honest_johns | (no subject)

And she knows, when she sees him, why he must look so, for 'Bert has already told her.

Susan crosses over to him and settles on the grass nearby, knees pulled up and chin resting on her folded arms.

"Long days and pleasant nights, Alain."

Alain glances at her, and manages a faint smile.

"And may you have twice the number."

"How do'ee fare, then?"

It's not an idle question, not at all, and this is clear from how she's watching him, mayhap. Susan's voice is kind, and her gray eyes are filled with worry.

"'Bert's told you, then?" It's only half a question.

He looks back out at the lake, and exhales. "Tired, is all." He shakes his head a little. "It never ends." For Roland. For all of them.

"Aye, he did," she says softly.

"It's not fair, Alain -- but ka is rarely kind to any of us, say true."

A small breath that might be a laugh, more rueful than amused. "Aye, say true." Not bitter, just resigned.

His face has lightened fractionally, though. Friends help, in spite of all.

"Is there aught I can do for thee?" She watches him, concern still clear as she says,

"I kennit-- it can't be easy, given--"

(Jericho Hill)

"--the way of it."

He smiles at her, more of a smile now. "Thee's kind, Susan."

Yes, he does misinterpret; 'the way of it' to him only means the way Gabrielle died, and the pain of it back then, which is quite enough to be going on.

"Thee are a friend, Alain, and dear; I'd do what I could, if there's aught I could do."

Honest words, if gently spoken.

Gently, "Be there for Cuthbert and Roland, as I know thee would without the asking, and you'll have done all thee can for me as well." And he thanks her for it, and loves her for it.

She shakes her head at him, and laughs a little, for the first time this day.

"Aye, if that's what thee would wish, and well thee know I'll do it."

"But I'll have thee know that I'd be here for thee as well, Alain, and that's the last I'll say on it now."

A faint soft smile, as they sit next to each other on the long stretch of fresh spring grass. "Thee are."

Silence between them for a while, as she sits with him on the grass by the lake, and companionable, oh aye.

But there's something else weighing on her mind, say true -- and so eventually Susan speaks once more.

"How-- how were he, when ye left him, Alain? Would ye say?"

He looks down.

"Better."

A pause, while he studies his forearms crossed loosely on his knees without really seeing them, and looks for words.

"He's... they spoke. She came here right from -- she didn't even realize, at first. But soon enough."

A sidelong glance at her, as he raises his head to look out over the waters of the lake. The scent of grass and wildflowers is in the sun-warmed air.

"She forgave him."

She closes her eyes and sighs audibly in relief.

"I'd wondered."

"But she forgave him, as thee did, say true."

And as Susan might be said to have also done, come to that, although she'd never truly blamed Roland for her own death.

A pause, and then, softly, "Aye."

Lots of tangled emotions, in that. For all of them.

She looks at him then, quickly and with wary distress, wishing she'd minded her tongue better before saying that -- and to him, of all of them.

Susan bites her lip, and says softly, "Cry yer pardon, Alain."

He turns to her, some of the abstraction clearing from his face into quick surprise. "For what? Nay, no need, Susan." His face softens, and he reaches out to touch her arm lightly. "It's -- no need for pardon, say true."

"Oh, Alain--" as she covers his hand with her own for a moment.

"Mayhap there's no need, as thee say-- for I know ye've forgiven them, and that thee don't blame them for ka's work, do'ee ken?"

"But it were ill done of me to speak so carelessly."

For well she knows the sharp pain an unexpected reminder can bring to her -- how much more so this, for him, today?

Gently, "Nay. Nay, it were there to be said, and we've all thought it."

(I'd not expect you to forgive)

"It doesn't hurt me, Sue."

He'd said the same before, she remembers, when he first told her of his death.

(they shot first an instant before they saw)

"Aye, and I kennit," she says softly. "It hurts them more, mayhap, as thee said when ye warned me not to speak of it."

He exhales and nods, looking down again, though his hand stays resting beneath her own.

Softly, "Aye."

Another breath, and then the ghost of a shrug. ""

But there's only so much that can do, and beyond that he's helpless.

"But it's not easy, when yer very presence hurts the ones that thee love," she finishes quietly, as her hand tightens on his.

He looks up at her, at that, and his face softens into the rueful understanding of a sorrow shared.

Shared indeed, and her faint answering smile is wistful. She's quiet for a moment, and then says,

"Ka has neither heart nor mind, thee told me, do'ee remember? It has no care for how it treats us, say true, so all that's left is for us to care for each other as we can, and mayhap that'll be enough."

He smiles, at that, faint but real, and presses lightly on her arm. "You say true. And I say thankya."

"Roland were better, I think," she says. "Or he were before this--"

(the heaviest prices are often asked of love)

"--when last we talked of such things, do'ee ken?"

Hastily, she adds, "But I didn't speak of -- of Jericho Hill."

Alain looks at her a little strangely.

"It's your own choice to that, and no need to justify it. But I think he was better, too. Mayhap--"

But he breaks off, startled, at the look on her face.

And oh, but she is wide-eyed and staring, and mayhap with a faint guilty hurt at his words, buried somewhere under her own startlement.

Clear in her mind is Desire telling her, We both know how you are at keeping secrets from loved ones, even as the touch of his fingers on her cheek ensured that it would be so. And yet this one, her knowledge of Alain's death-- this one she had kept, and kept well, say true-- whether it were right or not to do so.

(no more secrets)

Susan stammers, "But-- ye said -- ye told me not to blame them, nor to speak of it--"

"I didn't-- I meant--"

Thee mustn't blame them, nor speak to them of it. He closes his eyes in a wince, even as he turns to sit facing her more directly.

"I cry your pardon, Susan. I'd not meant to put that on you."

"It's not-- I'd not wish to hurt them either, Alain, if it could be avoided, say true. And it's-- thee had the right to say how yer story were to be told, if it could be so, I thought."

But oh, this brings the memory clear of Eddie telling her that their tale-- her tale-- had been needed to bring the new ka-tet together, and she thinks further on the palaver held between four of them here, and Susan doubts herself now.

"--so I didn't speak of it," she finishes helplessly.

"I know ye'd not. I didn't speak clear, and I cry your pardon for it. I meant--"

He shakes his head slightly, looking for the right words. "It hurts them, to speak of it. To think of it. I know that. But sometimes it's needful to speak of such things anyway, and I trust your judgement to when. I'd not meant to swear you to silence."

She's quiet for a moment and then squeezes his hand, smiling at him.

"Thee needn't say so, Alain -- it's naught to be troubled over, say true, and it's clear now besides."

Ruefully, she adds, "And mayhap I'm not always the best judge of when to speak and when not, in any case."

Gently, "Say not so."

He's still a little troubled. Months ago, that he'd asked her to keep it secret without meaning to do so, and he never knew it until now.

But, for now, he just smiles at her crookedly, and squeezes her hand back.

She smiles back at him, and there's silence between them again, for a space.

Eventually, she remembers something, and looks at Alain with hopeful curiosity. "Thee also thought he were better?"

He nods, face lightening a little. "Aye."

She looks more hopeful, at hearing this news.

"Aye, well-- mayhap it'll be well after all."

He hopes, too.

"It were... hard, but not all bad. Aye, I hope so."