[ there's something in there that's enraging. she's not sure what it is yet, only that it has hot spiteful fingers in her spine and makes her hear gwenaëlle's too-calm words without absorbing what they really mean. of an instant, lexie's speech is clipped, the loose drape of her arms turning hard and tight. ]

I suppose if that is what is best you are a better woman than I to provide it, for I cannot much longer stand any such waiting.

[ oh. that's what it is. it's jealousy, bright and savage, that has its claws in her. jealousy of the space of separation that lets gwen have such patience to offer, and simultaneous repudiation of the bare idea of finding such space to grant herself the ability to sit apart and wait. the thought that the very love she bears him renders her somehow less fit to care for him in this is an agonizing one.

(that, and, perhaps selfishly, letting him handle it alone means that she will continue to be left alone in her fearful grieving.)

she has dug the heels of her hands into her eyes angrily, as if through main force she could stop what stung her eyes from emerging.

why the fuck was it she'd let herself feel things again? ]

It is so fucking lonely, Gigi. Lying next to him is agonizing. Neither of us can sleep, we can barely speak around it, he will not let me lay the lightest touch on even his shoulder without shifting from it, and yet somehow being away is worse, and all the while Emile is missing and may well be dead and I may never ever know what has become of her and I cannot stop dreaming about the man I killed and I should have stayed in Val Fontaine and drunk wine and remained ignorant of all of this and let my parents marry me off to someone I should not have let myself love at all.

[ beat ]

Or become a Chantry Sister.

[ she puts her face in her knees with an aggrieved noise and holds her hand out blindly for the bottle. ]