Sea Lion Shores I'[m] thinking of ending things

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Suicidal ideation

I'm thinking of ending things.
How many times now?
She traced it in her mind, an endless looping pattern until it was cut so deeply the scar might never fade. I'm thinking of ending things. She rose from her bed and stepped out into the light and thought that it felt unwelcoming, like a hostile spotlight, like eyes that asked too many questions. She passed through the territory and met no one. It was so empty in Stavanger Bay. It was so quiet.
I'm thinking of ending things, carved into her winding path from her home to the beach beyond, where once she had faltered and nearly failed to make it those last few miles. Lestan had carried her. She wondered if he regretted it now. She wondered if he regretted that day at the border of Swiftcurrent Creek, when she'd found him again and he had been gentle with her where the world was not. She hoped that he did.
Because regret would mean that he knew now that it was Reverie who had brought him to this, that he would only be free once he was free of her. Regret would mean that it would not be grief running through his veins when she failed to return. She did not mean to return. I'm thinking of ending things. Staring out at the sea, she could almost picture it — the life she'd wanted to give her family. She could almost pretend it was the truth.

The sea was a good place to think, Tybault had decided. The constant sound of the crashing waves was the backdrop to an era of contemplation for the Medeiros, who found himself introspective in a way that disgusted him these days. He'd accepted it as necessity. There would be no change if he didn't understand what had brought him here.
Lost in thought, he didn't even see his sister until only yards separated them, a stretch of beach that felt like it spanned half the world. He had crossed half the world to find her, once — and almost died for it. The obsession had long since faded from him, and in its place he felt only hurt and wariness for the sister who had almost seen him killed. He studied her across the distance, but made no move to close it, nor to leave.
Instead he watched for the man who still haunted his dreams.

She felt eyes on her; familiar eyes, golden eyes. Reverie turned and let out a little gasp to see him — Tybault. Here, now; real? Real.
The sight of him caused all of her to tense in fear, and she didn't understand it, but she knew somehow that he felt it too. Her heart was in her throat, but she stood and went to him. He would understand. He would know what she said. That was all that mattered to her in these first moments.
Tybault, She took in a deep breath when she was in speaking distance. Something happened, didn't it? I don't remember. Reverie thought she saw something like hatred in his eyes, but she couldn't be sure. All that she saw anymore was coldness when she met the eyes of others, and she never knew how much of it was only imagined.

She noticed him, after a time. Tybault was very still as she approached, and remained so as she spoke, though he frowned to hear the words. It was a language he'd never thought to hear from her; forbidden to dancers, but he was not surprised that she knew it. That she knew it well enough to speak it was a small shock to him, but one he quickly recovered from.
It's not worth rehashing, Tybault said finally, his mouth oddly dry. He gestured briefly to his new scars, a sarcastic smile tugging at his features. It's strange to hear it spoken like that. He didn't bother to make the switch himself; the common tongue was their own native language, and he couldn't fathom why Reverie would speak in the language of The Gilded Sea's sacred songs, but he assumed an explanation would be forthcoming. Hoped, anyway.

Her heart fell as she peered at the scars. Did I do that...? Reverie did not feel as if she had, but she didn't know. There was so much she didn't know. She laughed, but the sound of it was bitter.
I didn't know I could do it. But now it's all I can do. That's weird, isn't it? How long had it been since they'd spoken like this? Yet they fell into it with a stilted sort of ease; it was awkward but it wasn't difficult, it wasn't forced. At least, not for Reverie. Her expression was somber with her next words, though. I'm - sorry if I hurt you.
Was she truly? She still remembered vividly the last time they'd spoken. Reverie wasn't certain she was really sorry, but she loved him still. And she desperately needed to talk to someone.

Yeah, well, Tybault cleared his throat awkwardly. That's what we do, right? Hurt each other. Apologize. Start over. It's a Medeiros thing.
Or a family thing, maybe. Haven't figured that out yet, He grinned. Tried to grin. Finally he started to notice all the things about her that had changed. She looked tired now. She carried the scent of a child. Tybault averted his gaze. I'm sorry for what I did, too. I was a dick. You'd be pissed if you remembered. Maybe that was his cue to explain, but he couldn't make the words form. So he went silent.

Reverie didn't ask. She didn't think she wanted to know, really. Then I guess you're lucky I don't, She returned his smile with her own gentle brightening. My name is Reverie, by the way.
I'm thinking of ending things.
The brightness died from her, and she looked away too. There were so many things he didn't know. She wasn't sure she would ever have the heart to tell him. He'd been right from the beginning, after all. She hadn't been ready for any of it, and now she stood at a precipice she did not quite understand, looking down into the endless dark. His sunlit eyes were the only light around for miles.

Reverie. It was kind of a stupid name, but if it made her happy, he could get behind it. Tybault nodded, focusing on these trivialities to avoid the feeling like something large and fanged was hovering just over his shoulders. Many things passed through his mind. First he thought to tell her about the weeks he'd spent healing, then traveling alone. Then he thought of telling her how he'd searched for her for months.
It was all very selfish, and realizing this, he settled on a simple, How have you been, Reverie? His voice was hesitant, his eyes guarded, but he hoped she would see the attempt.

Tears heated her eyes almost immediately. She didn't look back at Tybault, not at first. Reverie could only stare at the water for several moments, trying to calm herself, trying to remember how to breathe. But all she could think was —
I'm thinking of ending things, And then it all spilled from her in a rush: the gap in her memory, their flight from things unknown to her, her sickness, the witch, Riordan, Lestan. She was crying by the end of it. Somewhere in the telling of her story she'd settled in the sand, curled up tightly with her tail tucked around her paws as if that might shield her from the coldness of it all. Finally, she looked back to Tybault.

He was startled. But he listened. For several seconds after she finished, he was quiet. Then —
Well, that's fucking selfish, Tybault said bluntly, without malice but equally without sympathy. Here he was, trying so hard to cut back on his own selfish tendencies, and Reverie was going for the gold. Ending things. If he didn't know her he would have thought she meant with her boyfriend — husband? Whatever. He would have encouraged that. But he did know her. He knew what she meant. And it was stupid, even more so than her stupid name. Leaving behind your kid, and your - whatever he is. If you love your family, maybe try a little harder than that?

I almost betrayed him. I almost - Reverie had hardly heard what Tybault said, didn't even have it in her to argue. It was selfish. She was selfish. She shook her head.
What about you? How have you been? She felt numb as she spoke, her tone a little dazed; carrying on as if he hadn't just told her how selfish she was. If a few harsh words were all the retribution she ever received for what she'd done, Reverie would count herself lucky and the world quite unfair. She deserved so much worse.

There she went. Tybault snorted, abruptly frustrated with her; it was always the same thing with Reverie, had been ever since they were children struggling to cope with the trauma of their sister's death. The rest of them had changed, moved on, but it seemed she never would. No amount of apologies would change that.
You can't just change the subject after all that. A witch? Your boyfriend murdered a guy? What did he even do, anyway? Tybault sighed. Don't answer that. I don't want to know. Let's have this conversation later, alright? When you're in a better place. And you will be in a better place, the firmness of his tone implied. I'll be around.
He needed time to process all this, anyway. His sister, a mother; Tybault worried distantly for her child. Just think about what I said. He turned away, determined now that Reverie should be left to her own thoughts. It was the only way he'd made any progress. But he still had a long way to go, and felt that this meeting had only highlighted that.

Reverie could only watch him go, silent again; she'd gotten used to that. But she did think about what he had said. If you love your family, maybe try a little harder than that? Slowly, it occurred to her that she hadn't really been trying at all. Reverie had only ever done what came naturally to her, only ever saw the value of existence when it was something beautiful and profound.
There was nothing beautiful about tragedy, and nothing profound in suffering. These things came only from love. She thought about that for a long time.