timebethine | [Closed Post: Caught]

Much as was the case after the truth spell, Sagramore has been staying more in their rooms since the exchange of bodies. He hasn't even been trying to pretend that everything is fine (which is admittedly partly because he's trying to be more forthright with Laertes). He's sitting at the table thumbing through a book he isn't reading when he hears Laertes at the door, and he rises and turns.

It takes a moment to process what he's seeing: his expression is strangely unreadable, and for once he's rendered speechless. But he holds his arms out all the same.

Laertes very carefully settles the dog into Sagramore's arms, giving its ears one last, fond scratch. "Lan Wangji found it in a bird's nest. Poor creature," he says. "I know not how it came to be there--but it will be safer in thine arms."

"Hey, little one," he murmurs, cradling the tiny warm body against his chest: the puppy begins wagging its tail almost immediately, squirming up towards his face. "What's this? What dost thou?" the sort of silly rhetorical questions one asks of babies.

As soon as the puppy gets within licking range, it launches itself up toward Sagramore's face, covering his nose and cheeks with puppy kisses. Laertes can't help laughing. "Is it not the sweetest creature? I love it. I've never loved anything so much. Thou wilt have to name it soon, so that I might tell everyone the name of my dearest love."

"What, supplanted?" with a little smile -- if he seems subdued, it's only because he's overwhelmed, by love for Laertes, by love for the dog, by the almost painful clenching of his heart when he looks at it.

He's six years old again, cradling a black and brown puppy who'll be his dearest friend for two precious years; he's eleven, flattened under the gleeful leaping of two half-grown split-nosed dogs that hate each other but love him more than life. He's twenty-five, sleeping with one of the berners who lets him into the kennel sometimes to play with the greyhounds reserved for the king's hunt. He can't keep a dog of his own in Camelot -- he has no lands to draw revenue from and mostly exists on the goodwill of other people, and maintaining a horse is expense enough -- but Rory thinks it's funny to watch him get down on the floor and wrestle around with the hounds, and likes how wild and ebullient his mood is after.

The puppy slams into his face with all the gleeful energy of a creature that has no concept of its strength or anything else except affection, and Sagramore has to hold back tears, because he'll be damned if he weeps about this. Instead he says, a bit gruffly, "We'll have to stop leaving things about the room."

"Ay, I'll hang shelves to keep them out of reach," Laertes agrees--more softly, now, watching that torrent of feeling wash over Sagramore's face. "Can dogs open drawers?"

"Clever dogs can." He tips the puppy over on its back to inspect between its hind legs, then helps it right itself, during which process it clambers all over him, scratching at his chest and shoulders with blunt nails. "It's a bitch."

"Sweet little girl," croons Laertes, sitting on the edge of the bed and gesturing Sagramore over. "I'll build thee little stairs, that thou might'st climb into our bed to sleep."

She's going to sleep with them. She's theirs. Laertes has brought him a dog, and she's not going to be taken away from him when he can't get better or has to leave or their keeper falls out of love with him.

Sagramore brings the puppy hurriedly over to the bed and sets her down on the coverlet, and grits his teeth against the stinging in his eyes. He's not a child, he's not even drunk--

"Thou chosest well. She's a fine creature."

"Thou art worthy of the care of fine creatures," says Laertes gently, even as he unwinds his scarf a little to tease the puppy with the end of it. (She doesn't pounce, like a kitten; she gambols across the bedspread as though the scarf is a playmate.)

He doesn't answer -- he doesn't have an answer that won't make him feel like an idiot -- in favor of watching the puppy grab Laertes' scarf in her teeth and shake her head, growling softly.

"Fierce little beast," says Laertes fondly, and he tugs the scarf just enough to encourage her to pull harder. "We shall have to feed thee soon."

"Christ, she'll need broth and bread and water," as she pulls backwards against Laertes' grip. "It's been years since I had a pup, I should look in the library--"

"She'll want exercise, too--and training, so as not to soil our floors," says Laertes. "But that can all be done. Thou hast done it before."

"Aye." Sagramore gazes at her, with that same overfull look. "Hey, Szarka. Szarike. Thou dost not know thy name yet, but thou wilt."

"Szarike," says Laertes, tasting the name. "Does it mean something?"

"Szarka. Szarike makes it little. Or Szari. There are lots of ways to make a name more affectionate." He smiles a little. "I learned a trick the day the translation broke. Listen: Magpie means magpie. Her name is Szarka."

Edited 2024-02-06 22:04 (UTC)

Immediately, Laertes hears what he means--there's the same flavor to the word magpie, and although he didn't know the word in Hungarian before, he immediately grasps it. "Dost thou mean to tell me," he says, laughing, "that Lucien doesn't know thou hast been calling him 'Cat'?"

Laertes' delight breaks a grin out of him in spite of himself. "No, he's hearing the name I gave him. His name, my love, don't give the powers," with a glance upwards, "the wrong idea."

"My heart, thou art the cleverest man alive." Distracted by Sagramore's cleverness, Laertes has let his grip on the scarf lapse; Szarka tugs so hard that she bowls herself over, flopping with her tiny legs milling the air.

He snorts at both of them -- Szarka rights herself after a moment and looks up at them with no reproach for her felling. One of her ears stands upright and the other folds, and Sagramore lets out a great sigh. "Christ, I'm the happiest man alive."

"Good," says Laertes, and he reaches for Sagramore's hand. "I would always have thee thus."

"Come on, let's go get her something to eat and then we can tire her out a little." Now that he's past his initial stunned reaction, he's fairly humming with energy. "We've no starting place with her, so we'll have to make our own. Thou didst carry her here, didst thou not, so she's probably ready to stretch her legs, and I don't know when she was last out. We should find her some bones for gnawing on so she has something to occupy her, and--"

"Wait, wait, I can only hold so many things in my head!" Laertes laughs. "Let's feed her first. Bread, broth, and water, didst thou say?"

"Aye, whatever clear broth we have, and bran bread sopped in it, and a little meat of whatever kind -- we should tear it into small pieces for her -- and all tepid, hot will hurt her stomach."

"Then so she shall have--cooked meat? I think I have a little leftover chicken; she's welcome to it."

"Plain, with no seasoning?"

"--I'll make more." He lifts Szarka down from the bed and walks toward the door, looking back toward her, watching to see whether she'll follow.

Let us suppose that, although very small, she's old enough to be weaned, and thus old enough to bound unsteadily after him, her tail wagging with a drunken sway.

"Szari," Sagramore says delightedly, dropping to a crouch, and she turns -- she doesn't know her name, but the tone of voice, encouraging and pitched with affection, gets her attention. "Szarkácske. Come here, little one. What a good girl." She pelts towards him instead.

"I see she has a favorite father," Laertes laughs. "I'll have to bribe her with chicken to win her heart."

"She'll adore thee too, if thou speakst thus to her and encouragest her to run to thee." He straightens up and heads for Laertes and the door, and Szarka follows.

"Szarka," Laertes calls, and kneels down to pat his knees. "Here, my sweet--" Szarka, already headed in his direction anyway, needs little encouragement to bound toward Laertes's feet and put her paws up on his knee, tail wagging, mouth hanging open. "Yes, Szarike, thou art my favorite little girl."

"See, simple. Thou has supplanted all others in her eye, and she in thine."

Laertes scritches Szarka all around her ears, then climbs reluctantly to his feet to step out with Sagramore. "Is she too small for stairs, dost thou think?"

"I think she can manage if we keep an eye on her. Thou wouldst enfold her in thy jacket and carry her everywhere like a princess on a litter."

"I would! This is why I should never have a child."

"Listen to him. Thou hast a child, she's at thy heels." This is true. "It's all right, she'll have one stern and one indulgent parent and between the two of us she may grow up to be a reasonable person."

"Canst not be stern with her," Laertes laughs as they make for the stairs. He walks backwards a little so that he can keep an eye on her, and catch her if she stumbles. "Canst be stern with me, but never with her."

"I won't be stern," he agrees, with a sigh. "But thou must have a will of iron -- if she leaps up on thee, thou canst not laugh and allow it, thou wilt have to push her down and remind her it's ill-mannered, or if she looks longingly at thee for her reward before she's earned it, thou canst not fall to her sweet eyes."

"Hast set a hard task for me, my star," says Laertes, mock-mournful. "How can I keep from falling to her sweet eyes?" Szarka hesitates at the top of the stairs, and Laertes crouches down a few steps beneath her to call, "Szarka, here!" and to clap and whistle for her.

There's a moment when she dithers at the top of the stairs hopping back and forth as if she can somehow manifest a flat path through sheer hope, before she takes a stumbling step down to Laertes, and then another. As soon as she reaches them Sagramore is scratching her ears and telling her how courageous she is.

And oh, Laertes loves this man--loves how his affection shines from him, how sincerely happy he is at his courageous daughter. His chest aches with love, as though something long rusted shut has swung slowly and painfully open again.

Sagramore is a little too happily preoccupied to notice -- he's murmuring to Szarka, "Art thou a hound? Art thou a terrier? A herding dog? Wilt thou hunt foxes or kill rats or sort out sheep, little bird?" as she barks, though her barks are soft, high-pitched, excited things.

"If she's a herding dog, we'll have to find other entertainment for her; she'll want something to set in order and command."

"Aye, she'll herd us around, like enough, but she'll need other challenges. I'll think on it." Sagramore straightens and walks down a few more steps; this time Szarka follows with less trepidation.

His husband has taught their dog how to use the stairs; Laertes might burst with love. He climbs to his feet and follows--still facing backwards, still slow and careful, until they've made it all the way to the first floor. "Christ, I'd never thought how bad stairs would be for dogs and cats. It must feel as though thou art falling on thy face from start to finish."

"Down is harder than up; on the way back she'll be fine." He keeps his long strides measured so he doesn't outpace her. "She'll get used to them and then she'll be bounding ahead of us. Look at her, she can do anything."

"She can," says Laertes, rapt with wonder; "oh, my heart, look at her go--"

"Thou wilt be in ecstasy when she sits still, soon enough." He leans over and catches an arm around Laertes' waist. "My thanks. Thou hast-- hast made me so happy, heart's-friend."

"Thou deservest to be happy," says Laertes, and he lets his temple rest against Sagramore's cheek. "I love her more than sunlight. I love thee more than breathing."

"I love thee more than any dog in all the world." For a moment he closes his eyes: since they've stopped, Szarka plonks herself down and starts chewing on one of his boot laces.

"Sweet, no," says Laertes, mindful of Sagramore's admonitions. He scruffs Szarka carefully and moves her bodily away from Sagramore's laces.

He laughs. "Look thou, thou canst be persuaded to sternness. Well done."

"It's like a blade to my heart!" Szarka, undeterred, returns peaceably to Sagramore's laces for another go.

He laughs. "It's easier to redirect than deny. If thou wouldst have her leave off, give her something else to take her attention. At least until she learns no."

"We'll need toys like Magnus and Galahad have for Drosera. Until then, alas--" and he gently scoops Szarka up again and scoots her away again. "Let's keep going; a meal will certainly be a good distraction."

"At her age, a dinner will probably at least tire her out." It's honestly hard not to want to detour immediately with every new thought -- to the library, to one of the cupboards to make toys, or continue to the kitchen.

Laertes is having a similar problem--but he's fixed now on the bright clear point of making his new daughter chicken, and he leads them to their usual kitchen and starts getting out ingredients: bread, a container of beef stock, some chicken breast for cooking. "Should I cook it in butter or oil, or boil it? Can she have butter?"

"Just boil it plain. If she were a wild dog she'd have no seasoning. I suppose she'd have no cooking, either, but--"

"Szarike will have the best," says Laertes in immediate agreement. He takes out the cutting board that he uses for meats and slices the chicken breast very small, mindful of how tiny her throat is. "Canst thou start some water boiling for me? I should've done that before I started the chicken."

"Of course." He fetches a pot and goes to the sink, stepping over Szarka, who has flung herself dramatically to the floor with a giant sigh.

"Sweet little girl," laughs Laertes, "art thou not getting enough attention? Hast thou been cruelly abandoned?"

"It's good for her to learn to soothe herself. We may have to leave her sometimes. We can spoil her when we're done with our work."

"Will we let her roam the woods, or keep her close by?" Laertes asks. Having finished chopping the chicken, he goes to wash his hands--his first-aid book had been extremely insistent on the importance of hand-washing to prevent disease, and it seems to have been working so far; he hasn't been sick (apart from the migraines) since he arrived here.

"Close by. I don't want her wandering off and getting into trouble, especially before she's fully trained. No, I mean, sometimes she'll have to stay in the room by herself, or wait patiently."

"Oh--I meant when she's grown," says Laertes. "But thou art right. The woods are strange enough for humans; they would have all manner of trouble for dogs."

"I'll ride with her, if she needs the exercise, and keep an eye on her. Even grown, I'd rather not have her wander. God forbid she goes after Angus."

"Or Mothwing! I've still not made her acquaintance, but I should hate to trouble her." The water's started boiling; after another few moments to confirm that the boil has begun in earnest, Laertes scrapes the meat in with the flat of his knife and then sets about washing the knife and cutting board.

Szarka, completely abandoned by her new parents, rolls back onto her feet and toddles off to examine the nearby entryway, which smells of Boot and Dirt and Outside and other interesting things.

Sagramore goes after her immediately and scoops her into his arms. "Not yet, Szarike. I wonder," bouncing her slightly, "if we could make a little wooden gate to put across the door. Something lightweight we could carry around to keep her in one room."

"Ay, that would be easy enough," says Laertes. "Are the doorways here all the same size? Or will we need to build more than one gate--or a gate we could make larger or smaller, as we will--"

"I didn't even think of that, I was thinking make it oversized and just lean it against the doorway, but if thou thinkst we could make something we could change, that would be far and away more secure."

Edited 2024-02-07 19:48 (UTC)

"I have a few ideas--mayhap I could bring in thine Aleksander; it could give us practice for making his table." With the knife and cutting board safely stowed on the drying rack, Laertes comes over to kiss Szarka's little fluffy head and be licked all over.

"I'm so glad thou hast met him! And that thou hast a project together. He's a sweet man, once he relaxes." Suddenly his eyes light as a new project occurs to him. "Couldst thou make her a pendant, like the one thou hast made for me, and scratch her name on it?"

"I can do better than that," says Laertes, grinning. "I found a way to etch metal with electricity, and Claudius and I have proven it effective."

"Best of men!" It's impossible to pull him into a bear hug with his arms full of Szarka, but the feeling is there, and he nuzzles against Laertes' neck. "Thou art the most accomplished of all husbands. She'll be so finely arrayed."

"A match for thee, then," says Laertes, laughing, nuzzling back while Szarka squirms and barks that high, excited bark at all the closeness. "Perhaps Kade could make her a collar?"

"Thou art brilliant. I think he's the sort of man who wants occupation, he seems disappointed to be done with projects. It might well please him. --Is he not beautiful?"

"Such a beautiful man," says Laertes with a feeling groan. "He says he's straight, though, and that I must respect."

"I know, I was was devastated. Just the most tremendous waste."

"Well--not a waste for the ladies among us. Think of the ladies, Sagramore." Remembering his chicken, Laertes fetches a slotted spoon and gives it a stir. It's not looking quite done yet, but close enough that he ought to tend to it more closely.

"I suppose," mock-begrudging. He carries Szarka over to the refrigerator while he looks for bread -- he and Laertes have baked a fair amount of it, but not the specific dark wheat bran bread that he wants for her. "What dost thou think?" he asks her. "What suits thee?"

Szarka's keen nose immediately identifies A Bacon, and she barks and wriggles and struggles to free herself for the purpose of Hot Pursuit. Her tail wags in an ecstasy of smell; she has never smelled A Bacon before, and it is the very best smell she has ever smelled.

Sagramore laughs delightedly. "Oh, my darling, whatever it is, the answer is no, thy dinner is in the making. Unless it's the bread, and then the answer is yes."

"Try opening and closing the door a few times," says Laertes, more egging him on than actually trying to help. "Picture the bread in thy mind."

He laughs again. "That was easier when it wasn't my mind," but he shuts the fridge and reopens it dutifully.

The joy dims on Laertes's face. "Easier when ... what dost thou mean?"

"Oh-- when I was in Asmodean's body, everything was so clear. I don't know how to describe it really. I just felt as if I could concentrate properly for the first time in my life. Think about tedious things without getting distracted."

Laertes glances up at Sagramore. "I can't imagine it," he says, low. "I know that some people can concentrate--when my sister bent her mind to something, no earthly force could sway her. But I never had her gift."

"I really didn't think anyone else was any good at it either. I thought it must be saidin, at first, but half the people I talked to seemed to think maintaining purpose is natural."

"This place has been good for me, in that respect," says Laertes. "I'm able to follow wherever my passions lead me--to leave off a project for days, or weeks, or to fix myself upon it to the exclusion of all else. I need do nothing against mine inclination, and so I find myself returning to work that would otherwise have lost its savor."

"Good. I mean, I'd have thee happy. I think it's well thou canst set thyself to whatever thou likest here and take however long thou wouldst take."

"And thee?" Laertes turns off the burner and starts dipping the chicken out of the water; once that's done, he rinses out the pan and starts warming the broth. Tepid, tepid, he reminds himself.

Szarka, catching that the mood has shifted, thrusts her cold wet nose against Sagramore's chin.

He strokes her ears and makes a soothing noise. "I think it will help me to have her. I tire easily of things once they become predictable, but living creatures can never really be predictable. And at least this place trends toward infinite novelty."

"Can I help thee? I share thy taste for novelty; between us, we may yet satisfy it."

He glances back at Laertes. "Thou hast already helped me, thou hast given me a daughter to look after. I don't know, it helps that thou knowst-- if thou canst keep me on track at least a little, that's an improvement."

"We'll tether each other, and swing together in our sphere," says Laertes. He leans in to add his kisses to Szarka's, then swings open the refrigerator himself, thinking of a rich, wheat-sweet bran bread that would be good to eat with butter. And as he opens the door, a loaf of dark bread lies waiting in a cardboard tray. "I envy thee, Szarike," he says. "This looks delicious."

"Thou wilt be so well-fed," he agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Thy fathers will dote on thee to excess."

Szarke wriggles and barks--now that The Problem seems to have been resolved, she is once more on the hunt for The Bacon. She can still smell it a little! It must have run away! She should Chase!

Setting the bread down beside the chicken, Laertes dips a finger in the broth to find it milk-warm; he turns off the heat. "Now, tell me how to assemble these things to feed our daughter."

"All together, like a soup." His arms are full of puppy, so he directs. "Tear the bread into small pieces and put it in the broth with the meat, and then she'll eat on the floor."

"Mostly broth, or mostly bread and meat? Or even proportions of all three?" asks Laertes as he starts tearing up the bread into puppy-sized pieces.

"Two parts broth to one part meat and bread." Szarka is now about as interested in her dinner as she was in A Bacon, since the fridge has closed on its scent, and she wriggles eagerly in his arms. Sagramore laughs. "Patience, patience."

Laertes tips some shreds of bread and chicken into a bowl, then covers them liberally with broth and mixes them--then he sets the bowl on the floor, while Szarka frantically kicks and wiggles and barks with a passion to consume it.

"All right, we'll work on patience." He crouches down and sets her on the floor, but doesn't immediately let go. Then, "All right," in an excited, encouraging tone, releasing her so she can pelt for the bowl and begin slurping up the contents.

While Szarka eats, Laertes comes over to rest his head on Sagramore's shoulder. "Is that how thou wouldst be trained?" he asks. "Made to be patient, taught when thou canst and canst not act on thy wants?"

"Why, wilt thou train me alongside her? I do like that, yes."

"I know not how," Laertes admits. "But I'd like to learn. Watching thee ... I think I could learn."

"We'll learn to be good masters together." He turns to kiss Laertes' neck.

Laertes just laughs. "I know thou dost only let me play at mastery."

"What meanst thou by that?"

Laertes straightens, frowning. "Didst not say it? With Grantaire?"

Sagramore blinks at him. "Aye, because it pleases thee?"

An equally incredulous look. "It did please me--it pleased me very well. But I knew not that it was said in play."

"My heart. It's all play. Perhaps we should be clearer about when play begins and ends, I had no idea thou didst not know."

"Or at least--when we might have faith that we speak from the heart, and when we might doubt." He meets Sagramore's gaze. "Art thou playing, when thou callest me master?"

The broth is slopping everywhere. Szarka's entire face is covered in chunks of bread and meat. She has never been so happy in her entire tiny life.

"There's a part of me that would be glad to have thee as my master all the time and always bend towards thy service -- but I like to be thine equal, too, and stand beside thee as thy husband. So I do try to call thee master only when it's part of a game."

"Ah." There's a little pang, at that, like a child's at realizing that fairies are only stories. (There's another, deeper pang, at realizing that he doesn't know what's a game--whether the tattoos on his arm mean they're a family, or whether that's just another game they play.) "I'm sorry, my heart. I think I was just swept away in it."

"Laertes," softer. "What's that look?"

A wry little smile. "Only ... remembering how new this is to me, and how little I know."

"Didst thou want to be my master, or me thine, all the time?"

He hesitates, then reaches for Sagramore's chain. "I thought that was what this meant."

"Ah." He's quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Let me draw a distinction for thee. This reminds me always of what power I give thee, and how glad I am to trust thee with that power, what covenant we have between us that no one else shares. When I'm melancholy, or I want to be reminded that thou hast chosen me to be thy dog because thou lovest me and thinkst me good, I have that promise here, like a ring," touching the chain himself. "It marks me, and I want that mark. But that's different from the way it feels when I lie at thy feet or lick thy boots or rut against thy leg at thy command. That's the game."

For that, Laertes has to pull him close and kiss him, swift and eager with relief. "That's what I meant by it, too," he says. "Not that at all times I would command thee--but that I've always chosen thee to command. That thou wilt always be my dog when it's in thee to be a dog."

He kisses back warmly. "Aye, then, that I know and would have be so, in my very soul. Is that also what thou wouldst have of me?"

"It is--and I thought it to be true, but then--I doubted." A smaller smile. "I'll hold fast to this, and know that anything that contradicts it is said in play."

"Good man. I'm sorry I gave thee cause to doubt me -- I forget, too, that thou art new."

Szarka's managed to polish off everything in the bowl; now she's licking eagerly at the broth that's spilled over the floor, determined to consume Every Drop. Laertes can't help grinning down at her. "Am I so skilled in the arts of love already?" he teases.

"So skilled!" He laughs. "Thou art like a seasoned lothario; how could I think otherwise?"

Laertes laughs, but he does have to ask--"Art saying that in play, or in truth?"

Sagramore's expression softens a bit -- he can't help being sincere. "Thou hast learned so much and so quickly since thou camest here. Thou hast always pleased me, but thou art more skilled, more bold, more generous than thou wast to begin. I called thee my student once but thou art beyond that now, thou art a tradesman in the work of lovemaking."

"Then thou wilt be my masterwork," says Laertes, folding Sagramore's hand in his own and squeezing. "Now, please save our daughter from herself; I'll fetch a towel."

"Godspeed," bending down to scoop Szarka into his arms again. "I'd better take her out after this."

Szarka, for her part, has been all but exhausted by the immense labor of Dinner, and she tucks her chin into the crook over Sagramore's elbow and looks up at him with innocent ice-blue eyes. Her entire face is festooned with wet breadcrumbs and shreds of chicken.

Laertes, meanwhile, gathers up the bowl and sets it in the sink, then fetches a dishtowel and mops up the carnage.

"Was that good?" he asks, slightly sing-song. "Art thou surfeited? Art thou content, my love? Wouldst thou go out and see the snow with thy fathers?"

She yawns and settles in, unbothered by the suggestion; once Laertes has squared away the towel, he comes to crowd in on Sagramore's side. "Her teeth are so small," he says, hushed and wondering. "So sharp!"

"Aye, she'll chew on everything soon, if not already. Thou'lt want to keep thy boots out of her reach."

"We'll need something she can chew, then. As thou say'st--to redirect her." Laertes moves on ahead to get the door for Sagramore, holding it open so that he doesn't have to free a single finger from Szarka's tiny body.

Sagramore carries her out, nestled close; once they're outside he sets her down on the cold grass, where she sits, looking up at him expectantly.

"She can't really control her bowels at her age, and she has no training whatsoever yet, so this is really just optimism," he tells Laertes. "We'll see whether anything actually happens."

"I had wondered at our plan for that--just take her outside, and take her back in when she's finished? So that she knows that finishing will bring her back into the warmth of the house?"

"Ah, no, it's more take her outside every hour or so while she's awake and if she goes we make much of her, until she learns she wants to wait so she can be praised. I'll get the kitchen to make some kind of special treat for her for training. In the meantime-- we might lay down paper or towels or something on the floor, she won't be able to help making something of a mess."

And Laertes thinks, in a private part of him, that maybe it will do Sagramore good to have a small creature depending on him who can't help making something of a mess. Maybe it will help him to forgive himself all the times he loses control of his own body, and to see the act of cleaning up after him as one of love and care. "I'll make sure of it," is all he says, and leans down to flutter his scarf enticingly again.

Szarka growls and grabs the end of his scarf in her small jaws, shaking her head and pulling. Sagramore watches her tenderly. "Ferocious beast," he says, his voice soft.

"A terror," he agrees, and unwinds the scarf further to let her keep pulling. "We'll sleep safely, with her to guard our dreams."

"Safely, if not soundly. Christ, look at her--" His heart is overwhelmed with joy and love again, and he pulls Laertes into an embrace.

"Our little girl," says Laertes, laughing and leaning into him. "Our Szarike."

"I've taught thee the letters and sounds -- canst thou spell it?"

"Ay, I can, but I'll check with thee before I etch it on metal." Szarka gives a tiny, forceful growl--then loses her grip on the scarf and plops back onto the ground with a yip of confusion.

Sagramore grins and clicks his tongue. "What's this? What hast thou done? --I'm going to walk her up to the stable and back, tire her out a bit. If thou'rt cold thou canst stay, I swear I'll be back in time to help thee with supper."

Much as Laertes hates the idea of leaving his new daughter alone (she won't be alone, she'll be with Sagramore; she needs to get used to being safe when she's alone sometimes), he can at least put himself to some useful employment. "I'll clean our rooms while thou art with her, and put up everything that she shouldn't chew. And I'll fetch some paper to lay on the floor for her." He'd seen some long rolls of soft, pulpy paper in the room with the printing press; those will surely suffice.

"Thou art divine. Come, Szari, let's amble," with a whistle that makes her prick her ears but not much more. As he takes a step towards the stable path she looks between them uncertainly.

And oh, Laertes wants to go to her then, to gather her to his chest and to be with her in every moment, to make sure she's never alone again.

He can't. He makes himself turn away and go, returning inside to the work of making her a home.

Edited 2024-02-08 21:24 (UTC)

[Closed Post: Caught]

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