In a House of Tears
Chapter 3
All the Rest is Mute
The dreams of fire.
Of rage and of war.
Of self immolation.
Grow in strength and occurrence.
Wakes drenched in sweat with the sheets soaked and sticking to her skin. Sometimes she has to untangle herself from his hands, fingers twitching over her stomach. Other times he's turned away from her, only his shoulder bared to her, craggy with scars in the lamplight sieving through the gossamer curtains.
Peels the blankets away from her body, groggy with sleep, hungover with the slideshow of images flipping through her head. The drone of an Ori vessel, the weight of a religious robe, the heat of the sun against her back midday as she's shackled against the bench in the middle of the Ver Isca village square.
Trudges into the ensuite, simple fixtures of a counter and sink, a toilet, and a tub and shower combination, new enamel shining, no lip or stains.
Her eyes illuminate in the room, like the soft and gentle lick of a single candle flame.
Don't cause her pain, but experiences, suggestions of feelings, of violence and aggression gobbling up innocent lives like a glowing plague.
The tile is cool under her feet, and she doesn't bother to flick on the light switch since she's nearly waking every other night with these dreams. Takes her usual seat on top of the closed toilet, waiting for the heat, the malice, to dissipate.
But it doesn't.
Sometimes she can sigh, relax her body, and breathe out the rancor immediately.
Sometimes it takes a little longer, and she taps the pad of her foot against the floor in distraction. Fingers the soft cotton of a new towel hanging on the rack. Distracts herself by trying to remember Tau'ri terms she's learned that day, then that week, then that month.
But this time, the heat courses through her, making each tip of her finger glow under the nail, painting her body in a glittering warmth like a freshly glazed pot just removed from the kiln, and she starts to panic.
Jolts up from the toilet, slipping the door lock into place before turning on the shower, ignoring the golden reflection of herself in the over the sink mirror, until the glass fogs up. Slowly peels away the nightshirt and panties glued to her skin, heavy with sweat, leaving them on the ground and stepping over the side of the tub into a stream of lukewarm water.
Her skin sizzles under the cascading water, steam not from the temperature of the water, but of her skin, mists the inside of the shower, slickens the blue tiles. She turns the temperature of the water cooler, then colder still.
Leans with her head against the tile, trying to relax, trying to categorize memories, filing through them, searching for one to rely on.
Over the sound of the shower, of water dripping from the curtain and her body, the crackle of her body eating up the cold, is the shaking of the door handle, the one she smartly remembered to lock before climbing half-awake into the shower.
The shock, the domesticity of it, of her husband, a man she never truly married on this planet or any other, might wake up in the lapse of her in bed, notice the washroom door was shut and try to open it, try to check on her, calms the rampant temperature in her body, and soon the water flushing down her back becomes cold as the icy fields she played in as a child, beside rivers so clear that often she found herself just stepping into them by accident.
The temperature quickly becomes unwelcoming, and she switches back to lukewarm for the remainder of her shower. Of scenting her hair with liquid perfume again as she did as Qetesh. Of scouring her body of sweat and dry skin, over mottled bruises still buried beneath her skin.
Over one grinning scar.
When she steps out of the washroom, the soft cotton towel tucked tightly around her as she strangles another through her mess of hair—shorter than it's ever been in her life—he's sitting on the end of the bed clad in white boxers, looking as concerned as she's ever seen him.
He stands, holding his index finger and thumb and inch apart. "I was this close to kicking down the door."
Part of her is tired of the charade. Of acting like everything is perfectly fine and that she hasn't suffered in any way in the last two years. She wants to tell him fully how she feels. How she should be excited to live with him in what actually constitutes domestic bliss, that they can spend the days together, learning of each other without the constant strife that's become so common. How she wants all that, but she can't settle because she feels like his government is going to come after them again, and all they would have to do is immobilize him and she would disappear into the depths of their mountain once again.
Wants to tell him she still senses the Ori with an odd link she can't explain, like there's still a tether connecting her to the other galaxy. How when she thinks about how their daughter was carved out of her, it fills her with a rage so hot it burns her from the inside out. How if the Ori asked her to, she could be so easily convinced to lead an attack on this planet out of a pure vendetta.
Out of a carnal hatred.
But she knows him.
All of him.
Including the secluded part within him, that even though he is devoted to her, is still more devoted to his race, to his country, to his government.
"And what made you so angry you would to want to do that?" Addresses him over her shoulder, as she pads with poise over to the vanity he purchased for her—presented it to her with such excitement, that she did the best to match his mood, but is still relatively unaware of what the piece furniture is for other than housing the majority of her toiletries.
In the dark blue hue softened by snuffed lamplights, she observes him observing her in the mirror as she reaches for her brush, absently pulling it through her hair, more curious if he'll accept her serve at switching the topic, of brushing away the lingering need to discuss what he wants.
"You were in there for a long time—over an hour."
"I was just enjoying the water pressure, Darling."
"Don't do that." His attention turns away from her, his back slouching, his elbows dragging over his thighs.
Tears the brush through the ends of her hair, setting it down, and bracing herself, her back to the mirror, somewhat eager to have him look at her again. While she may have reasons to be secretive and preoccupied, she doesn't like it when he feels unimportant to her. "Do what?"
"Lie to me."
"I'm not—"
"Vala, cut the shit."
Expletives sometimes leave his mouth, mostly in surprise or on accident. Mostly to other men he's guided her away from while still housed in the mountain. This is the first time that he's cursed at her directly, and the heaviness of the words clogs the small room, the steam drifting out of the ajar ensuite door, the curtains pulled across the open window while summer insects chirp in the bushes outside, everything boxing her in, shackling her down, keeping her captive in an entirely different location.
Instead of having an earnest discussion, her response is weighted with her lingering fear of being sacrificed again by the only person she's trusted that she can remember, she digs back at him, aggressive in her defense. "I thought I was free to do as I pleased in this house—"
"It's not about—"
"That as long as I was contained within this property line, I could shower, or sleep, or cook what I wanted—"
"I just want to make sure—"
"Because I'm still not legally allowed off this property without a government licensed escort, which—"
"I'm not mad at you." His interruption isn't interjected, rather, almost a whisper in dejection, and, as by the tone in her voice, he's aware that she's not going to budge on the subject. He abandons his need to know why and what she was doing so long in the washroom, so early in the morning. "I was worried about you. That's all."
Resigns himself to tell her the truth about his outburst, a tricky little game he plays to try and guilt or goad her into divulging some truth about herself that would otherwise go unstated without his digging. Sometimes this tactic is successful, sometimes it is not.
This is one of those latter times.
"I got hot while we slept." Her fingernails burrow into the painted finish on the vanity, designed to appear worn. "I couldn't fall back asleep, so I went to shower. I locked the door because—"
"Vala, you're right—" he waves a hand as if to clear the stench of her compound lie from the air "—This is your house too. You don't have to explain to me the reason why you want to do what you want."
Finds that her grip against the vanity is fading, the anger, the heat from her body, the steam from the washroom, diffusing at his words.
"I just got up, and you weren't here, and I thought—"
He orphans his sentence. Shaking his head and standing, pulling the heavy, puffed up comforter from atop the bed, reeling it in against his chest, folding it mechanically, until it's tucked in a tight little square that he carries to the closet, and reaches up onto a higher shelf to place securely.
The muscles in his back tense over the splatter of scarring, the newest still a dull red at the small of his back where Tomin shot him. Where she scooped him into her lap, and sat running her fingers over his cheeks, his nose where the bridge still has a noticeable dip from breaking, pleading with him not to leave her, because she was terrified for herself, for their daughter, and she knew they wouldn't find a way out without him.
Knew, despite all the promises made, that if all of them didn't make it out of Ver Isca, none of them would.
Just never thought it would be their daughter who took the brunt of the sacrifice.
He leans into the closet door, stressed, pained, his forehead rolling against the freshly painted trim, and she approaches him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head against his back, to let him know she understands the verity in his words.
"I know, Darling." She settles her chin against the bulk of his shoulder and presses a soft kiss to his skin.
They're never going to get over what happened—separately or together.
In one of their brief conversations concerning the actions of his government and the subsequent ramifications, he told her that the loss of a child would result in mandatory psychiatric visits for more than a year, that the burden of carrying on living while their offspring does not is to heavy to be explored so quickly, and while he wants to know what has been done to her—asked her several times, all of which she refused to even acknowledge to answer him—he doesn't want to talk about what it's like to lose a child.
Not with her.
Not with anyone.
So, they navigate each other very carefully, trying to smooth out ruts in their attitudes, in their temperament, because although neither is willing or wanting to have the conversation about their daughter, no one in this world, or any other, will be able to fully comprehend what they are experiencing.
How each day they wake up under the shroud of happiness before remembers what's happened and where they are now, how they cry both separately and together for a child they both initially did not want, and actively sought to terminate. They became so attached to her in mere months that they gave up their own health, their own bodies, to seek security for her.
Regardless of if they're upset with each other for living in such close quarters again without the addition they were expecting, or if he grows impatient with her for not knowing the Tau'ri meaning behind something, or if she looks him straight in the eyes and cannot remember his name until hours later while panicking in a locked bathroom, they still need each other.
They've been through so much together in such a short time, that although sometimes it's hard to smooth over the edginess they both have—and for good reason—they still need each other.
Sometimes it's just as simple as not talking about something that will upset the other.
Sometimes they pretend that nothing happened when everything did.
Sometimes they revert back to what they know and where the solace comes from.
Sometimes, despite not wanting to, she lets him kiss her, and run his hands over her scarred skin, and nuzzle his nose against the area where his people tore their child from her as he trails lower, his lips hot, and her body trembles for several reason, memories of being pushed forward, of being held down—memories that don't involve him, but sometimes she hardly knows his face enough to separate him.
But she knows this is a way he seeks comfort, so she sacrifices that part of herself for him. She holds him to her as he settles, his forehead drenched in sweat and his breath humid against her skin, while he peppers kisses over her chest, tracing upwards, seeking her lips, smiling into them, kissing her into the night. Allows him to thrust into her, to come inside of her, because there are no more ramifications.
Air rarely turns to gold once in a lifetime, let alone twice.
"Come on." Pulls on his shoulder, breaking contact and stepping back towards the nearly naked mattress. "Let's go back to bed."
A/N: Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's All's Well That Ends Well
