asgardmeridiem | Surreal sleeps and we weren't waking

Who: Altaïr and Maria
What: Residual issues bubbling up and over into something little more serious than a lovers' spat.
When: Night of 459
Where: Odin 105
Rating: PG for angst and possible language

[She's tried not to let it get to her. They were only dreams after all, dreams are unimportant, they mean nothing in the grand scale of things, they cannot hurt or harm her.

They can kill her son before her eyes night after night though, long after everyone else she knows and cares about have told her their sleep has gone back to being undisturbed. They can wake her in the night and leave her shaking, lying rigid in her bed and struggling to get back to sleep. Most nights she just gets up and finds something else to do, pushing her to the brink of exhaustion so she has to fall asleep again and even then it is still not good sleep.

Tonight it's no different, and Maria has slipped from her bed, leaving her husband asleep in their room, and made her way to the living room. She snaps on a light and sits on the sofa with Darim's blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The scent of him on the lambswool has grown fainter, she can scarcely smell him anymore. That alone is enough to bring a lump to her throat as she draws it closer to herself and closes her eyes, willing her mind's eye to conjure images of her baby as she remembers him, bright eyed and rosy cheeked and not broken and lifeless on the rocks beneath the walls of Masyaf.

That is almost worse, as it only makes her long for him more.

This will not do. She forces herself to move from the sofa and over to the kitchen space. She needs a distraction, something take her mind off Darim and her nightmares. There is fruit in the fridge. Perhaps she will prepare breakfast now, so it is ready to eat when she and Altaïr come to the table in the morning.

She takes a knife and begins to slice an apple.]

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You would prefer me to complain about something that I am powerless to change? That I should act the pathetic simpering fool and cry because I miss my baby, is that what I should do? God forbid I should be tormented by dreams of him dying, or that I can't help thinking if he's waking in the night and crying for me because I'm not there for him. Is that what you want to hear?

[She steps away, not letting him take her hand as she raids the fruit bowl for something else.]

There is nothing you can do and I don't expect you to. This is my burden and I must bear it as I can.

If it torments you so, then yes, I do want to hear of it! At least so I can do what I can to help you. It is not only your burden.

[At least it shouldn't be. He should be right beside her, helping her to carry it.]

Do you really think me so unable to understand that it's preferable you grieve alone?

[As far as he's concerned, it's a rhetorical question.]

How do you expect to be able to help me when you have no idea what this is like?

[Her voice falters slightly as she turns to look at him; for a split second she looks almost stricken but in the blink of an eye her expression hardens in the way she has always taught herself to express.]

You cannot understand, that is why you cannot share this with me. You don't know what this is like yet.

[That stings. He knows their situations aren't exactly the same, but isn't the thing they have in common exactly what should bring them together?]

I know what it is like to want to see my son. Don't speak as if I feel nothing.

You don't know what it's like to miss him.

[She turns back to the chopping board and grabs an apple.]

You can't miss someone you've never known.

That's not fair.

[And it's not right.]

You don't-

[She picks up her knife and starts chopping again vehemently.]

You don't know how he sounds, how he feels, how he behaves, you don't know any of it so how can you be expected to miss all of that?

[Altaïr is a stoic man, not given to obvious displays of emotion. This is as true on the battle field as it is in this battle. It may escape her view, focused as it is on her chopping, but something unusual happens when he hears her words.

He winces.]

Isn't that all the more reason I should? I know so little of him, barely even what he looks like—at least you have that.

You think that's better?

[There is a very audible note of derision in her voice as she continues to cut up the apples with her back to her husband. The thud of the knife on the board becomes heavier as she applies more force.]

Unlike you, Altaïr, I do not have the luxury of being able to forget my son's face to take away the pain of not having him with me every day.

Edited 2014-06-12 19:40 (UTC)

I think you are being willfully blind if you call that a luxury!

[For the first time, a note of anger is audible in his voice.]

Edited 2014-06-12 19:41 (UTC)

I think you have the knowledge that you'll get to go home to father a son without the inconvenience of having feeling as though a knife has been plunged through your heart every time you think of him, so yes, I would call that a bloody luxury.

[Her tone is terse and her posture rigid.]

I mean, it's not as though it hinders you at all, is it?

And what would you prefer I do, Maria? Spend all my time pining for him and none of it giving aid to those who need it here? How would you have me prove myself?

You could show some indication that you actually give a damn! Yes I pine for him, there is not a day that goes by without-

[She hisses and steps away from the work surface, clutching her hand.]

Shit!

[He goes to her immediately, concern momentarily overshadowing anything else he feels.]

You're bleeding. Let me help—

It's a scratch, it's not worth it.

[A scratch that is bleeding all over their floor but no matter. She's had worse.]

Of course it is, let me see.

Do not coddle me, it's fine!

[He let's out a harsh sigh of exasperation and frustration.]

You will not even let me help you with this?

Fine!

[She shoves out her hand, holds it there for a brief moment so he can see the cut on her thumb before she snatches it back.]

There. Are you satisfied?

[He moves to take her hand, to do this small task, only to drop his own when she makes it clear she won't let him.]

Not at all.

Don't sulk.

[She stomps towards the sink to turn on the tap and run her bloody thumb under the water.]

I'm not—

[He cuts himself off, some extra sense warning him away, but his frustration boils over. Only his wife can get him to abandon calm faster than any Templar target.]

Nothing I do can please you. Fine, I see it now.

You want to please me?

[She turns to face him and stares him down with fierce, cold eyes.]

Then why don't you start acting as though you give the faintest trace of a damn that these gods are keeping you from your son?

And how do you want me to do it, Maria?

[He practically explodes, not shouting but completely abandoning any pretense of restraint.]

You may as well give me my orders and save us both some time!

[If Altaïr seems unrestrained, Maria seems practically feral in comparison.]

I don't even know why I'm bothering, it's not as though you have any idea what this is like! You don't know and you won't, you couldn't possibly understand because you don't know what it means to be a father.

[As soon as the words leave her mouth it shows in her eyes that she knows she's said the wrong thing.]

Surreal sleeps and we weren't waking

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