Small Mercies

[dolevalan]

Title: Small Mercies
Fandom/original: Arthuriana
Characters: Laurel, Sagramore
Rating: PG-13? Ish? Heck, I don't know. Nothing too objectionable.
A/N: For rainbowjehan and mhari, whose Sagramore fics inspired me.



Sagramore loves me.

Sagramore loves everyone, yes. But me too.

And I don’t understand it.

He catches my hand as I get out of bed, murmuring something in Hungarian. I can only half turn back to him.

“I have to go,” I say, softly.

“Truly, you don’t have to. Stay.”

I close my eyes, though my fingers are still laced with his. He has the fighter’s calluses that all of them have, my lord husband, my brothers. The worn places along the palms that feel like a map home. I remind myself that he is a foreign land, no matter how welcoming. That being welcome is not the same as being home.

When I say nothing, he half sits up. “Aranysziv…”

“It would be awkward,” I say softly, “should Mordred come by with me still here, hm?” Gently, I try to pull my hand away, but he won’t let me.

“My lady, I swear to you, had you not been married already – ”

And it should matter. It should matter that there is one person in my empty sketch of a life who loves me, but I am fool enough to be in love with my husband, and being desired by Le Desirous is not anything to write home for, much as my pride tries to tell me otherwise.

I know he’s not lying. But I know when I leave, I know that someone else will arrive.

My friend will not be alone. That’s well.

“Well, I am. So it doesn’t matter, love.” I go to collect the things that were carelessly scattered on the floor. I wonder if the queen would envy me my lack of caution. No hushed whispers, no carefully draped clothes. I could hang a banner, and my lord husband would stroll right by it.

“It does, absolutely it does. Please stay a bit.” He gets up after me. I hate this. I could almost hate him. Because I’d hoped I could forget, I’d hoped I could pretend, and I found myself without the capacity for either. This room is what it is, containing exactly the people within it. This is Sagramore’s; he wants it.

Oh, to want possible things.

“I’m leaving,” I say quietly.

“Then come back tonight?”

“Not the room.” I finally turn to him. “Leaving Camelot.”

He blanches softly, and I hurt for hurting him. “Jesu.”

“My lord husband and I are visiting his estate, and I know better than to think he’ll bother bringing me back afterward.”

“His brothers. You can – ”

I touch his cheek. “It’s not my place.”

He catches me close. “Do you want to leave?”

It doesn’t matter. Truly. But that sounds ill, even before I speak it, so I say instead, “It would be pain to stay longer, knowing my lord wished me gone.”

I can tell Sagramore wants to rail at him. Wants to say my lord wishes me gone so he can bed who he likes without care; but he can do that now. I don’t inspire guilt. That’s not it. I confuse him. He looks at me like some strange animal that wandered in one night and refused to leave. Like I am a riddle he used to know the answer to. I know my husband so well, and he looks at me with stranger’s eyes.

So I kiss Sagramore, once, before he can solidify his anger at my husband. His kiss is sweet, despite everything, and he touches my hair. I will miss him. Miss his compliments, and his conversation. Miss the way he sees me, truly sees me, as none of my kin can manage. But my lord bids me gone. So I will go.

And besides, more aches are caused than eased, here.

The kiss ends, and I say, “I will see thee before we go.” I turn to leave, not knowing whether or not it is a lie. And, God bless him, my fine knight lets me depart. I might have stayed, if he’d bade me just once more. But he does not, and I do not turn.

Comments

[mhari.livejournal.com]

Oh, Laurel. :(