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Given the festivities, it shouldn't have been surprising to see a Loporrit or two in Gridania during Hatching Tide. Their thirst for knowledge of the culture of men from all the corners of the star is, Myra swears, second only to that of her newly wedded h—
Her hus…
The thought stops her short.
Now that the dust has well and truly settled, the reality of her decision, made perhaps in haste with a touch of desperation on her part, to marry Urianger has finally caught up with her. It isn't regret she feels, so much as simple yet overwhelming unpreparedness. Never did she imagine she would love—and so deeply—much less love someone so vastly, so tremendously her polar opposite. Over the span of years, with soft persistence, a wild curiosity, and a potent affection for all, he had taken her hand, and with a patience none had afforded her before, slowly, gently, unclenched her fist, coaxing her fingers apart that he might slot his own between them. And such has been their way for as long as either of them remember.
And yet, with the transition to a much slower paced life—of traveling hither and thither together, following the twists of the river instead of the road, moving as the bird flies, with slow mornings and heated nights—Myra has had the time to think. It is a difficult thing for her, Thancred often joked, donning that crooked smile that indicates he means no harm, saying that should she keep her brow furrowed so, it will stick that way forever. Indeed, such introspection has always been a hurdle for her; understanding why has always been harder than simply reacting, and for years she was content to leave it at that.
To be wed is so… final a thing. In her eyes, perhaps as final as death itself. She doesn't doubt that she loves; the warmth that blossoms in her chest when she looks upon Urianger, smiling so softly yet still managing to reflect vibrant warmth in his eyes is as potent as the day she first laid eyes on his face. She desires to be with him until the hells take her (or otherwise foist her off for others to deal with). And gods help the unfortunate soul who would think to ever hurt him. So no, she does not doubt that she loves, she is simply… uncertain of how to go about being married. What it means. If things are supposed to be different. If it's worrying that things aren't.
And gods, what of children? Isn't that the next step? The expectation? Nobody has asked her. Nobody would dare. But they know Urianger. And they know his love is as boundless as the sea.
More than perhaps the coming of the Final Days, a tangible threat that could be stopped with use of excessive force (as is her specialty), it is the thought of bearing a child that frightens her. Prior to Urianger, she would go so far as to say she did not know love. Had forgotten its touch until the idea, the notion, the sensation, became foreign to her altogether. How does a person such as that, hands stained red with the blood of many, devote themselves to a being as untainted and malleable as a child?
And thus, it is with thoughts such as these that has seen her retreat into many a thoughtful silence until it consumed her, dispersing only with a worried 'my love?' spoken in a voice she loves to listen to, and accompanied by the reassuring weight of a large hand on her arm, at her back, or on her face… Myra would dismiss that concerned look on his face with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand, and, on days she was more aware of her recluse, even try to smile to banish Urianger's worries. His eyes would always cloud over for just a moment whenever she did so, not entirely convinced, but understanding that her thoughts have always been her own, and that such things are difficult for her to express.
Marriage will not change that.
In this way, a strange distance grew between them, culminating in an awkward goodbye just outside of Gridania despite the unspoken promise of navigating Hatching Tide together. Urianger had been contacted by old allies calling upon a favour owed, and loathe as he was to leave Myra to the festivities alone, he is, perhaps to a fault, nothing if not dutiful.
Truth be told, Myra was glad for the chance to truly be alone. She could scarcely recall the last time she had a moment to herself like this, free to wander as much or as little as her interest would allow. Free to return to the thoughts that have been plaguing her for days now. She sits upon a bench towards the end of the day, having been called upon a rather time consuming bout of errands herself, now free of distraction and once more lost in thought. T'was her intention to observe any couples she spied over the course of the day, wed or no, to glean an understanding of what it is that she lacks, yet what she got instead was a day of catching bunnies and chickens, and finding all too familiar voices stifled and muffled by unfamiliar—and honestly rather ridiculous—rabbit costumes. Not exactly prime conditions for self reflection of such gravity, but in hindsight, mayhap a festival of merrymaking never was to begin with. It's all rather frustrating honestly; without this, Myra is out of ideas on how to proceed. Such is the curse of one who reacts before she thinks.
Perhaps such conflict is writ plain on her face, for eking in from the edge of her periphery comes something tall and… hideously bright green. A figure, lanky, despite the loosely fitting robe and comically large rabbit head stands before her, its head tilted in silent thought. She has seen this thing… this creature over the course of the day, herding little ones, ushering them along with all the grace of a patient mother… No, not a mother, perhaps a teacher, with how often the group would stop to seemingly discuss this and that. Myra hadn't paid them much heed despite the garish colour, standing out even in the lush and vibrant greens of Gridania. What reason would she have had to?
"What."
She hadn't meant to sound so curt, but old habits have a tendency of rearing their heads when she is alone. Being caught off guard by something that does not seem to have any regard for the eyes of others is also a factor that leans in her favour in this particular instance.
The rabbit's head shakes once, speaking through gesture instead of word; 'I'm sorry'. And by way of illustrating this further, it produces from behind its back an assortment of flowers. It's a sparse little collection, something that gives off the air of a last minute arrangement using blooms they had seen along their path as opposed to a more thought-out gift, but, she supposes, there is happiness in something so spur of the moment too; a kindness in acting at the last minute. In only reacting. Myra can only stare at the offering of flowers, lamenting that she looks miserable enough to warrant a complete stranger charity. It's a mite callous yes, but her brow softens in time, expression neutralising the longer she looks upon them, until at last, nervously perhaps, wary of tarnishing a reputation she ought to have discarded long ago, she reaches out to take them. The rabbit straightens, delight showing in the set of their broad shoulders as they clasp their hands together.
"...thank you." Myra finally says, avoiding its eyes and letting the bundle of flowers lie in her lap. Gingerly, she touches a finger to one as if expecting it to wilt upon her touch. It doesn't. Of course not. A flower does not care for who you are, nor what you perceive yourself to be. A flower is content to turn towards the light and little else. Would that all else could be so simple.
Movement once again jostles her from her thoughts, and Myra looks up once more to find the rabbit still standing there. Its hands clench, as if nervous, but then gestures to the space beside her on the bench, once again letting its body language speak on its behalf:
Can I sit here?
Instinctively following its hands with her eyes, Myra turns her head to also look at the space beside her, considering for a moment what will become of the next few minutes should she let this garish thing sit beside her. But having already accepted flowers, it most certainly wouldn't do to turn it away so soon, and so with a half-hearted shrug, she waves her hand and relents.
"Suit yourself."
Delight once more radiates from it, this time in the way the sunlight reflects off beady black eyes to an almost shine. It sits rather animatedly, excited perhaps to be able to share a space with the Warrior of Light. The distance is respectable, befitting of strangers sharing a public space, and that small courtesy tells Myra more than anything that what may come of this may not be as bad as she is making it out to be. Her shoulders loosen, posture relaxing. But in so doing, she glimpses the rabbit staring at her. Its body is turned toward her, with both large eyes aimed solely at her in an unmistakable gaze.
Are you alright? it silently asks with a vague tilt of its head, one ear drooping just a little lower than the other.
Normally, Myra would not bother with a response; such thoughts are her own, and she does not take kindly to strangers prying into her business. Accepting flowers is one thing, but expecting her to talk about her problems when she cannot barely express herself to one she loves is… well, rather laughable, really. But the situation has become such that not answering will only stretch the silence and make it more oppressive. It is fine for one party to be mostly quiet, but the aversion to speech this rabbit has shown has firmly bolstered its position as the quiet one, and thus, Myra must fill the role of the speaking party, lest the situation become more difficult than it needs to.
Ugh, how troublesome.
"I'm... fine." She answers at last, tone rigid, content to leave it at that, letting her lack of explanation be indicative of her unwillingness to talk. And yet… with no discernible expressions upon this rabbit's face, there is also a decided lack of judgment for her shortcomings, and that knowledge is reassuring in a way that not many are. Next to something so faceless per se, something that will not presume, for it is without words, the truth doesn't feel as awkward. Almost immediately, Myra amends her words, finding they fill the gaps this rabbit has deliberately left in their conversation with a nigh uncharacteristic ease. "I think. I'm unsure."
Either with interest or concern, the rabbit leans forward, inching as close as would remain polite.
Go on… its posture seems to say, and for once, she obliges with little resistance.
The flowers in her lap once more hold her attention, finding their gentle sway in the breeze soothing, coaxing the words to the surface. "I worry I have made a decision in haste. My allies claim that is simply my way, and yet I doubt. I know who I am, and I know I am not ready for marriage." Her eyes narrow. "Mayhap I never will be. There is something vital that I lack that I can't name. Something I cannot find. Something I cannot learn. It has eluded me to the point of isolation where I am forced to sit here alone, shying away from m—" the phrase is so difficult to spit out, it's almost humiliating; the Warrior of Light, undone by a term of endearment. Ridiculous. Myra swallows. "—my… husband. I hide from him like a coward when his worst crime was simply worrying for me. And worse still, here I am, unloading my problems upon a rabbit that will not talk back."
Myra pauses there, intending to have barked out a dry 'hah' at her own poor excuse for a joke, but finds even wit eludes her on this day as well. She sighs instead, and with a well practiced flick of her head, tosses her hair out of her face. At her side, the rabbit remains silent, its hands now folded neatly in its lap, head bowed ever so slightly, as if saddened to hear such conflict.
"It's no fault of his. I think I've always been this way—afraid of a gentle touch. Afraid to… appear vulnerable. I'm not certain what it is I'm protecting by being this way." Ever more, at the edge of her periphery, Myra sees the rabbit deflate further. Such empathy… Why? "But…"
The rabbit looks up.
"That husband of mine is the kind sort—would never deign to leave someone behind if they needed help. Would give them the clothes right off of his back were he any less modest. He is warm. He is patient. He is kinder than what this world deserves… what I deserve. I love him for who he is and what he does, for others and for me." Myra rubs a petal between her forefinger and thumb as she speaks, feeling its soft velvet until, forgetting her strength, she accidentally plucks it right off the flower. Letting it go, she lets the wind sweep it up into the air, following its path with her eyes as it floats and twirls away, staring into the distance when she finally loses track of it. It's a wistful and unfocused gaze, a deep stare into nothing. "I fear I don't tell him that enough—another flaw in who I am."
"But I chanced to see him several times over the course of the day, and being apart from him gave me the chance to observe him from a distance. Something I have not done ever since we came together. Seeing him try so hard for friends and strangers alike, seeing him mingle as he does, it reminded me that… for all the trouble I have caused him, the times I had sorely tested his patience, gave him cause for worry, as I have done in the last few days, he has never once faltered in his care for me." She pauses, letting the brief respite drive her point home. "Not once. Not ever. He puts care in all that he does. He is attentive to people's needs, mine most of all. Watching him today told me that whatever I am lacking, he is sure to show it to me. Provide it to me in abundance. I trust him to lead me where he may, for our hands have been entwined for longer than he is aware. Longer than I had told him. Doubting my faith in him now seems rather foolish." For gravity, Myra amends: "And I am not one to be made a fool of."
The rabbit nods slowly in understanding.
Myra sighs again, but there is far less resignation in this one. No, this huff is freeing; a breath to expel any notions of doubt that dare linger within her. "I suppose that's that then—I'll be alright I think." Uncrossing her legs, Myra rises to her feet, tilting her head upwards to stare up into the sky. True to her words, she is noticeably more relaxed now, evident in how she reaches up with both arms to stretch them over her head. But before she turns to leave, she regards the rabbit once more, a peculiar fondness giving her eyes a sheen not unlike warm honey. Inside the suit, a heart thumps when she smiles; it's a touch shy. Uncertain. As if still finding its place on her face.
"Even when you say nothing at all, you're still somehow right. Thank you Urianger, for always looking after me. I love you."
Embarrassed, whether at having his disguise seen through, or at the admission, in a vain attempt to hide himself, Urianger covers the eyes of the rabbit costume with his hands.