[Closed Post: A Pit of Clay]

[timebethine]

Laertes has settled on building a cross-draft kiln--but for that, he'll need to fire bricks, and to make bricks, of course, he'll need clay. He's finished sifting the clay he'd dug from the shore of the lake, and now all that remains is to get it into a state that will bear shaping and firing. The tool room had a couple of bags of sand and a smaller sack of bauxite alumina ready for use; those will help the kiln bricks to withstand the great heat of a long firing.

It's a grey day, and the scent of clay is rich in Laertes's nostrils. Smells always get stronger right before he has a migraine, and a part of him wants to call off this whole project and hide in bed to wait out the impending ache--but he isn't hurting yet; his vision isn't starting to shimmer yet. The wind off the lake is bracing, redolent with the rich, spice-and-rot scent of fallen leaves.

There's time enough to pull off his boots and socks, roll up his jeans, and dig in.

Comments

[timebethine]

"Just a quick swim," Laertes decides, swinging Sagramore's hand a little. "I know not how much time I have before the headache strikes, and I'd hate to be far out on the water then."

[sagramore]

"It's a day for that?" He frowns, thoughtful. "What may I do to ease thee, when it comes?"

[timebethine]

"I'd have the room as dark as it can be made. No strong smells; those rouse a powerful sickness in me. Beyond that ..." Laertes hesitates. "I know not whether it would help. But even if it wouldn't help, I'd like it if thou wouldst rub my head."

[sagramore]

"There's nothing I'd like better than to care for thee." He squeezes Laertes' hand. "And no hardship, that."

[timebethine]

"I like to care for thee, too," says Laertes. A gust of wind goes straight through his shirt as though he's wearing nothing at all, and he shivers--not an uncomfortable shiver, but a pleased little tremble at the crispness of the sensation. "Dost think it will snow, here? It seems as though autumn must descend eventually into winter, but I can never be sure, in this place."

[sagramore]

"I suppose it must, eventually-- it's that way tending, but slowly. I'd like to see snow. I'd like to drink by a fire with thee, and a blanket over our shoulders."

[timebethine]

Laertes nudges his shoulder against Sagramore's. "I'd fall asleep on thee. And thou wouldst let me."

[sagramore]

He laughs. "Thou hast the right of it. And never move again, for fear of waking thee."

[timebethine]

"I like to think of a future with thee," says Laertes, almost shy. "To think how we might spend our winter together, and dream of a shared spring."

[sagramore]

"Aye, so do I. What else wouldst thou want for winter? Christmastide? Wouldst thou celebrate some other festival in Denmark or France?"

[timebethine]

"Ah--I think we're in Advent already; it comes swift on the heels of my birthday, and that's passed," says Laertes. By now, they've reached the lake shore, and Laertes lets go of Sagramore's hand to begin peeling off his clothes. "In truth, I find myself more irreligious with every passing day. Yule evening has little savor for me, unless it's to make a fine meal for all of my friends and to sit around a bonfire singing."

[sagramore]

"We should do that, then," as he starts on his buttons. "We've wood enough for a bonfire, and I'd help thee cook thy feast."

[timebethine]

"Are there traditions thou wouldst like to honor? Or make?"

[sagramore]

"Nothing I'd keep of the past, to be honest." He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and puts it aside. The bite to his shoulder is healing well beneath it. "This place has its own calendar, I think. We should make something new with it."

[timebethine]

"Is there not something near the beginning of winter? Wanderers gather? We should make that our new holiday, since we're all wanderers gathered." Naked, now, Laertes wades into the lake in a rush so that all of him can feel the shock of cold at once.

[sagramore]

"That's a pleasing thought. The bonfire, then, and bring our friends together to eat. We could ask everyone for a recipe from home, if they'd like, and share the making of it, or just the end result if they're not inclined to cook." He eases out of his jeans and starts his usual slow wade into the water.

[timebethine]

"I like it. Let's tell Claudius, or we'll forget all these fine ideas." Laertes beams as Sagramore moves toward him; although the cold makes his breath come short and his skin go tight and pebbled, the sight of Sagramore undressed does always heat his blood. "My star. Thou art magnificent."

[sagramore]

"How darest thou, we can manage a holiday on our own without being organized by Claudius." He takes a few steps closer, the water splashing around his thighs, and smiles instead of protesting the compliment, which he dearly wants to do.

[timebethine]

"Well--then it will be a surprise for him, too," says Laertes. "I know Danish foods well enough that I can make something from our homeland. Let him discover it with the rest of our friends."

[sagramore]

"We deserve a scheme of our own." He reaches Laertes, and reaches for him. "We'll have a great number of recipes to acquire, but I'll set myself to it."

[timebethine]

Laertes lets himself be pulled; there's little enough warmth here, but it blooms wherever their bodies touch. "A new and better form of errantry," he says, nuzzling his cold face against Sagramore's neck. "No object to it but the joy of our fellows."

[sagramore]

"That is probably the best quest I'll have ever been on." His hands slide down Laertes' back.

[timebethine]

Laertes presses up against him, shuddering, letting his hands settle anew on Sagramore's hips. "Thou wilt build up great strength in thy hands, working clay," he says. "Wilt mold me like earth between thy fingers."

[sagramore]

"Was that thy great aim all along, indeed? Nevermind Lady Tress, thou wouldst have my hands strong enough to bend thee--"

[timebethine]

"A happy accident," Laertes protests. "I had not thought of it until this very moment."