[OOC] Vignette.
As she left he hadn't moved. Out of fear for what his hands might do without his consent had he given them even the smallest of freedoms; out of concern for her, for her escape, for allowing it. Of course, he is better equipped than she, with the knowledge of his own mind within his grasp. She does not possess that sort of knowing.
Once the door closes behind her Adrian allows himself the smallest of stirrings.
His shoulders are first, relaxing with the breath he exhales.
Next, that so-tense muscle in his jaw, so accustomed to clenching that it takes actual physical effort to make it obey.
The rest of him follows slowly, while he stands there with the smell of her everywhere, clinging to him, now, as much as he clung to her. So slowly. Slowly enough to force upon him what he fears most: time to think. And it is with a heavy heart that he reflects in those spare moments that seem to stretch on forever. It's amazing how many memories a single moment can hold in remembering.
The very first time he saw her...
He'd been only ten, but even then he was much the same as he is now. To play, to have fun as a child, these were alien concepts. His parents and those they employed to mold the Gray River children into future leaders were very intent on allowing zero distractions, save for those rare occasions they were allowed to parties. And it was only advantageous to attend those gatherings held at Four Sons, as there were many children there to take in as possibilities. Always, there were possibilities.
It was at this particular party, and several more in the future, that Adrian saw Sunniva. She was eight years old and already had such a firm grasp on what her life was all about. He and his family stood to one side while she and her family took to the other, so that they might peruse each other from a safe distance.
Dark hair, a pretty dress. But more than that, this irresistably /sweet/ aura about her. Had it not been for his mother's restraining hand on his shoulder little Adrian would have gone straight over to her, like a moth to the flame. Instead he kept to himself, stared across at her, and felt not for the first time the tension in him upon being in her presence. The need to be close to her, and the restraining hand on his shoulder that he would remember even as an adult.
The letters...
He had written several. They began after he'd met with her the second time, when he was only sixteen. It had been another party, another occasion in which he found himself yearning to be near her, to dance with her even though he despised the very idea. Anything to be able to touch her, to smell her, to be near her. Everything in him desired only to be cared for by this girl who cared so easily. She could protect him, she could bring him happiness, he was so sure of it. And yet, again, the firm hand on his shoulder kept him in place. While he and his sister watched from afar, the rest of the gathered party-goers danced and laughed.
To this day he remembers the pain of watching her, passed from one partner to the next. Jealousy and anger burned so easily within him; little did he know how openly those things manifested themselves on his face, in his eyes whenever they met hers across the room. Always would he force himself to look away, so undeserving was he of her attentions. He with his inept wantings.
That night he wrote the first letter. It was simple but articulate; his feelings, the way she seemed to him. Poetic without the sugary nauseous overtones. He always had a way with words, the harpers told his parents so...
In the here and now, Adrian moves suddenly. The dinner on the table is forgotten in favor of escape; the room, his room, is gained in only a few long strides, the door open and closed that quickly. His goal is set just where he left it, atop the too-soft comforter on the lush bed they provided him with. His hands seek it, mold to its neck while his other finds the curve of its belly. He could sit on the bed's edge. He could choose the simple wooden chair to the side. Why the rug on the floor seems a better option is an unimportant detail; perhaps he needs that solid ground beneath him.
For a moment he only cradles the guitar to his chest, wrapped in both arms. But eventually his hand moves, then the other, to find the appropriate placement for the low and moody strumming he begins. And while he plays he remembers...
...there were letters nearly every week, one to each. He'd send them with full confidence in the knowledge that they would find their recipient. How could he have known such manipulative moves were being executed without his knowing? It wasn't until a month without hearing anything back that Adrian suspected something.
The argument with his mother would have been much less diplomatic had Garet not been there with her hand on his arm. Her restraining hand. While he trembled and shook with his anger she kept him back, kept him from going over the edge like so many times before. So often had she kept close to him like this in the past, too often. People began to wonder about them, those two Gray River twins, and their relationship...
the music pitches low, angry.
...the letters never made it. His mother showed them all to him, stashed in a drawer of her desk. She told him it was for the best, that such advances could only lead to embarrassment. He was being too hasty, she told him.
His sister's hand tightened.
Besides, mother said, she will be yours soon. Arrangements are being made as we speak. Only keep your head, be patient. The time will come.
the time did come. His long fingers strum a particularly melancholy bar.
Merdon's death came so suddenly. When news came to him of Sunniva's loss...
He had been in a lesson with the harpers. To placate him, his parents had requested they include a small tutorial on instruments for their son. It worked, as music so often does, to provide him with an outlet for his anger, his feelings of impotence. To wait while his future was decided, while the girl he loved was discussed as if she only existed on paper, was torture he could not endure.
Garet had been the one to tell him, which was fitting. He should have taken the time to find pride in his lack of reaction. His training had gone so well he no longer knew how to express himself. All he knew was he couldn't be here, not now, when /she/ suffered so close to him...
several strings at once, the colors they paint crafting a desperate and gray tapestry.
...it was raining so hard that day. Everything was gray, lightning streaked the sky and the stables were a fit of anxious animal noises. Adrian found his beast easily, second stall down on the left, and led her out to be fitted with her riding gear. Garet had followed him, but she apparently told their mother first. The two of them tried at first to simply talk him out of riding to Four Sons on what? a mission to save her? And where would he take her? What would he do with her? He had responsibilities here...
in his mind a new note accompanies his lonely music; a deep and clear string of some kind, sawed by an expert hand...
...he rounded on them so easily. He remembers it as if it only just happened.
His face must have been a sight, so pale and soaked; his hair hung all around it and his clothing stuck to his skin, outlining every cord of his limbs. He had never been accustomed to raising his voice. That day, all of the restraint he had practiced could not help him. That anger fueled him; he threw himself against his cage and it rocked and it rocked...
He fought so hard against them, while the runner at his back pawed the wet earth and startled at every crash of thunder. He against two women, how could he have lost? Especially when all he could feel was his aching need to be with her. Her father...
deep and sorrowful, the notes flow in the empty room.
...he could save her, he could. They could leave together, run away. It would be so easy.
But once again they laid their hands to him and he could feel the new lock on his cage door clamp closed as, with dead black eyes, he stared at them and felt them close him up. Anguished, he gave in to them. He listened to his mother say she would be his soon, only his. Just allow them some time...
sadness.
Adrian sets the guitar against the bed to one side and folds his legs so that he might bend into them, leaning his head against his half-folded arms; his now inert hands dangle lifelessly.
The rest of his memories crash into him again and again. When he'd heard of her leaving Four Sons for the Weyr, the absolute hatred he'd had for himself for not acting when he had the chance. How he'd persuaded people to give him news of her and only her, however they had to come by it. His hungry reading of every letter they sent back to him, every jump of his heart when he'd see her name on paper.
Just as when she touched him. Her sweet fingers, so cool on his hot skin, were like scalding reminders. He could not be everything to her, he knew that now. He doesn't deserve her. But maybe, if he could not love her, and she would not love him, he could at least give her what he could, what was within his power to give. Security. Warmth. A home.
And now, here he is to deliver all of that to her. Within her grasp. Her savior.
How she must hate him.