(no subject)
“I would beg of thy forgiveness.” Horatio’s voice, hoarse from faded tears and cries, startled her and nearly gave cause for spilling his supper as she placed it down. “I have been worse than useless, to become a burden when what thou needs least are more troubles.”
Pushing aside the bowl of stew, what they had at last resorted to in order that they might feed so many, he took Viola’s hand in both of his and started up at her, eyes clear and calmer, though still circles like bruises ringed them. “I prithee fogive me.”
“O, Horatio, tis naught to forgive. I do know myself of what we might stoop to, in the face of tragedy and situations unknown.” And if Horatio had left himself from some time, well, twas any different from leaving behind her sex? Survival did take many guises.
“Nay, I have acted most madly and did suffer thou to contend with undue difficulty.” He put her hand back down, fiddling instead with his spoon, till she split the hunk of bread from her own sup and offered’t. Taking it, he stuck it in his bowl, taking then a timid bite and watching her through his hair.
“I pray thee worry not, I have already forgotten. In thy most understandable grief I can see reflected shadow of mine own, when I did lose my kin in Illyria.” O, and still did that sting when thought upon too oft. Sebastian, now twice lost, and poor sweet Olivia, and her husband who had won her whilst a man and yet as a maid understood her naught, though try he did.
“Horatio’s face was filled with sudden guilt. “Cesario, to have been so kind when thou hast lost--”
“Nay, worry not.” She frowned faintly. “Illyria was lost ere this business was begat. I have made done with my grieving.”
“And Elsinore was e’en before and yet I cannot. Tis unnatural.” There was disgust in his voice, and despair, and Viola’s heart ached for poor Horatio, who had desired only to read and serve his lord.
He finished his bread and picked up the bowl, drinking as she wrapped her arms round herself and glanced at the sky though the tent’s open door. “I am not the scholar, but I do find it most natural that in some form we always grieve for that which is most loved.”
He did not look up from his food, and so she tried again. “As thou didst love Young Denmark.” At that he choked, and coughed, and put down his bowl in much startlement, and she gave him an apologetic smile.
“Thou didst cry out in thy nightmares - ‘my lord, my lord, O, sweet Hamlet’ …twas not the cry of brothers.”
And what might a say to that, except to give her a sad sweet smile and offer her half his pear.
To my moste Honorable, His Majesty the Kinge of Norway, rule of Denmark & Poland, Fortinbras,
Wittenberg goes as it may. Som reports come Enclosed. Horatio is of better spirites (as you may see from such reports) thogh grieues stille. it does put Me in minde of what You did aske me when Horatio pledged seruice at first. as svch I hope this Letter findes you in Goode Health and Spirits.
Who you knowest to be
Your most humble Seruant
Cesario