((Logged 2/4/01)) Nisan Cathedral, Upper Floor Contents: Primera Billy How gentle are those steps that fall down the hallway are, although it is only so by a forceful grasp of control. For it is tempting to rush down that hallway, to quickly go and find the young girl whom Billy has searched for for.. Weeks? Nearly a month? It matters not, when all is considered, with all estimates being too terribly long. So the young priest is quiet as he moves- for there are more up here to be considerate of than his sister- and approaches the small room reserved for travelers here in such an almost hesitant care. He pauses, right before opening the door, thoughts run fast through his mind. Worries and fears both and together, of if he will find Primera safe and well and what.. What he can possibly say in apology. Strange, how Billy could stand fearless before the Bishop, and fear the frown of only a child... Finally, his hand drops to the handle, and he opens the door slowly, to meet a quiet, nearly empty scene lit only by moonlight full and a few sparse candles. And it is not a time for travelers to Nisan, not with the panic of the fort about. But there is one person resting here. Steps kept desperately careful, whisper-pale light, Billy walks over to the bed where Primera rests. He kneels, still so carefully quiet, to meet a more even level with the one who dozes away so contently, a smile across her features. And he can not help but smile, a small, overwhelmingly relieved expression. And he dares not make a move to disturb her. For all she rests, she does not dream, held in but the lightest doze, which barely blocks the moonlight away from concious sight. There is so much to think about, after all, and so much to keep Primera awake. Does Billy expect fear upon those features? The trouble of the kidnapped, the distress of one far away from the familiar, the family? Somehow, all of that finds no haven in the child's expressions, which only hold a sense of peace, a mild and tiny smile. And she shifts her weight mildly in such distracted almost-sleep, restless with thoughts and curiosities of so many new things.. Of a peculiar, new religion and seeing new places... It distracts the child away. And she makes a tiny noise, only semi-concious and faint by unfound sleep, the normal stirrings from rest. But she speaks then, muttered words, faint as unthought sound, born of child's tone, caught in too much sleep and the wonder at nosies that are just as easily shifts in distant sleep-confused thougnts, "Uncle Stone...?" For those few brief moments, all could so easily be well. Primera does not shift in unrest, or look to be ill or in poor care... She /smiles/. And there is so much relief to be found in such, so much to be thankful for. There is no reason for Billy to worry of reasons, to consider just what has brought Primera to be thus content enough, or the entire peculiar process by which she was brought here. Does that matter? All is well. But Billy nearly chokes as she stirs, at that bell-light sounding of... /words/? Those palest blue eyes widen, that smile lost in a bout of confusion and utter /stun/. In her short absence, she has come to speak again? And for /him/? It is worthy of anger, it is worthy of gratefulness. But it burns, for that moment stunned motionless, deep to pain, to know that she speaks those words now, when he had hoped so desperately for the first words to her from her to be his own name. He moves, finally, if just to remember to breathe, to try and draw those blurred emotions from his expression, and finds his voice awkwardly, words still carefully light, lest she be closer to a quieter rest than it seems, "I.. no.." Stuttered sounds, before he attempts again, "Primera.. It's me. Billy.." A voice? Primera does not rest so well that she does not react, stirring from that muddy mess of somewhat rest to wonder sleepilly at that voice. She flinches a little, most likely not the expected or hopeful responce. And she leans deeper into her pillow, as if to banish such fuzzy dreamed names and voices.. But curiosity draws her further away from rest rather than closer, and lazily she half opens an eye, glancing sleepilly sideways into the silver and darkness of the room, expecting nothing of notice, and only the misinterpreted noise of the wind or someone walking down the hall outside to mind. But.. Someone? Someone but a few steps away, kneeling beside the bed? -That- was not something she expected. And she blinks, confused for that moment, as she wearily pushes herself up into a sitting possition. This is not just a voice, some conjured, foolish dream. Its honestly and actually -him-. And Primera does not leap at the joy of this, nor express some bounding amazement to this odd happening. She does not even grant a smile. Rather, she -stares-, dark eyes too near to expressionless. Billy finds himself motionless once more, worry and only more surprise finding its way onto his face. This can't be right, can it? That Primera would only stare, as if his coming were meaningless, or not.. Not /welcome/. And he allows another moment to ring out before he shifts his balance, frowning ever weakly in concern. Is something wrong? Something that was done to upset her, to draw her so distressed.. And yet she does not seem upset. She does not seem in fear. She looks... Billy dares words once more, raising his hands as if to take hers, to confirm that she is there, alive, well, and here... But he hesitates mid air, and instead drops his hands, concern too much within those eyes, "Primera. Are you... all right?" Something is awry. Undidmissable that worry. For there is something in that staring glance that works unease into his expressions. And Primera does not yet find it fit to respond, minding him with a rather sleepy expression that seems to be impartial to any means and manner of what she thinks of this little meeting. There is no frown, of course, to worry the priest further... But there is no joy as well. She shifts back, a bit of a half-hearted, faint gesture, as he moves to touch her, a miled and almost recoil that finds no expression in those eyes to carry it. A little unease settles in those eyes, as she looks away to the door, a little worry wishing that the once- Bishop would just come through the door and dismiss away this strange happening, and explain what ought she to do. For she seems to not know, herself, what to do. Muddled thoughts rise to her mind, blurred by sleepiness and unease. This is family, one of those who left you behind, who left you to worry and sorrow alone. Who left you all alone, all alone, to an often scary little world, with no way to defend yourself. But her brother is not the worst of these of these offenders. But he is also not free of it. Finally, she turns her focus back to him, a little worry of a frown on her face, and she nods. Once. Shortly. Words being unnecessary for him. She /recoils/? As if she were pained by the thought of Billy being here, distraught at the very thought of that movement? Anger and offence seem so /unlike/ Primera, mild and sweet as ever she has been, who always took her sorrows before with a sniffle and a sigh. But she never resorted to taking acute offence. "Primera..." Such a name is noted in a tone that is astounded and hollow. And for the first time, Billy looks honestly pained, guilt choking him once more to silence. He drops his gaze to the floor, away from that even, empty glance of his sister's, trying in some rush of thought and dawning hurt to reason out what is /wrong/. Is this his punishment for leaving her alone? For not being there to keep the previous Bishop away, to keep Primera from harm? Has he done the inexcuseable? Something that struck her so deeply that she will not even smile for him, something that would bring her to speak the Bishop's name and not his. He does not /know/. And under such thoughts, he barely can speak, words quieter and so much more uneased, "I'm so sorry, Primera..." And how pitiful an apology that seems, those dischorded notes among the silence and moonlight of Nisan, "I did not mean to be away for long... I did not mean to upset you, ever. And... And I came back as soon as I possibly could, I honestly did... Only to find you..." He can not even face her as he speaks such words, eyes locked on a moonlit floor, "Primera, I was /frightened/ to find you gone. And now..." It is so hard to talk, to find words to piece together. Rather pitifully he can only settle on, quite faint, "I'm /sorry/.." Primera seems.. unsettled by this all, confusion and some quiet conflict finding itself at her side. The feelings she has towards this are mixed, to state it lightly. For this is the boy who was one of those who left her, the family that left her to sit at the door of the orphanage and watch the skies in worry. She can remember those times, so clearly indeed- last time, when he went off to vanish away, and came back in battered, horrible shape... And when he never came back at all, after that. There is a twinge of bitterness to it, but still she can not bring herself to frown. For he is /hurt/. And as much as she is upset by those memories, she still has sympathy. And no matter who he is... She can not bear to make things worse. But with no memories clear that are worthy of joy to recall that do not involve Stone... She can not better them, either. Where is the girl that would, in so many times before, but sob at her brother saying such things, and hop over and embrace him? She sits there, perfectly still, watching in silent response.. And turns away, obviously upset, by blur of so many emotions, hurt a little, guilty a little. And the young priest turns up a careful glance to the sound of slight movement, only to see Primera turn away, upset. And how can he be expected to read that, to find some answer to all that he has done wrong in the movements of one still mute to him? She is upset. Has his absence caused her this much pain, that she can only respond to his words in a pain of her own? It is not hatred. But it is just as painful, just as hard to bear. And given what is, to all extents, a dismissal, Billy only rises to his feet slowly, unsure of what to do or say. And knowing, lightly bitterly, that he has no choice in this matter. For it is not his choice that she forgive him, or come along cheerfully at his side. "Will you at least come home, Primera?" It is an almost meek question, to beg some sort of a possitive reaction from the child, to have all of this worry set right and well in a single moment. And words beg to follow, promises that he will not be away, repetitions of how worried he was, or how upset this has made him.. But they are all repetition. Merely, he leaves the answer all up to that lonely phrase. And Primera's response is simple, as she continues to face away, if but to keep the distress in those dark eyes quiet and kept away from his view. There is conflict there, to hear such pain and be its cause, and have no will to mend it. But it is a distant pain upon a distand unease, and that thought he offers draws those eyes closed once more. Go back home? And be limited once more to a world where she is expected to wait, day in day out, in worry, for a family that is there, in a world that offers no praise. To leave Stein, only because she was asked, by someone who left her too many times before? Things have been so wonderful recently, and he.. wishes her to leave? Simply, simply does she respond, merely shaking her head weakly in response. Let that be her only response, silent and upset. And grant this nothing else. And that is it? This is what Billy is to take with him and leave with? A realization that something has gone more horribly awry than he thought it ever would. Did he not come here in the belief that, having found his sister, all was well? That it would be a simple matter of explaining that he was at fault and that he was sorry, and hope that she would come along back home, and put all of these fears to rest. But her refusing this, and prefering instead to stay with /Stone/? It borders the edges of the improbably wrong. But the blame of this comes only back to him. This is what your neglect has done, Billy. And shall you defy her choice? Silent and still, he takes in this all. And makes no move to further beg, to doubt what she has responded with. And certainly none to force. Hurt echoing in those eyes, he only turns towards the door, moving then to leave. And he only barely manages to speak, words faint, such words that he never expected to speak, and thus so nearly chokes upon, "Then... Please take care, Primera..." And he does not want to go without her, after so long a search. But he has no means to doubt her, no means to change it all. So merely he leaves, steps heavy, distraught, held in as much a careful quiet as what he walked in with. So be her choice. It is only his choice to accept it.