(no subject)
Marian had left her window open.
It was child's play (and he'd done it as a child, more times than he could count now even if he wanted to) to swing up onto the sloping roof and to peer inside: even simpler to clamber through, landing silent as a cat once Marian's door was closed. She'd been restless, moving about, and he'd sat with his back against her wall, staring out into the night, his thoughts a rude tumble of anger and hurt in weariness in his mind...until Much had proved a fine distraction and Marian left to tend to him.
He steps, light as shadow and nearly as silent, across her floor, opens her door into the dark stairwell, creeping down against the wall until he can see the firelight reflecting against Much's face, Marian's hair.
Settling, he listens.
He hears Much's thoughtless, immediate praise, and he hears--he hears very well--Marian's long silence, and he hears the slow, steady thudding of his own heart as he waited for her words. She's nearly about to speak--
"Please, my lady..."
His mouth twitches, and he fights back an annoyed sigh. Much always prompt far too much.
She is silent, still. Why so silent, Marian? He wishes to yell it, to stand up, to make her pay attention. She must realize. She must understand.
Why does she not speak?
And of course, finally, she must. Her voice is precise and controlled, as steady as her shoulders and as quiet as the rustle of the fire. "I can not simply leave him, Much. He's never left me, rarely denied me."
His heart grows cold at her words, and then hot, in nearly the same instant. Rarely denied, is it? Never left.
How very loyal.
It was child's play (and he'd done it as a child, more times than he could count now even if he wanted to) to swing up onto the sloping roof and to peer inside: even simpler to clamber through, landing silent as a cat once Marian's door was closed. She'd been restless, moving about, and he'd sat with his back against her wall, staring out into the night, his thoughts a rude tumble of anger and hurt in weariness in his mind...until Much had proved a fine distraction and Marian left to tend to him.
He steps, light as shadow and nearly as silent, across her floor, opens her door into the dark stairwell, creeping down against the wall until he can see the firelight reflecting against Much's face, Marian's hair.
Settling, he listens.
He hears Much's thoughtless, immediate praise, and he hears--he hears very well--Marian's long silence, and he hears the slow, steady thudding of his own heart as he waited for her words. She's nearly about to speak--
"Please, my lady..."
His mouth twitches, and he fights back an annoyed sigh. Much always prompt far too much.
She is silent, still. Why so silent, Marian? He wishes to yell it, to stand up, to make her pay attention. She must realize. She must understand.
Why does she not speak?
And of course, finally, she must. Her voice is precise and controlled, as steady as her shoulders and as quiet as the rustle of the fire. "I can not simply leave him, Much. He's never left me, rarely denied me."
His heart grows cold at her words, and then hot, in nearly the same instant. Rarely denied, is it? Never left.
How very loyal.