fighting_mad | [OOM] Eiattu

[OOM] Eiattu - Palace Corridor

The private hall outside the royal apartments is quiet now; the warm, faded red walls and shining tile floors tell no secrets. The two guards dressed in charcoal and purple uniform, standing uneasily outside of the door, however, are a different story. For one thing, there only ought to be one of them. For another --

Lelian and Marama stand in close conference. His arms are crossed over his chest, and her hands are twisting in front of her. Every so often, one of them glances down the hall or starts to bring a commlink to his or her mouth, but one guard always halts the other. Neither of them has produced a weapon, but both look deeply troubled and out of their element.

"Do you think we should call--" asks anxious Marama for the fifteenth time, ginger hair piled high, but Lelian only shakes his head and begins to pace.

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That - does not sound good. The frown deepens. "What's happened?"

Marama bites her lip. "She came through earlier and was..."

Lelian steps in and says, "Angry," just as his partner says, all in a rush, "Upset. We weren't sure what we ought to do--"

Oh, great. "Where is she?"

"Well, she was inside for a little while." With that, Lelian goes silent, glancing at his feet for a second or two.

Sensing that he isn't going to say anything else, Marama adds, "...Making a lot of noise." Indignantly: "When he tried to be sure she was alright, she threw a statue at Lelian's head." Beat. She catches Lelian's warning eye. "Your majesty."

Lelian rubs the back of his neck. "She was dressed to exercise when she left, sir. We didn't dare follow." He gestures helplessly at the door to the apartments. "The cleaning droids have already been through. I think they got most of the broken glass, right?" Marama nods.

...this just gets better and better. "I'll try and find her."

He eyes both guards, and sighs. "It's okay. You probably did the right thing, staying here."

Marama looks shamefaced, still--she isn't exactly doing her job, standing outside of an empty set of quarters--but she tries a tiny smile. "Thank you, your majesty."

On the other hand, it's Lelian's job to stand outside of an empty set of quarters. This shift, at least. He's more practical. "She went that way, sir." He points straight down the long hall.

"Good."

He'd say something more, but right now there are other things to do. A princess to catch.

He sets off down the hallway.

There's a perfectly good training room in the upper levels of the palace. It has all sorts of equipment, an attached shower, is conveniently located near the apartments... Plourr usually works out there.

Sometimes, though, she doesn't want the possible company that that room entails. Sometimes, she doesn't want her guards to know where to look for her. Sometimes, she makes her way to this little-used section of a mid-level, to this massive, dusty echo chamber of an abandoned dining hall that hasn't been frequented since the days of her great-great grandfather.

She hanged a punching bag from a rafter, there, and if anyone happens to pass in the quiet corridor, he will hear the steady smack of fists.

Rial knows - or at least suspects - that this is where she goes when she needs to be alone and still hit things.

And so it is that he passes the entrance, hears the sounds, hesitates, and leans in.

"Plourr?"

There are a pair of heavy boxing gloves on the floor near the doorway and a roll of nonadhesive white athletic tape.

Plourr herself is on silent bare feet, the punching bag between her and the door. Her hands are wrapped, leaving her fingers bare, and she wears knee-length pants and a form-fitting tank top, the muscles in her shoulders and arms standing out in stark relief as her fists thunder into the bag.

She shifts her weight and wham, her foot slams into the bag at a seemingly impossible angle. The bag goes flying to the side -- and affords her a clear view of the door, and who's standing in it.

Plourr puts out a hand and halts the punching bag's wild sway in one quick, powerful move. For a moment, she doesn't move, allowing it to remain between them.

Rial takes that opportunity to move into the room, frown now taking up a permanent residence on his face.

"Plourr, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong," she says. It's impossible to put a label on her tone of voice. Bitter, furious, maybe; bleeding, yes. She draws back and slam! hits the punching bag so hard that it bounces on its chain. For a second, her face is visible as it swings. Set and pale and wild. "What's wrong?" Wham!

Oh, kriff this is not good and Rial moves forward, "Plourr, I need you to talk to me."

Reaching forward when she pauses for just a second, hand grasping her shoulder, "I need to know what's wrong."

She spins the second he touches her; her hand is already drawn back and balled into a fist and she hasn't felt a surge of white-hot helpless terrified fury like this since she was tied to a chair out in the jungle and beaten.

She's swinging before she even thinks about it. She does recognize him; does change her aim from his jaw to his shoulder.

She doesn't pull the punch, though.

Rial doesn't make a noise or cry out or look hurt the way he would if she was punching him for fun and he jokes that he submits to all of her abuse. He just winces and his breath catches for a moment - she's a strong woman, that's gonna bruise - but he doesn't move his hand.

He doesn't say anything, either, just looks at her. Quiet, betrayed because they're supposed to talk about things and she's not supposed to hit him.

That look is a thousand times more effective than anything he ever could have said verbally or demonstratively. She rocks back on her heels and wraps her arms around herself, and she stares at her toes, quiet.

Her face can't settle on an expression. It flashes through them too fast.

He waits for a moment or two more, then squeezes her shoulder lightly.

"Tell me."

Plourr Estillo doesn't sugarcoat. She doesn't beat around the bush. She could say, 'I went to the doctor today' and keep moving in circles around it, but that's not her style. Never has been, never will be. Not even now.

She sets her jaw and looks up.

"I'm kriffing pregnant."

...oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Rial thinks he's smiling. He's almost positive he's smiling, just for a second, and then the smile is gone because Plourr is looking at him and she is really, really not looking happy.

So he says the first thing that comes into his mind.

"How?"

His face lights up, if only for a second or two. It's impossible to miss.

It does nothing for the cold feeling in her gut.

"Once a month. That's all I have to vaping do; the same day, once a month. But we stayed at Milliways a couple weeks ago and I thought--" She shakes her head sharply, crossing her arms tight. She can't believe she was so fucking stupid, thinking biology would freeze along with time. No one to blame but herself.

She spits, "I didn't think."

It's a hell of a lot easier to be angry than it is to figure out how else to feel.

"And now...I mean, you're pregnant. You are going to have a baby."

He tries to keep his face serious, he really does. And he succeeds, sort of, if only for Plourr's sake and the look on her face. And because he knows that no matter how much he wants this, how much he's excited because they are going to have a baby, it's still going to be pretty damn hard.

So he just squeezes her shoulder, drops his hand to his side and glances at the punching bag.

"It'll be okay."

You are going to have a baby.

It's not quite a flinch, not quite a wince, but something in her pale face shifts at that.

"Yeah," she mutters, her mouth set into a thin line. Her shoulder is one giant knot of tensed muscle under his hand.

Rial hesitates a beat, then moves forward, hugs her gently.

"It'll be okay," he repeats, more for her sake then his. "It'll be okay."

Plourr doesn't know how to say, 'no, it won't.' Not long ago, she would have said just that. But she knows just how badly he wants this, and she knows that it would hurt him, and even if her instinct is to lash out -- she doesn't always give in to her instincts.

Her arms are crossed over her chest and staying that way, and she stands evenly on bare feet, not leaning in. But she turns her face and rests her jaw against his shoulder, and all she wants to do is scream.

He holds her that way for a long, long moment, then moves away.

"Do you want to be alone?"

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