[open post] Dead deer tiemz

[sir_agravaiting]

Having recently heard the news (not such very new news, but it takes a while for things to get through to this knight, sometimes) regarding the Plothole's strike, Sir Agravain now (now being an early May morning, early enough in the day that his steps form a visible path through the sparkling, dew-laden grass behind him) comes stumping up to the

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[hardlyagravated]

Laurel, because the fates or the typist likes to torment her, happens to be coming down the main staircase at the moment. She looks like she hasn't slept very well, if at all, but she's together enough. But she stops when she sees him, knowing better than to let him see her pained, but not entirely able to hide it just now.

T: Missed you! (And the thread this is following isn't 100% done, but I think I can predict it well enough that I won't have to massively rewrite this. I hope. XD)

[sir_agravaiting]

Agravain's first, instinctive reaction upon seeing his wife after such a long time is to hunch his shoulders, half-turning away to glower at the deer carcass, but after barely half a second of this he seems to think better of it, and instead straightens up, stands tall, and faces Laurel - if not directly eye-to-eye, well, then, at least rather nearer it than before.

"Morning."

[hardlyagravated]

Her breath catches a bit, but she says steadily, "Good morning, m'lord. You've had good hunting, I see."

[sir_agravaiting]

"Ay," he answers tersely, and for a moment it seems as though that will be all, but then he manages to add, reluctantly, "With that closet refusing to produce more food--"

[hardlyagravated]

She nods. "Yes, I've heard. It's a bit worrying." She hesitates, then says quietly, "It was good of you to think of hunting." Even Agravaine, dense as he sometimes is, probably can notice his wife is shaken by something.

[sir_agravaiting]

Thanks, sweetie.

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, half his attention still on the deer. After a silent, uncomfortable moment, he says gruffly, "You're upset."

[hardlyagravated]

She looks down, mainly to hide her expression. "A little, perhaps. Nothing for you to worry about."

[sir_agravaiting]

He scowls. "Not for me to worry, and I your lord and master?" When it should happen to occur to him, that is.

[hardlyagravated]

She looks up, sharp and there are unshed tears there. This is Bad. Laurel Does Not Cry, Ever.

"Aye, that you are, sir. Do you even know where I live, these days?"

[sir_agravaiting]

And indeed, Agravain is taken aback by this unusual sight.

"Why - here - in the Mansion, I suppose. As does Mordred's wife."

[hardlyagravated]

She shakes her head and moves to come down the stairs. He's between her and the exit, though. "Let me pass, sir, and I will soon be out of your sight and just as soon out of your thoughts once more."

[sir_agravaiting]

"Why-- wait one moment--" He continues to stand immediately in her way, looking both perplexed and unaccountably irritated. "Stay, what is it that has thee so?"

[hardlyagravated]

"Naught, nothing," sharp, and then she puts one hand to her mouth, forcing herself not to break, forcing herself calmer. "I know you do not care for me, sir. You've forced me to make what peace I can with it. I pray you, then, allow me go, since I am a trouble to you you'd rather avoid."

[sir_agravaiting]

He crosses his arms, the irritation taking precedence now over the confusion. "Thou art my wife," he returns stubbornly, as though all the rest of it doesn't matter, as though the fact of their marriage vows can overcome the fact of their marital problems. "Tell me."

[hardlyagravated]

She presses her hands to her face. "Aye, sir, I am thy wife, and I moved in with thy brothers in the woods nigh on four months back. I am thy wife, and fool that I am, I missed thee. I - Damnation, sir, wilt not let me go?"

T: Sadly, I must to bed for tonight, but will continue tomorrow.

[sir_agravaiting]

That perplexed look, the almost childish air of frank bafflement, is back, and still, he doesn't move aside. "Moved in with--but I have not seen any of them all this spring, any more than I have thee. Nor any, in truth, nor -- missed me?" Why?

T: Good-night!