Held

*Trigger WARNING: Pregnancy Loss/Grief and emotionally heavy. It's sad. *
The log is dedicated to the short life of Eva Rose on the anniversary of her passing. I will always maintain that you not being here is a glitch in the matrix, nothing more. See you in my dreams sweet girl, until we meet again. Love Mom.

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Seelie Court- Evi and Neifeth's weyr
//At first sight, even from the outside, this weyr is big. Off a long and twisty path, tucked close to the ridge between where the forest meets the meadow. The rock looming overhead provides security. Externally the walls are a mix of wood and stone, the front marked by a large teal wooden door with two yellow flowering plants framing it. The sides of the weyr have trellis's pushed up against the walls, and creeping vines enclose the wall-sized bay windows that wrap around the structure of the dwelling and make up the entire front-facing second story. A purple painted stone path leads back to a dragonsized door of bright violet, round and ginormous compared to human doors, made of hard solid wood with mechanical pistons that allow for smooth opening and closing.

Inside it's clear, this place was meant to be lived in by more than a few people, it's enormous. Much larger than a dwelling occupied by a lone greenrider. There's an ample kitchen, a grand wooden dining table with enough matching chairs for 8 people. Beyond that a den, soft lilac chairs are surrounded by shelves meant for books that look out onto the side garden full of seasonal flowers and avian feeders. Adjacent to the den is a left spiraling wooden staircase. The rear portion holds a gigantic couch, softly covered in soft fabrics of every color and embroidered with intricate floral and vine patterns. There's a closet the size of an average bedroom, twenty hooks line the walls, straps of varying colors and embellishments as well as oil, cloths, and anything necessary for dragon care lays on the shelves. Further in is another living room, a sofa of bright coral, and two matching comfortable chairs surround a table covered in the hide of a herdbeast dyed neon pink. Rugs are scattered throughout the entire dwelling, soft and fluffy, and houseplants sit near every window.//


There's not a lot of markers in a relationship; getting to know one another involves slowly learning the other person's schedules, habits, moods, and this might be more true when dealing with a green or gold rider, where the changes are chaotic. Well initiated, the flow into proddiness, post-flight, and back to normal makes sense and eventually is hardly noticeable with all the other goings-on in life. More like a chore than an event, perennial and natural as any other part of Weyr life. Every 6 months, a green dragon rises and is caught. Lyubomir has never been through all of this before, figuring out what to expect is as much guesswork as dumb luck. After Niefeth's flight, Evi was grounded, the dragon having strained her shoulder, and pulled several accessory flying muscles that meant both of them were Weyrbound. Four sevendays passed, spending more time around kiddos then usual due to her injured status she quickly caught a bug and spent the last two sevendays barely looking at food, unable to keep more than water and crackers down. Unusually she was not home last night, odd because for all the adventuring, her dragon still can't fly, and thus she can't have gone anywhere. Yet, if he deemed to visit her, she was gone. Another day, no Evi, no Nei. Without either of them, the house is awfully far into the woods, and somehow darker, creepy and forlorn a sense of wrong hovers over the building. Lacking the pair, the weyr is less appealing, as if their mere presence was what made the place unique, gave the land structure and purpose. After two full days with nary a sign of either of them, the striped, bright, and dark biznitch is back where she belongs, besides her giant hole that is INCHING closer to a pond. Inching. It'll be done one day. Maybe. At least she is a good sign, first time for everything, and today she gets to be a positive omen.

It is fortunate in a great many ways that Lyubomir is weyrbred and thoroughly so; the nature of flights is what it is and he's made his peace with them turns ago. That his girlfriend (for all that the term doesn't seem quite right for what they are to one another) is a greenrider and, thus, set to follow those familiar cycles is just another detail to be noted, something else to be calculated for. He keeps his journals and makes his notes as he always does, in the strange shorthand he's created for himself over the turns. None of it means anything to anyone else, save him; there is no risk of anyone discovering that he is the type to take detailed observations about everything. But. Neifeth's being grounded is an anomalous event and he spent his time offering more and more help as he could for those sevens. And, too, when Evi grew sick, he was there more and more, requesting time from his duties to be more available to help her. And then, suddenly, she's simply not there at all. A night of unexplained absence is a thing he can easily write off; with no keening of dragons, he knows they are alive at the very least. So, that night is spent working on the pond. So, too, is the next. And it's on the third day, when he is fully prepared to send Patch after her, that the green manifests again. It is a relief from the building oppression of the empty weyr with its growing shadows and strange silence. He has the wheelbarrow with him, filled with tools, and once it's settled, he offers a warm wave to Neifeth. But, rather than ask the obviously incorrect 'is everything okay', his question is, "What's wrong? Is there anything I can help with?" Worry cracks his voice a little and he swallows to work the shards of sound down.

It's funny that he takes notes, as Evi also has an impressive collection of notes. She tracks her own genealogy, the importance of people, and their position relative to hers in the Weyr hierarchy. Lists of who is who, and why that matters, of people who can help her and of those she avoids. Pictures drawn around the edges, scrawlings intermingled with ideas for dresses. Two books, one is Neifeth's and the other her own. Neifeth has stretched all the way out, back legs sprawled behind to border her tail and wings fully extended, the neon green fully visible and blinding in the SUmmer sun. Lyu's appearance is not noted, the greens eyes having taken on a yellowing grey hue as if she had become ill or excessively stressed with recent events. Even in fits of anger, she's usually closer to green then yellow spiraling with an occasional flare of orange. The speaking has her raising her head to acknowledge him with the subtlest flick of whipped tail, mind tendriling forth with an overly ripe berry smell that shifts into burning hair, it's an awful scent and the forest of blue is jet black. A nightmare of macabre trees bent and twisted, thorns that threaten to stab and rip flesh, swiftly the mind would fill with the metallic scent of blood and meat freshly peeled from the bone. She's not happy in any way, she's distraught, and words come curt, chomping away at him with misplaced aggression. «Mine lost something precious, she never knew she had nor wanted. You should fix it. Now. Or else.» Inside, if he ventures in, Evi is lying on the sofa near the back door. Fully dressed in her regular clothes, they appear to have been worn previously and are wrinkled in a fashion that suggests as much. Stillness, brown-green eyes are glazed and unblinking, head pillowed on hands and feet crossed tightly. Absent, she's not there for as much as her physical body is, she is missing. Gone. A kidnapping so thorough it's left the shadow of the woman who was once Evangeline in its wake. Every line in her face falls heavy as if any moment she could simply be furniture. Become nothing, be gone. An attempt to disappear into the world, petrify with lost emotion. About the room, there are signs she's only come in recently, her bag on the floor near her feet, boots by the door, and straps placed carelessly in a pile nearby.

Surely, the notes take different forms and measures, but they’re copious and complete, necessary for the work. Lyu’s notes are heavy with technical drawings and blocky printing, numbers and lines and other figures that are distinctly purposeful, rather than creative. Another time, perhaps, he might well get her some new notebooks for her own use; prettier than his, certainly. For now, though, his focus is on the green that looks unwell in her own right, the hue of her eyes casting a sickly pall on her hide. The mental touch is both unorthodox and unpleasant, though he restrains any urge to wrinkle his nose in response. There’s only a slight, stiff nod and a hardening of his jaw, a squaring of shoulders to instinctively brace against Neifeth’s words. “I will,” isn’t precisely a promise, but an oath to try; some things are beyond his ability to fix and he knows that, but he can try and he will do that much. Leaving his tools where they are, he sets foot inside, shedding his boots by the door and discarding his toolbelt there, too. It doesn’t take long to spot her, on the sofa and toward the back. Cat-quiet steps carry him over, concern lining his face and lending a few extra turns to his appearance in a reflection of her own absence. He settles into a kneel in front of her, his chest interrupting her line of sight but, just as surely not breaking whatever inner vision has her so seized. He reaches slowly, as if to calm a terrified kitten, and aims to brush his fingers over her shoulder and arm. Her name is softly uttered, barely a breath, but just for her : “Evi.”

Neifeth approves of him entering the weyr, withdrawing back into the world her and Evi share. A place of solace, mind wrapping her rider in the comfort she desperately needs. Entranced in the sticky web currently being spun under light brown hair, she's lost to all movement, and he could well be a phantom come to haunt her further. Hollowed out, there's no reaction to the man she adores as he enters the space, only when he's kneeled beside her does he garner attention. Fractionally prying her mind into the present. Finger meet shoulders, covered to conceal portions of her body not open to public display, sucking in a breath and slamming eyelids shut, unwilling to crawl out of the hole she's dug. Sinking, stillness, quiet beyond measure, she's adrift in a sea of her own anguish and paddles for survival. Finally, squinting exhaustedly at him, she's lost for words. To say what happened would be to give him permission to feel something about it. To admit her own failure, the bravery that journey would take is currently above her mental paygrade. Instead, she reaches out to place a hand over his, a child grabbing onto a parent for safety, finding a liferaft. "Sorry." Is all that comes out, the words defeatedly tumbling past lips angry from new abuse by teeth.

"Evi," he repeats, anchoring her name and, further, attempting to reel her into their shared reality with it. It is a gentle thing, as gentle as his touch, and he remains steady and present, every bit the stony, earthen thing he so naturally is. Lyubomir doesn't try to extract her from those coverings, though; his contact is testing, feeling out where her boundaries might be as gently as he can manage. It's only when she looks at him and makes contact, touching her hand over his, that he leans in to press a tender kiss to her forehead. Worry is forced from his face, leaving only shades of tenderness and milder concern; the better to not distress her further. He scoots a little closer, moving to enfold her in an awkward, but well-meaning hug; kisses given gently to the top of her head or her cheek or wherever they may fall. "Evi. Shhh. Whatever it is," and he does not pry, firm in his stance on the matter; the remaining words come slowly, purposefully, equally certain, "you do not need to apologize." A breath, and barely that, before he continues, cementing the notion as surely as he can, "I love you."

Guilt is a powerful thing, crippling her cheerful self into this wraith before him. Processing slows down, the paralyzing dread of the last few days anchoring her to the bottom of an ocean of grief that makes reactions sluggish at best. Turning face up towards his, the kisses are allowed, and she curls reflexively as knives shoot through her lower body, eyebrows furrowing and eyes shutting tightly to guard against the pain. "I wasn't sick." She was, though, I mean you can't really fake puking. It makes no sense at all that she would say such a thing, biting the words off as she waits for the knotting tension to subside. Air is fragile, quickly turned to nothing, stagnated, needing room to move, and an environment to encourage flow. A creature like her is far more delicate then she lets on, except that now she's still and moving forward feels improbable. Currently preoccupied with the state of her body, her eyes widen with dread as he uses the L word for the first time. Right now. At the moment, she's preparing to admit her greatest failing to date, to him, to allow him to possibly destroy all over feelings for him by letting him feel something as well. Allowing him the chance to crush her further, not knowing if the loss might come as a relief. They weren't at all trying, they'd not discussed it beyond pillow talk. How can she know how he should feel when she can't decide which emotion she's on any given moment. There's power in being the only one with the secret, but a second after he admits to loving her, she reaches out to capture both his hands and lock eyes with him. "I was pregnant." Staring back at a spot right of where he is kneeling. Was, she used the word was. Allowing the past tensity of the situation to lord over the news that would generally be good. In sharing the information, she's also permitting her lover, friend, and mate to share in the pain. The pain she's kept to herself for three days.

Guilt is a universal emotion, for all that it comes in degrees; and, even then, individual experience and personal strength all conspire to adjust just how much of it a person can take. How heavy their burden is. What they can do with it. Lyu's felt guilt, certainly, but not the kind of thing that leaves a person curled up and miserable, lost in a sea of misery. Unmoored and drifting and without a clear course. Even as he pulls her in as much as she'll allow him to - not pushing if she should resist - he allows the silence to sit in the wake of her first words, the admission of not being 'sick' in the traditionally accepted sense. It's a space of sorts, room to allow her to move and maneuver, to fit her words how she needs to - and with all the time in the world to assemble them. Perhaps his admission was premature; it's not unlikely to think he might have been planning on a better moment but, here, with her in the throes of sadness and him, wanting nothing more than to fix whatever it might be, it seemed right. For good or ill, his feelings are there, laid out without hesitation or fear. It's just truth. A truth that he does not retract or try to soften; a truth that he does not try to mask or obscure. His arms and gaze are caught, affection and love laid out nakedly in his regard. There's only a faint pinch of his brows for the past tense, for what could have been; for something that was not being actively pursued and yet- the tip of his tongue works out over his lower lip, wetting it, before he shifts close enough to press his forehead to hers, to close the gap between them. A litany of things rattles through his mind and stills his tongue, words picked over and parsed and tossed as useless platitudes or turns of phrase that feel leaden and wrong. And what comes out is soft, but resolute: "What do you want? What do you need, Evi?" Because he doesn't know; it's beyond his knowing and understanding, beyond his capacity to comprehend, perhaps, but he's still here and he's not flinching. It's not something he can fix, so perhaps all he can offer is the unyielding certainty of, "I love you." Not 'still' or 'in spite of'. It is unconditional, singular, and whole.

Limp as a rag doll, body unable to expend energy on muscular control with the mind in the throes of utter turmoil she is easily hugged on and pulled ever closer, no room for resistance when fighting a war against your thoughts. Language is a powerful thing, yet with every word ever spoken throughout the ages of time and space, there's never been a word fitting of the grief of a mother who lost a child. Of a woman whose opportunity was robbed from her by fate, or forces beyond her control. For if she had control, surely a mother would not allow such a horrendous injustice to occur. Love is a balm that eases many pains, and the ache relents momentarily, a reprieve from the gallows she's been constructing in her mind since the moment she learned they'd been perspective parents for all of 6 sevendays without ever knowing it. Swallowing hard, there's physical discomfort that sporadically shoves the idea down her unwilling throat. Gently, slowly she lifts her chin to brush noses with him, to further the forehead contact. "Can you stay?" It's hard to tell whether she means today, now, or overall. Forever. "I love you, I am so sorry I couldn't keep the baby safe. I am so, so sorry, I didn't know." Holding herself far more accountable then she is, "Did you want a baby?" The question is exceptionally tricky because either way, the answer will hurt. "How can something that never was hurt this badly? I miss someone who never was… Who isn't going to happen anymore? Is that even still a someone? Can a child you never knew existed be someone?" Anguish, tears falling freely as the heartwrenching pain rips holes in her throat, forcing each word out requires heroic effort, pain strangling the ill weaver. She's hoarse with effort and begins to sob, hands wrapping around him, quivering anxiously.

There is a certain wisdom in knowing his own limitations of understanding; Lyubomir, perhaps more than most, is well-acquainted with the notion that there are a great many things that are simply unknowable to him. Incomprehensible. And he doesn't try to wrap his head around them or force them into his own words; her words are enough, more than enough, and all he can do is listen and absorb and try to make some sense of them in his own, limited way. But he wants to fix it. Desperately. And it's a hard thing indeed when it's a thing he cannot describe and, worse, cannot be touched to be shaped and sculpted and repaired with the tools his hands can wrangle. What he can do is provide an anchor for her, something to claw onto, to hold, to grasp at, to scream into; he can be a vessel as much as a rock. And he answers her questions as they come, 'can you stay' met with, "As you wish," and a further nuzzling of noses to noses. "Always. Forever. As long as you want me here." Her fears, her guilt, her suffering are met with more kisses, wordless reassurances. And what can he say to that? Truly? There's a faint noise in his throat, inarticulate and sympathetic, and then that question comes and he has an answer for it, slow and measured against her grief. "Only when-" but here, he shifts course just slightly, firming his words: "-if you're ready, Evi." Did he want children before? Did he know? Could he have? In a sense, his grief is similar, if blunted; similar for the shape of it, though it doesn't cut in the same way. To have something and then for it to be taken away, before he knew it was there; but how much right does he have to mourn? To share in her sorrow and help shoulder that burden? Her tears will soak his shirt, his skin, his everything, but he doesn't care. He still reaches for her and remains for her, offering what he can. "I think it still is someone," he murmurs after a time, soft and sweet and voice cracking just a touch. "Do- do you want-" but that's not quite right either and he buries his face in her hair. Softer still, he wonders, hesitant: "Should we make something to remember them by? Would that help? To have a name?" Something? Anything to link that potential to a reality; to take the ephemeral and shape it and make it into something that can be properly grieved.

Born of limitations, Evi has seen what the power of her own will and positive thinking can do. Kind to a fault, struggling with this all the more there doesn't seem to be a discernible reason for her suffering. Why even give her a baby only to take it away? What is the point of allowing her to experience momentary joy only to have it stolen away? The inability to process the entirety of the situation has her releasing his hands to ball her fist and bury her face in his shoulder, letting out a low screech of anger. A kitten noise, frustrated by the questions many have faced in the course of living. Once the agreement to stay is heard, she clings all the more, willing to pull him under with her if it means not being alone. The sobbing continues, off the tracks, and out of her control, she frees the noise as snot begins to run out of her nose, gasping raggedly. "I don't know anymore-." Lost of speech, she allows the sound to ebb away, as an experiencer of vast joy, chronically happy and infatuated with life, this side of her shares the intensity. Boundless sadness, an ocean of feel it all. Releasing him from the death grip she had on him, she bolsters upward and sits in a way that will allow him onto the sofa. The idea gets a soft hmm, face red as tears continue unabated down cheeks, the crack in his voice has her sharply sucking in. "We could make a tile… for the pond? Maybe? Um, your hand, and then.. mine. A date. We um, if you want a name we can but-" Back to being unable to speak, the pain renewed with the thought of what they'd of called the baby. It's obvious she's unsure about that, voice dropping because the reality is already scalding, she's a flower that's been crushed by a foot.

And he is there, solid and secure, a wall to hit as much as a shoulder to cry on. While she vents her rage and sorrow and confusion, Lyu's is pushed under for now, shifted and submerged to eventually calcify as a kind of rare resolve. He will stay and, in that, his word is an absolute bond; he will stay so long as she wants him there, so long as she needs him. He doesn't press for more answers, doesn't ask any more questions, and tightens his hold on her when it feels like she might be going under. Eventually, eventually, she moves and he pulls himself up to nestle in beside her. "Shh." Soft, cooing noises of reassurance are offered and, when she's unable to speak again, he shakes his head as if to negate any need for her to do so. He's careful in his handling of her, responsive if she seems to be hurting physically as much as emotionally; but he does try his best to pull her close, to stroke her hair and rub her shoulders and upper back. "A tile would be perfect," he agrees, muted. "We can do that later." Not now, not soon; whenever she feels ready and not a moment before.

Staying for now means staying right here, where they are at. Unwilling to move from beside him, body cycling through crying and still silence. Physical pain adds insult to injury, body trying to return to the place it was at before it was intruded upon by this process. Muscles tight, he'll find knots in her shoulders, neck, lower back, and she lacks her trademark perkiness. Wearing out her ability to cry, to feel, exhausted she will fall asleep on the sofa holding onto him, she's… in love with him too. A terrifying thought in its own right, suddenly whatever barrier existed between them, has vanished, and she's naked in the gather square. Later, she'll wake and drink the disgusting concoctions the healers have provided. A complex set up of teas and herb pastes, to ease the pain, regulate hormonal functioning, and improve future chances. Evi will explain that even if they want to try and conceive, she's to take 6 months off and allow her body rest. Tile making will happen in time, joy will be rediscovered in the antics of kittens, firelizards, and duty will be rejoined. Life continues. A mountain to climb over, not be buried beneath. They're an adventuring party now, the two of them plus Neifeth. Roll Initiative.


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