closed event starter to @nighttcalls location: far corner of the bloater
βββTHE AMBIANCE OF the party has held on strong for much longer than Reuven would typically endure, but his disappearance earlier in the night had served to rejuvenate. Eventually, the man had gravitated back into the venue, and carried a beer with him more as a prop than anything he had intentions of consuming. He'd chosen long ago to prefer a sobrietyβafter Avigal had passed, he'd worried about his drinking, and knew that as his childrens' only living parent he could not take the risk of drowning his sorrows in bottle. He'd need to be strong first, to show them how to be strong too. Now, after trying to forget that she was even standing within proximity for several hours, Reuven was feeling the resurrection of that mantra, if only to remember how Hera had become a point of strength for his children to anchor to as well. After spending so many years intertwined, emotionally, spiritually, and thenβin some waysβphysically, with Hera, he sometimes wondered how it was even possible for him to be so sick with nerves to even speak to the woman. Given their last encounter with one another, he'd assumed she had left their party of two for good reasonβhe'd had plenty of time to conclude that he had been unjustifiably awful in that final argument, no matter the reasons for his ire she had never deserved it. He'd had plenty of time to shame himself for it too, to hate himself for driving her away into what he assumed was her likely death. For seven years he believed she was dead, only for her to show up at his doorstep, a new, survivor of a woman.
βββReuven hadn't known if she hated him for what he'd said. If she wanted him dead. If she even recognized it was himβafter all, they both had aged ten years. He sported a thickened, long beard now that he never had before. He was leaner, and more worn, and hardly spoke. It had taken him too long to even say hello that first time after she'd showed up at the gates, and ever since could not muster more than a conversation about herbs or ammo with her. It were as if they were in purgatorio together, and neither would look at the other, and he certainly wasn't sure if she even wanted him breathing the same air. So the decision to walk over now was purely out of wanting to hear her voice again. It had been so long, since he heard the inflection of joy in it, since he'd heard her laugh. He ached to see her smile again, but didn't know how to prompt it, so instead Reuven cleared his throat as he approached, and then stood silent beside her for a long moment before speaking. "Is anyone in the armory? Need to work on my rifle." He remembered the day he'd taught her how to shoot his rifle. Now here she was, the community's armorist. Reuven wished he could tell her he was proud of her, for everything, for surviving without him. Tell her how impressed he was, but that he always knew she could do it. Comment on how she could give him a run for his money now. But he doesn't. Instead, he palms at his beard, and suddenly decides he does need a sip of that beer. "It can wait, if nobody's there."
the fourth, or perhaps the fifth glass of wine for the evening, has done little to dismantle her fortitude and seriousness, her countenance stillΒ retaining aΒ solemn expression despite the alcohol in her system. in another life, a different timeline, that same austere expression of her face would have instantly softened, morphed into a genuine smile upon the sight of reuven, but whatever limbo they live in now no longer grants him such privilege. so when he moves to stand beside her, hera doesn't think much of it, doesn't think about it at all, telling herself that he could very well be a mirage, some wishful thinking of the mind that has forgotten the horrid past. tender is the wound that he left behind, for the knife of betrayal was bigger and sliced much deeper than she had thought was possible. so when he finally opens his mouth to speak, all that she wants to do is tell him to leave, for one harmless query could turn into an admission of regret and an apology that's long overdue, and to stomach any sort of plea or confession from reuven would mean to forgive him. no, atonement he shall not obtain.
β nobody's there, but you can still go. at least you know your way around weapons. it's not like you need me for anything, β she says, unwilling to face reuven as her gaze fixates on another person sitting far away from both of them. but if she tries, tries her best, she could pretend she's speaking to the hardly familiar face instead. β i'm just a ghost of your imagination, reuven. β just as much as he is of hers. it could almost be a punchline, some aphorism, if it were funny at all. β by the way, β she begins as she turns to look at him, wondering if he could feel the weight of her gaze upon his features, from his forehead down to his chest. if only she could turn him to stone, but that would require a different name. β your beard looks fucking awful.β atrociously close, she pivots on her left heel for the sake of much-needed distance between them as if it were a part of some intricate performance. perhaps everything is these days.
