==== January 14th, 2014
==== Prymelia, T'ral
==== Prymelia isn't happy about Esanth's big catch. Go figure.

Who Prymelia, T'ral
What Prymelia isn't happy about Esanth's big catch. Go figure.
When There are 0 turns, 2 months and 26 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

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Prymelia's Wagon
Beneath the beaten metal roof, the interior is a fairly accurate representation of the occupant herself - Welcoming and vibrant while leaning slightly toward the eclectic side of life. Cupboards accented in a deep burgundy line the left-hand side, reaching to waist height with a sturdy work counter painted emerald green topping them. Above, shelving fronted by sturdy leather straps, keeps a kettle, two pots and a frying pan securely in place. Along the right-hand side a knee-high storage unit doubles as a couch or extra sleeping bunk with a mattress and brightly embroidered scatter cushions softening angular lines. Beautifully fitted into the alcove at the back of the wagon, is a raised sleeping area framed by a pair of sapphire blue drapes. Linen is feminine with embroidered edging covered over by a quilt in a riot of jewel tones. A pair of plump pillows softens the headboard with what looks to be an old childhood toy nestled in their middle. A squat shaft of light filters in across the bed via a little window with a metal shutter worked into the paneling with a small shelf above it holding a variety of knick-knacks particular to feminine vanity.
It is the sixty-third day of Winter and 70 degrees. It is partly cloudy, but still warm and bright. Clouds have started to drift across the sky again. The jungles are almost dry.


Mid-evening after a long day of repacking her wagon once it had been declared fit to travel by the Smiths, Prymelia is finally enjoying a bit of downtime. Downtime for her being marking a map hung on one side of the wooden interior, the various markings telling where she's been, potential Threadshelters identified and those already set in place. Humming a soft tune to herself, the door and little window thrown open to the evening breeze, there's a quiet domesticity to the glowlit wagon.

T'ral is back from his very eventful trip to Igen, head still reeling from the… everything. It would take some time to process it all and he knew just where he wanted to start. A light knock comes at the door.

Glancing up at the knock of knuckles to wood, Prymelia's expression immediately transforms to one of warm welcome when her visitor shows themselves to be none other than, T'ral. Dropping the blue stylus she'd been using into a basket, she closes the short distance and twines her arms about his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Hello, handsome."

T'ral ducks into the wagon, his smile is troubled, though the news he bore was -in some lights- all happy, he's reasonably certain that the next short while wasn't going to be pleasant. Would she see the best of things? How would she react. Hopefully he could explain things sufficiently so that… he blinks. He'd been running over things in his head and looking blankly through Prymelia. He snaps back to 'now' and smiles that troubled smile before wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair, breathing deep, breathing away the scent of moonflower and acrid dust.

Pulled into the warm strength of T'ral's embrace, Prymelia draws back a little. Mistaking that smile of his for weariness, the one she lends him is soft, compassionate. "You look exhausted. Come sit down and I'll get you something to drink." A light brush of hand trails from cheek to jaw and then she slips away, busying herself with pouring freshly squeezed redfruit juice into a pair of tumblers.

Now that she mentions it, T'ral is exhausted. Physically, emotionally. Weary in every sense and with a growing sense of dread at what he had to tell her. He looks at the low couch and at Prymelia. Sitting. Yeah. She should be sitting. Less leverage when she takes a swing. His mouth twitches at the corner and then flattens, brow furrowing. He clears his throat, wincing at the raw ache he's had since the flight. T'ral puts a hand on Prymelia's forearm, "You sit. I've got something to tell you." There were other things. He could start with happier things. He takes her elbow and steers her to the couch. When she is seated he crouches before her, taking her slim hands in his, pressing lips to her knuckles. T'ral's a bandage-off-in-one-go sorta guy, so… his eyes drop, somewhere in her midsection, but it's clear he's looking through her, "A green went up in Igen today. Esanth chased." Dark eyes rise to Prymelia's hazel, "He caught. You…" he pauses, continuing quietly, his voice a raspy whisper, "You know what that means."

With her back turned to T'ral, she's unaware of the frown or the troubled expression tweaking his features. And so, when she turns to the touch to her arm, there's a warm smile in place. One that quickly melts away as he steers her toward the built-in couch stating there's something he needs to tell her. And then he's taking her hands in his and crouching before her. Suddenly, Prymelia is hit by a cold draft of wariness. For a few moments after he's dropped a bomb she could never have seen coming, there's dead silence, the mahogany-haired trader going as still as a plank of wood and then paling white as a sheet. Little by little, color returns, collecting in splotches on her cheeks. Hazel eyes harden and she pulls her hand out of his. You know what that means… "Aye." Flat with a hint of a storm brewing on the horizon.

T'ral doesn't make any attempt to stop Prymelia from reclaiming her hands. Though he does make a note to keep at least peripheral watch on them. He nods, lips pursed. It seems she does know. He looks down, nodding, head slung between his shoulders. He murmurs, voice rough sounding, "If this… changes things for you…" His eyes flick up, "I…" understand. He can't finish that thought. He doesn't know what she must be feeling. He swallows.

More silence from Prymelia, the type that is often equated as a deadly omen before a storm rolls in complete with the sharp snap of electricity ionizing the air. "So." The twist of lips that follows is anything but warm and carries a hint of frost to it. "This would be the half of you that I don't get, hmm? The part where you get to go off and screw whomever Esanth sees fit to land you with while I get lectured about flirting." Another tense second of silence twangs out. "Fuck you, T'ral!" With that, Prymelia will try to skirt to the side and slip to her feet, freckled features set about the glacial exterior a certain Headman had been treated to not all that long ago.

At least she's not shouting. Frost. Frost he's used to. If not from her. They'd get through this…? Maybe. "Yes. This is that half that isn't yours. The part that is and will always be Esanth's." T'ral's jaw clenches. What's left of me for me? Anything? He stands so that she can get by. Flirting?! "Aside an apart. Entirely." T'ral draws himself up and lowers his head, growling, "Prymelia. Look at me. You are really comparing these two things." He slashes a hand in front of himself, pure negation, "They don't resemble each other in the slightest." He holds up a finger, teeth baring as his eyes flash, "The first and most key piece of which is intent." He should have let her pour that juice. His throat feels like he's been chewing 'stone.

"The half that isn't mine," Prymelia echoes in a dull tone. "And yet, yet you expect to have the whole of me." Rhetorical the remark. But then T'ral's getting all uptight and angry with her!? "Are you kidding me!? You're honestly going to go all harper on me and lecture me? Now!?" With hands planting to slender hips, her head tilts back a little and a hollow laugh cuts through the air. "I'm not the one that just got done with screwing someone else." Now she's yelling. A fiery-haired tempest. "What am I supposed to do with this, huh?" Arms lift and slap back to her sides. "Just pat you on the back and say it's okay? Because it's not. It's really, really not. I… you should go." Before she says something they'll both regret.

"Hah." T'ral's laugh is a weak, dry sound. He braces his arms against the ceiling, leathers creaking. "I don't expect. I want." He drops his arms, head tilting back, cocked, to look at Prymelia, another weak laugh. "The distinction is important. You're not anything that's due me. Not a prize or a reward. Nothing I deserve." He shakes his head, Renalde was right again. But experience required living through something, right? Otherwise it was hearsay. And you couldn't build a life on hearsay. He shakes his head sadly at her outburst about lecturing, "Intent is everything, Prymelia," he looks at her, heart in his throat, aching, hoarse, "It's the only piece of me that's mine -just mine- to give." His jaw clenches, eyes gone a bit wild. He takes a few calm breaths, wincing at her question. He shakes his head, "I don't know. But I couldn't not tell you." This was the first place he'd come. He nods, closing his eyes. He backs towards the door, stops. He opens his mouth and… there's just nothing to say.

As swiftly as anger rises so do other emotions. The ones fuelling it, fed by lines she's heard over and over again throughout her life - Just a girl…not good enough…know your place…accept your lot in life - One set of rules for men, another for women. It's too frighteningly the same. One set of rules for T'ral, another for her. Apparently. Anger turns to frustration and frustration most annoyingly to tears that begin to slip silently down Prymelia's cheeks. "You know…" her voice is now so quiet it barely breeches the air between them, "in my clan its expected that a married man will take a mistress. Sometimes two or even three. But if a married woman so much as looks at another man…" The smile that turns out now is sad and wry at the same time. "I thought I could change it. That it would be different but it's not is it? Not really. Whether you intended it or not, the result, is still the same."

T'ral's chest tightents. The tears. That look of bleak, bleak frustration. And he was at the root of it. T'ral slumps against the door, his own frustration hot in his eyes, stinging. He whispers, "It's not the same at all." How could she not see?

"Not by intent, no," Prymelia will give him that much. "But by result, yes, it is. You might not have intended to sleep with another woman or man," the question mark hangs in the air between them, "but you did whether by choice or not." Swiping angrily at her cheeks, hands slip inward to her hide her face then drop away to fall at her sides in a helpless gesture. "And it's going to happen again. And again. And again. And you ask that I simply accept it." While she doesn't so much as take a step toward T'ral, there is a sway of upper body to where he's slumped in the doorway. "What would you do, hmm? If the roles were reversed?"

"I haven't asked anything." He looks down at the floor, "I only told you so you would know." Still looking at the floor, through the floor, "My father has agreed not to interfere any more," He laughs, a sad huff of breath, "But all he really had to do was… wait." Except that he wanted to spare me this. To spare her. T'ral shakes his head. "I don't know." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I can't unknow what I understand about this. What you… can't understand about this." He gives himself a shake, anger and frustration flashing across his face. He shakes his head, "But…" eyes roving, "If someone took you without your consent, I'd gut them." For all that there was joy in the flight and fierce pleasure in the catch… it wasn't a choice.

"Absolution," Prymelia murmurs drifting one tiny half-step closer. "Is what you ask of me. For why else would you have told me? Why else…" a hand lifts and flutters up and down his frame, "would you still be here?" A smile curls a minute corner into her lips, dry. "And if they took me with my consent. What then, hmm? Would I be granted the same absolution?" Dry becomes sad. "I rather think not. Intent, right?"

T'ral hangs his head, "No. I didn't do anything wrong." He looks up, "I'm here because of you. You're who I can come to. You make," he sweeps a hand through the air, "everything seem right." He coughs, probably a sob, "But it's all wrecked now. You don't-" he sucks in a hard breath, clearing his throat. "I-" he lifts his chin, eyes sad, hard… cold. Like his father's. "I'll go." I should have never even come. He fumbles for the latch, it catches and he tumbles back, spilling down the steps, catching himself before he falls flat on his face. He pauses, back to the door, head up. No idea where to go. No where to go.

Perhaps the fact that T'ral doesn't answer her question is a reply unto itself. But Prymelia isn't able to lend that much thought. Not when he's tripping over his own feet and going arse-over-kettle down the narrow wooden stairs leading off the backboard of her wagon. Lips part to offer speech to thought but then…cold, hard blue eyes. Like his father's. Like her father's. Disappointment. The word slithers into her brain like an old insidious friend, a middle name, and coils about her heart. Her first instinct is to go to him, to reassure herself that he isn't hurt, to make him finish those half-formed sentences. But pride, fear and hurt all conspire to form chains around her ankles ensuring she only makes it as far as the doorway. Framed and silhouetted by the glowlight at her back, the young trader woman is a silent statue of confusion and frustration.

T'ral looks over his shoulder, turning, and flinches at the sight of Prymelia backlit in the doorway. Forbidding. Disdainful. But he hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't. And now she was hurt. And he was hurt. And everything good was broken. And Esanth had been… beautiful. It made his chest ache. How could something so pure cause so much pain and confusion? She couldn't understand the beauty… didn't accept that he had no control. Right? He couldn't control it… Could he? Could he have stopped it? Had he really betrayed her? T'ral watches Prymelia silently for a long moment before backpedaling for a few steps and then turning and leaning into a run. Away.

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