Doves and Peacocks

It doesn't take long for Aleigh to recognise that Ruthenia is in a constant process of climbing out of a deep, vast pit. It isn’t always obvious, given how excitable and even bellicose she can be, but the signs are always there, in the dart of her eyes, the hunch of her shoulders.

There are days when she finds herself losing purchase and sliding back in, and today is one of them.

When he enters Ruthenia's shed that afternoon, she is not waiting for him. The air is still and silent.

He finds her curled up, motionless, in her hammock, face hidden behind an arm. "Ruthenia?" he says tentatively, and she doesn't answer. Frowning, he takes her chair and brings it to rest beside her hammock, seating himself there.

Eventually Ruthenia’s head rolls to a side to face him, and he sees that her eyes are glazed. She gasps at the sight of him, scrambling too quickly out of the hemp net so she loses her balance, tumbling out onto the floor and making no move to break her fall.

She kneels there for almost a minute, before she begins to sob. The noise is frightful, a laboured whimper, and he almost believes she is laughing before the tears splash dark on the floorboards.

Quickly, he descends on a knee beside her. “Ruthenia!” he repeats, softly, urgently. Ruthenia gulps in a series of deep breaths, and lifts her face so her glistening eyes meet his. He doesn't tell her he is terrified.

It takes her almost a minute to finally shape the words: "I thought I was drowning." The quaver of her voice is slightly unfamiliar and it makes him ache.

"You were not," he replies quickly, and when her hand swings out for support, he offers his own, rising carefully as she does.

Aleigh is so accustomed to being the one lacking strength that it's almost disorienting when he finds her depending on him. He knows the fiery, headstrong Ruthenia who changed the nation far better than this Ruthenia, listless and recoiling. But they are both she.

As she seats herself, still clinging to his hands, something like guilt crosses her face.

"I can't believe I'm wasting your time like this," she growls at her lap.

"No time spent with you is ever a waste,” he replies, fingers tightening around hers, “even like this. In fact, I am glad that I am here, as long as I am of help.”

She nods.

“We could have lunch here."

"I can go over just fine." Ruthenia grimaces up at him. Then her arms slacken, and she sighs. "Never mind. Get me my lunch if you will."

"Gladly," he replies. He bends down to kiss her cheek, and he sees her smile from the corner of his eye.

Aleigh knocks thrice on Tanio’s door and is promptly answered.

"Oh, there you are!" exclaims the man, one hand on the handle. "Wait, where is she?"

"Ruthenia is not feeling well," he replies as he enters the shade. “Is our lunch ready?”

“Why, of course,” says Tanio, although his voice has grown quiet with concern. He gestures at the dining table where the two sandwiches lie, nestled in a basket. The ingredients and sauces are spilling out onto the napkins, but they do not look particularly terrible otherwise.

After a perfunctory inspection, Aleigh lifts the basket in both hands. “Thank you.”

“Does she need anything else?”

“She did not mention anything.”

“Alright, then, but I’m here if she ever does.”

Ruthenia is no longer in the chair when Aleigh returns: she is arranging books into stacks on her desk.

She lifts her head at the arrival of his footsteps, but does not speak, nor move thereafter, as if frozen by his gaze.

Arriving by her side, he is surprised when she immediately seizes his arm and wraps her own around it. He lowers the basket onto her desk and lays a hand on her back, pulling her closer so there is no space between them. Her arms move to encircle his waist, tightly.

The feeling of her grip tells him this isn't a gesture of desire but of need.

"Thank you for being here," she mumbles hoarsely. Her breaths are deep and steady. “You got me on a bad day, that’s all.”

Several things do not get said, but he reads them from the irregularity of her breath, and the aching tightness of her grip: how it feels like suffocating, standing alone in that yawning well of terror, how there are days when she can no longer trust herself the way she used to.

There is no purpose in telling her how many people stand with her. She is alone, always alone, inside the room of her mind.

“You do not have to justify yourself,” he replies.