There are answers in the silence for those who know to listen. All those little pauses between words, all the things we choose not to speak of or, for some reason, cannot, all the things we fear to vocalise hang in the air like shapes in mist. They can be seen, they can be felt, they can be heard. All we need do is open ourselves to them, to let ourselves know.
I have been blind to them. I let myself be deafened by sweet words of love. I have let myself be led astray by promises of hope where I knew none could be. I was stupid. Again. I always am. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I saw her again today. Marinette. To my surprise, she was within the limits of Bree. In the gardens. We spoke at length and I learned much. She told me of her discomfort here, her belief that Davick may yet end her life. I reassured her that he would not. She admitted that she was uncomfortable with the idea of living with him and teasingly asked if I would do so did he offer me a bed in his home. We spoke of prejudice, of the way she is sometimes treated for the colour of her skin and the style of her hair. She said that she is proud of her heritage and happy to flaunt it to all the bigots; an attitude I admire and envy.
It was the silence that spoke the most, though.
More than ever, I am convinced that Wolf was correct when he said that she did not love him and never would. More than ever I am convinced that such knowledge has no bearing on what will be.
The silence speaks volumes.
Marinette is returned, but Davick remains absent.
He promised that he would return. He promised that he would speak with me as soon as he had seen her for himself. He promised me. He lied.
Days turn into weeks and still he does not come. He fears it. He fears walking forward for, in his heart, he knows as well as I that there is no way back this time. He fears making this choice, of seeing my tears and being the cause of them. It is ill-founded, though, for I will not cry in front of him. My sorrows spill forth where none can see, where none can know.
Salted droplets of woe. I do not allow them forth. Not yet. Soon, though, soon. In the right place and at the right time, I shall set them free. I shall set myself free. My shattered heart, broken one too many times by my guardian, my love; the tiny slithers remaining must be swept away, buried, laid to rest for eternity. Where it was born, so shall it die. I always did love symmetry.
The silence screams to me of a decision already made and a man too scared to speak.
In silence, I have my answer.
