone on her hair, and sparked a vivid greenness to her eyes. Niccolette lifted her chin against it, and did not blink or look away.

At the distance of the chairs, Leander would still be able to feel her field. Nothing had changed in it; it was as bright and vivid as ever, oddly sharp, still charged with the energy of her meditations. It was deliberate, that distance; when it had been Uzoji in the other chair, Niccolette had been able to feel the calm organization of his field, the strength of the physical mona and the heat of the static ones. She did not pulse or flex, but she made no effort to spare Leander the feeling of it. She saw no reason why she should.

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Leander
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Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 16
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbour
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Writer: Dizzy
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Tue Jan 07, 2020 11:58 am

24th Day of Loshis, 2719
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Leander blinked, somewhat confused by the lady’s cool reply, seemingly choosing to quibble over the matter of semantics. Of course he had the chance - there is always the chance. But opportunity and stability are two very different things. The stability of the moment in which he had had the chance made such a thing barely possible. At the time, the young man had not the thought, and hindsight was a marvellous thing.

No…” the passive replied, words lost to him in the moment, once again. “You’re right. I-” what did he even want to say. He didn’t know. And it had nothing to do with the beautiful, if aloof, woman sitting opposite him. Were it anyone else, he would probably feel the same way, probably be saying the same things. But she doled out her responses with the same mellow disinterest as a woman polishing her silverware. It was unnerving, to say the least.

The woman’s bluntness continued, directly asking him if he was planning on pushing his presence on the woman any further. There was a talent to the expression on her face, making a simple question sound something along the lines of ‘move along, if you value your limbs all being intact’. The coldness washed over him in a dizzying swash, unexpected in its intensity. Leo, ever the silver-tongued, quit-witted passive, raised a sculpted brow, “The other day was a disaster from the moment you walked into the Attic. I prioritised our safety over whatever internal bullshit you have going on, and now I am here to try to make amends.

The passive's stomach was churning with anxiety, his hands sweaty and clammy. He wished he could skip forward in time, to a time when everything was resolved, without having to go through the tricky middle bit that linked here to there. Leander had never been good at talking about emotional things. He was entirely out of his comfort zone. The counterfeiter braced himself as he stood again and forced the words past his lips, his heart rate skyrocketing as he did so. “People are terrible and rude and greedy and corrupt. You know this too. I could see it in your eyes right when we first met, and not just because of your dead husband. You can't trust everyone. And sometimes you can’t trust anyone. I don’t care what happened to you in the past, just like you couldn’t give a whit what happened to me. None of it matters anymore. But it’s nevertheless true that trust is a very tenuous thing for people like you and me.

But sometimes, people are also amazing and selfless and just. Not very often… but sometimes… sometimes it is worth taking the risk. You… saved my life, you did your job, sure, and we owe each other nothing. But I wanted to say thank you all the same.” The boy smiled sadly, and said his goodbyes before seeing himself out. “I wish you a pleasant day.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
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Writer: moralhazard
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Tue Jan 07, 2020 3:31 pm

Afternoon, 24 Loshis 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords
Niccolette thought of Leander in the attic, working on the forgery – working, she thought, hours past what Hawke had said it would take him, needling her as she stood and waited and watched. Whatever internal bullshit you have going on, the passive had said. Niccolette pressed her lips together, firmly, and looked away; she could not bring herself to care enough to call him on it. She knew perfectly well her own internal bullshit; she had no illusions about that. She was not herself; perhaps she never would be again, at least not the self she had been before she had watched the Eqe Aqawe come apart in the air above the home where she and her husband had made their marriage bed, before the little carving on the shelf was all she had left of the ship, before these clothes were the most of her husband that could rest against her skin –

He was still talking, Niccolette realized.

She turned her attention back to the passive. Her face was neutral and cold, still; her ramscott remained indectal. He had stood up, at least; he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from going on, but he had stood up, and he was moving as if he meant to leave. Niccolette watched him, silent, and let him go on about trust, about risks, about what was owed between people.

Niccolette looked away, slowly, when Leo wished her a pleasant day. She said nothing; she curled her hand around her wine glass again, and brought it to her lips, almost mechanically. She scarcely tasted the wine; it was only something to do, because she thought she might fall apart in the stillness. She held, on Uzoji’s chair, and waited as she heard Leo’s footsteps through the empty house; she waited for the click of the heavy front door behind him.

It was like releasing a held breath. Niccolette felt the tears rush up and swallow her; she tried to set the wine glass down, and she missed; it shattered against the floor, dark red spilling through the glass. Niccolette could not so much as look at it. She drew her knees up to her chest, and buried her face against them, and wept into her husband’s pants, curled up in his chair.

For a long time, there was nothing else for her; there was nothing to feel but sadness, and it colored the air around her a dark, deep blue, seeping out from her to fill her field. It didn’t help, putting it in the open, sobbing it out, but Niccolette knew better than to fight it all the same. Eventually, shuddering, she felt the sobs come to a stop. It was still some time before she could uncurl stiff limbs, could ease herself out of them armchair.

She stumbled, trying to step around the glass shards; she caught herself against the chair, breathing hard, and felt a prick at the edge of her foot. Niccolette sniffled, and eased herself back down onto the chair. She drew the bit of glass out with trembling fingers; droplets of blood chased after it, followed it as she dropped it to the ground. With only the light from the distant window, Niccolette could scarcely tell it apart from the wine.

Niccolette didn’t bother to wipe her foot clean, but she brought it carefully down to the ground, away from Uzoji’s chair, and his slacks. The next time she tried to stand, it was a little more careful. She limped out of the room, slowly, leaving little tracks of blood behind, and didn’t bother to look back as she made her way back to her bedroom. Niccolette curled up there, and surrendered to another flood of weeping; she let it carry her away, until in time sleep washed over her again, as if the world knew something of mercy after all.

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