newredmuses (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
newredmuses) wrote2012-08-18 12:49 pm
newredmuses) wrote2012-08-18 12:49 pm
Post-Shrewsbury, Barplace
Harry would have hoped that death would be a little kinder to him, for all his sins. He rebelled against an anointed king, true, but surely God or the Devil would have forgiven that, given the justness of his complaint. He does not see this afterlife as a rebuke of his passions, nor his tendency to curse or lose his temper or fall prey to his own pride. A true punishment would have been directed. This -- this is mere aimlessness, a new set of rules and no familiar boundaries.
To the best of his reckoning, it has been a month since he arrived, bleeding and gasping on the floor. Warkworth, the king's court, Glendower's keep, Shrewsbury, all of it confounds his sense of what's real. He was in a hospital bed for some time, then told that the way home was shut to him and his clothes were not salvageable. Every morning, in the strange, small room he's been provided, he stares at his reflection and feels nothing like himself. Who is Harry Percy without his sword, his horse, his battered jacket, his life? This scruffy man in jeans and a t-shirt never led armies nor defied princes.
Harry was never one for sitting still, but he has grown too frustrated with pacing. He has been told that he may choose what to do next, but what does a choice mean when none are fulfilling? It is a thing he wrestles with, sitting by himself at the Bar, his back to the door, staring into the tea Bar believes he will like.
When he is this quiet, the other patrons have learned to leave him alone.
To the best of his reckoning, it has been a month since he arrived, bleeding and gasping on the floor. Warkworth, the king's court, Glendower's keep, Shrewsbury, all of it confounds his sense of what's real. He was in a hospital bed for some time, then told that the way home was shut to him and his clothes were not salvageable. Every morning, in the strange, small room he's been provided, he stares at his reflection and feels nothing like himself. Who is Harry Percy without his sword, his horse, his battered jacket, his life? This scruffy man in jeans and a t-shirt never led armies nor defied princes.
Harry was never one for sitting still, but he has grown too frustrated with pacing. He has been told that he may choose what to do next, but what does a choice mean when none are fulfilling? It is a thing he wrestles with, sitting by himself at the Bar, his back to the door, staring into the tea Bar believes he will like.
When he is this quiet, the other patrons have learned to leave him alone.
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"What sayest thou? Allan A Dale of Sherwood? How comes it, then, that you stand before me in the likeness of my lord who's dead?"
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Oh. Oh heaven.
He holds up his palms. "Hang on, hang on. Your name wouldn't happen to be Kate, would it?"
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"I am Lady Elizabeth Percy, called -- called Kate, by some."
By one in particular.
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Shit. Shit shit shit.
"Ah. Would you like to sit down, maybe? Have a bit to eat, something to drink? Relax, calm down a little? There's everything here, no laughing."
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"Be calm? No! What calm is there for me in such a place as this, where devils take the shape of him I loved and call me by my name? Tell me how you know my name. Damn your eyes, tell me and say true!"
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Wait, that didn't--he didn't mean to let the news come out quite like that.
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"Is he here?" she manages, after a stricken moment. "Is my Harry here?"
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"What do you mean?"
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Kate's face, though, that's a broken heart through and through. Allan thins his lips, then sighs. "Right, I can bring you to him. Just--stay a bit back until I give you the go-ahead, maybe. Some fella named Poins was around last week and nearly got his head stoved in."
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She nods. "Go to, then, I pray you."
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He motions her to follow him through the bar. He'd offer his arm or something, but she doesn't really seem in the mood to accept. Probably can't really blame her.
Is that set of hunched shoulders at the Bar the one he wants? Yeah, looks like. He glances at Kate and holds a finger to his lips. "I'll go get him."
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He doesn't look up. "Why today different than any other day?"
Allan glances back at Kate. "Well, you've got a visitor."
"Last you said that it was the boon companion of him who killed me. I think not."
"No, I really think you'll want to see this one."
"God rot you, thou incessant prattler, can't you once let me be?"
"Listen to me, Harry--"
"Listen to you what?" He glowers and gestures with his cup. "My tea is getting cold."
Allan looks back to Kate with a helpless expression.
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That's him, that's him. Her heart hurts with the wild laughter welling up inside her -- laughter, or tears, she knows not which, and now her hands in her skirts serve to hold her back.
"My dear?"
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And doesn't turn around.
"Allan," he says quietly, "tell me what it is that's making sounds at us just like my Kate."
"Look, I told you you'd want to see this one."
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It's her. By the devil and all the angels, it's her. He pushes out of his seat and stands, gripped with a terrible fear.
"You're yet living, are you, my love?"
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"I am, Harry. By God's grace or by His vengeance, I know not, but I yet live."
Swallowing, she holds out her hands.
"Pray let me touch you?"
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He closes the space between them and sweeps her close, and tight. She smells like home. The t-shirt does not hide him much; she may feel him tremble too.
Allan, wisely, decides to back out and leave them to it. His work here looks to be done.
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She wraps her arms around him and suddenly all she can do is touch him, map him everywhere with her hands: the lines of his back and the curve of his hip and the grain of his hair between her fingers.
She's clutching him tight. Mayhap her hands are not as gentle as they should be, but the bruises she leaves on his arms are her proof that he's flesh and blood and real. Dreams don't bleed.
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"How do our friends?" he murmurs, his chest still tight. "My mother and father?"
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"Your father is infected now with remorse, that he did not send his men to you. But he will not throw away that which remains him on those who still talk of rebellion -- that your mother and I have seen to. He is flown to Scotland and bides there 'till we better know the fortunes of the Archbishop and Mowbray."
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And then, before it can turn into weeping, kisses him.
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When they break away, his fingers have already found themselves in her hair. "I know enough, it is not hell. I am glad to see you, very so."
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Her cheeks are wet.
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"Aye, Harry, that we shall."
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