timebethine

Open Post: Stargazing

Sat, 30 May 2026 21:14:00 GMT

The telescope stubbornly remains broken, despite Laertes's game attempts to repair it; still, though, the many windows of the observatory offer both shelter from the wind and an unmatched view of the night sky. Having seen the calendar's forecast of falling stars, he's gathered up blankets and sleeping bags and made a cozy little nest at the top of the tower so that he and those he loves can observe the meteor shower.

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[Open Post: Research]

Sun, 30 Nov 2025 23:33:43 GMT

Laertes has found himself restless once again. Despite his best efforts, he's unable to settle himself on a task, whether that task is digging out the cellar drain or helping Gaheris to build his boat or working in the garden. He's practiced his swordplay, whirled Claudius into a dance or six, gone swimming in the lake and the ocean, run Szarka through the woods with Sagramore until all three of them are panting--and still that itch remains. It's not only his body that yearns for activity; his mind wants for fresh stimulation. He wants to fall in love with a novel or learn how far back history goes, make a fresh stab at calculus or unfold the mathematics of music. He wants knowledge, that drug headier than any liquor.

So it is that he finds himself browsing through the books in the library, trailing his hand along the spines as he skims the titles. Surely one of them will fix its hook in his heart, and then yank him shuddering into the rarefied air.

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[Closed Post: Mortar and Grout]

Sun, 09 Nov 2025 01:24:26 GMT

Laertes and Sagramore had idly mused about tiling the bathtub a few weeks ago, and in most cases, their idle musings are forgotten without fanfare when some new project comes along. But the next time they'd bathed together, Laertes had remembered the proposal again--and later, when he went to fetch some tools for Lancelot, he'd come across all of their unused tiles sitting in (slightly dusty) stacks in the workshop.

He'd loaded up a wheelbarrow with tiles, mortar, and grout, and then he'd promptly forgotten them at the mansion for another week.

Then one day, while washing Sunny's hair, he'd thought to himself how nice it would be for her to bathe on a gentler surface than the hard concrete--and that had reminded him again of the loaded wheelbarrow.

So it is that, on a hot early-summer day, Laertes sits in the bone-dry bathtub in only a pair of shorts, smearing all-set mortar all over the floor and walls while Sagramore chooses between the tiles. Many of these are flawed in some way, unbeautifully glazed or warped or broken, but there may yet be enough salvageable tiles to see them through the project.

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[Open Post: Soil]

Fri, 22 Aug 2025 15:57:59 GMT

This spring, Laertes vows, he'll get the garden started early. He's checked his book to see which of their plants will grow back again, and which will need to be replanted--the latter is most of them; the tomatoes and beans and squash and greens and potatoes are all annuals, and although the onions and garlic are perennials, he'll still need to break the garlic bulbs apart and press them back into the earth.

Today, Laertes is moving down the garden rows with a wheelbarrow, pulling up last year's plants and breaking up the soil with a hoe. The light physical exertion feels good, in the fresh spring breeze, and he thinks that he might swim in the lake afterward to wash off the dirt in its clear, crisp water.

[The thread with Sagramore includes sexually explicit content and consensual feigned assault.]

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[Closed Post: Quickie]

Sat, 05 Jul 2025 02:05:53 GMT

Laertes tugs Sagramore through what must've been meant to be a butler's door--a narrow door that blends nigh-seamlessly into the wall paneling, leading to a hallway lined with wine racks. The moment they've shut the door behind him, his hands are already under Sagramore's mesh shirt. "I never tire of tasting thee," he says, and kisses Sagramore's throat.

[This thread will contain explicit sexual content.]

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[Open Post: Swordplay]

Fri, 25 Apr 2025 15:48:00 GMT

Over the long, luxurious summer, it had felt as though Laertes was at last coming into the body he was always meant to have--swimming whenever he wished, hauling wood and stone for building, crossing blades with Sagramore and Lancelot and wrestling with anyone who'd fight him. He's grown strong and sure, deft with his hands and implacable in his guard. His skin is still thickly scattered with freckles, his hair still burnt golden at the edges where the sun has touched it.

But the recent snows have put an end to his exertions. With the snow laid thickly on the ground, Laertes hasn't been able to practice with a blade outdoors, and there's no room for it in the cottage. Thus, he's returned to his old haunt in the practice room at the mansion, where he's cycling through attacks and guards in sweatpants and a tank top. The rapier he wields is a blunted blade, its balance slightly different from that of his own, and he's still working out how it answers to each cut and thrust.

[The threads with Grantaire and Claudius contain explicit sexual content and may contain elements of violence and consent play.]

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[Open Post: Insulation]

Thu, 05 Dec 2024 20:08:27 GMT

As the summer rolls inevitably toward autumn--as the days grow short, and the morning breeze off the lake now and then has the faintest bite--Laertes's thoughts turn toward the practical problem of winter. Their walls keep out rain and wind well, but Laertes knows that the long winter and the heartstopping chill of Dark will be more than he can bear.

So it is that he's set up a sawhorse, dozens of planed boards, and a huge stack of straw. He nails the boards into place over the exposed studs of the interior, then drops the straw into the gap between interior and exterior walls. Come winter, that straw will keep his little family snug as dormice.

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[Closed Post: Let Him Ply His Music]

Sun, 13 Oct 2024 22:12:19 GMT

Laertes has spent all morning in the garden with Sagramore and Sunny, getting the last of the tomatoes and peppers settled in the earth. It's a bit late in the year--they really ought to have begun planting in spring--but he has faith that the long summer and the advent of Rainbows will have them fruiting by fall. (And whatever the turning seasons can't do on their own, perhaps Magnus will speed along with Frey's gifts.)

Now, the dirt washed off of his hands, he sits on a sunny rock overlooking the lake and carefully retunes his viol. The instinct for when a note sounds wrong hasn't yet deserted him, but he's lost the knack of finding the right note. A gentle turn of the peg, and then a pluck. A gentler turn in the other direction, then a pluck. A series of notes as the peg turns incrementally, wavering ever so gradually from sharp to flat.

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[Open Post: The Comfort of This House]

Sat, 15 Jun 2024 01:27:02 GMT

Where once there was only a mossy clearing surrounded by highbush blueberries, the frame of a building now stands.

Over the last couple of weeks, Laertes and Sagramore have been working tirelessly (if not particularly methodically) to build their cabin. In the course of their planning, the project has grown in scope; there's a concrete foundation, and a deep hole dug for an adjoining cellar. The frame of the building has the suggestion of a loft now, and three rooms, and optimistic frames waiting for windows; however, Laertes's experiments in making glass have, to put it mildly, been unsuccessful. A chimney rises on one side of the house, waiting for a wall to join it.

It's a strange, hopeful thing--how the frame of the house bears up against the brisk spring wind, and stands. How it holds Laertes's weight when he climbs up on the crosswise boards to sit on the top plate and start nailing down rafters. There's hope in the rhythmic sound of Sagramore splitting logs to make shakes to cover their roof, and hope in the smell of fresh-cut wood, and hope in the hammer and the saw.

Everything hasn't ended, with Shen Yuan's death. There is still something left to make, and to build, and to do.

[Several threads contain explicit sexual content.]

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[Open Post: At the Refrigerator]

Thu, 18 Apr 2024 13:12:34 GMT

On the morning when Dark ends and Winter resumes, Laertes slips out of bed early, drags a coat on over a tank top and sweats, and creeps downstairs with Szarka at his heels. Once she's had her morning walk, once his boots are shedding slush onto the mat beside the door, Laertes pads at last into the kitchen.

Anxiety is a knot in his gut. He's told himself over and over again to expect nothing--he's told himself that the house will need time to awaken from its slumber, like snowdrops pushing slowly through the last frost of winter. Those green shoots sometimes wait for days, buds folded in anticipation, until at last they shake out their wild white bells.

He grips the handle of the refrigerator door, and swings it open.

At first, the refrigerator's bareness makes his heart sink. He's all too familiar with the sight of mostly-empty tubs of mayonnaise and mustard and tiny packets of soy sauce rubber-banded together. It seems as though the metaphorical pall of frost still lies heavy over the land.

But then he notices, tucked away at the back of the middle shelf, a paper carton of extra-large eggs and a waxed paper package of bacon. As his eyes trail down, he sees that there's a fresh glass bottle of milk and another of orange juice on the lowest shelf on the refrigerator door.

Relief courses through him.

The mansion is back in business.

[The thread with Sagramore and Claudius contains explicit content.]

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[Closed Post: New Moons]

Thu, 04 Apr 2024 00:22:08 GMT

As night has fallen, the greenhouse warmth of the observatory at the top of the tower has faded. Laertes is wearing both a sweater and a coat in concession to the evening's chill, and even so, he's looking forward to curling up with Sagramore in a single shared sleeping bag.

He takes a sip from his thermos. Claudius had prepared him a few sachets of herbs to brew into tea, and they've been helping with the cravings for coffee. This one is peppermint and chamomile laced with the barest splash of rum for sweetness, and it sends a calming warmth all through him.

He passes the thermos to Sagramore, then tips his head back to look at the endless field of stars. With the mansion's lights dim in the distance below them, Kumaras and Asvinau dark against a deep blue-blackness, the stars light thick and bright as a river of diamonds.

[This thread contains explicit content]

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[Closed Post: Be You and I Behind an Arras Then]

Tue, 26 Mar 2024 17:37:18 GMT

The moment draws nigh. Laertes will soon speak to Aornis in the library. All is in readiness--Asmodean long since in place, invisibly veiled in saidin; SecUnit's drone watching from its customary vantage.

In the game room, SecUnit, Claudius, Sagramore, and Nightingale gather around the grainy CRT television, watching the drama unfold ...

[This post is for live reactions from the war room! Participation in this thread is totally optional.]

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[Semi-Closed Post: Aornis Is a Real Headache]

Tue, 19 Mar 2024 17:46:32 GMT

Somewhere around midnight, a migraine descended on Laertes like a thunderhead, and he still hasn't come out from beneath its anvil. He's spent most of the day hiding in bed with the curtains drawn, feeling as though he's about to be sick--and that feeling's only grown worse as the sun has drifted sluggishly to a low apex in the sky.

It isn't until mid-afternoon that he feels well enough to make progress on all his plans. He needs to speak to SecUnit about its drones, to Dionysus about whether Avernus (that is her name, isn't it?) is a goddess, and to Nightingale about whether he can offer magical support in case their confrontation goes sour. He needs to talk with Claudius about what to say when he does speak to her.

So it is that he starts making his rounds through the mansion and its grounds, seeking out friends old and new, clinging grimly to the thermos of coffee that smells sickeningly strong but also helps drive back the pain. His face is wan, his eyes shadowed. He would rather be doing anything but this.

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[Closed Post: Breaking Bread]

Sat, 24 Feb 2024 22:21:51 GMT

The feeling of being burnt to a cinder that had lingered after Wanderers Gather has finally begun to recede; the burden (and the joy) of raising Szarka has more or less evened out, and Laertes is no longer deeply anxious about whether he's loving her too much or disciplining her not enough. He's found time to get through his book on electrical engineering and even made a few gentle sorties with a soldering iron, which has exercised parts of his brain that have felt rusted with disuse.

At long last, Laertes feels able to bake again without dread rising in his throat.

He's made a few loaves of the rich, brown bran bread that he and Sagramore use for Szarka's meals, but one last loaf, he's put into a basket with a little crock of butter and a jar of jam. These, he carries to Lancelot's room as evening draws down. For all he thinks they understand one another now, a part of him still tingles with anxiety as he raises his hand to knock on the door.

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[Closed Post: Stairs and Gates]

Tue, 20 Feb 2024 19:07:18 GMT

Laertes has at last managed to finish building the set of stairs and the adjustable gates for Szarka. The gates were complex, requiring him to measure and drill precisely so that the locking mechanism could hold them steady in the doorframe. The stairs, on the other hand, were simple, and he's taken the time to sand them smooth so that Szarka won't get splinters in her paws.

Now, if only she wanted to climb them.

He pats both knees again. "Up, Szarike, up!" She glances at the stairs, full of doubt and misgivings, then turns her gaze up at Laertes atop the bed and whines. Then, with a great leap and a scramble, she heaves herself onto the bed and ignores the stairs completely.

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[Closed Post: Caught]

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 16:31:07 GMT

Laertes is in love. He's in love, and he's carrying his whole heart tucked into his coat, held close against his chest. The pup wriggles and squirms and makes little noises that to Laertes's ears are more curious and interested than distressed. "Soon, pet," says Laertes softly as he undoes the lock on the door to his and Sagramore's rooms. Then, louder: "Sagramore! I've brought a friend for thee!"

And he pulls the tiny puppy out of his coat. It blinks ice-blue eyes at Sagramore, then gives an amiable bark.

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[Open Post: Dog Catcher]

Mon, 05 Feb 2024 14:35:47 GMT

Laertes is bundled up in a slate-grey peacoat and a bright red scarf, tromping across the grounds on a mission. He's still rattled by the day when he woke up next to Asmodean in Sagramore's body, and if he's rattled, then certainly Sagramore is doing worse. There are some comforts that not even a husband can offer, no matter how small and sweet he makes himself or how well he wears a collar.

Thus, Laertes has set himself a task. It should not be impossible--after all, Magnus and Galahad found Drosera in a shed, and they weren't even looking for her. He dutifully pokes through all of the sheds by the orchard, but all he finds are piles of dusty boxes and a truly absurd number of slim wheeled vehicles. Undeterred, he continues the search for new outbuildings, on the hypothesis that they might spring up after a mischief like mushrooms after a rain.

He is fully determined to find Sagramore a dog.

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[Closed Post: Cinnamon Roll]

Sun, 28 Jan 2024 01:17:57 GMT

A few days' recovery have left Laertes feeling refreshed enough to return to his baking, although not quite ready to dive into anything particularly complicated. Thus, he abandons the more complex direktørsnegl recipe he'd been meaning to try in favor of perfecting the humble cinnamon roll.

The days are getting shorter--even Laertes can feel it, though his sense of time is poor. He can no longer rely on the sunrise to wake him at a decent hour for baking, and so today he's up a little before the sun, kneading the bready dough by hand rather than using the paddle of the stand mixer in the hopes that the physical exertion will wake him up a little. It's not working particularly well; his eyelids keep drooping.

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[Closed Post: Unmade]

Wed, 24 Jan 2024 13:38:12 GMT

Laertes's first cups all shattered in the kiln. He isn't sure what went wrong--whether it was a flaw in the clay or the glaze or the construction of the kiln itself, or whether he failed to tend the fire as he should've. That failure had thrown him into a deep, black melancholic slump, which he'd had to admit at the end of it was at least nine tenths exhaustion.

Accordingly, he's spent the last few days cultivating indolence. He's done no cooking, no work with clay, no difficult reading; he's left his rapier in its scabbard. When the sun rises at about eight in the morning, he only nestles further into the warmth of Sagramore's arms and lets himself sleep through it.

By the third day, though, restlessness has overtaken him again. He hauls all the cookbooks he's been studying for Wanderers Gather down to the kitchen, where he shelves them on the windowsill next to the sink. Then he takes all the dishes from their rooms and washes them in hot water--then he scrubs and dusts every surface, puts away every book and paper and half-finished project, washes every loose piece of clothing and hangs them all up to dry on the shower curtain rod. By the time he's finished, the rooms he shares with Sagramore are sparkling, and Laertes feels more human than he has in days.

[Note: This thread will include explicit, rough sexual content.]

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[Closed Post: A Fallen Leaf]

Wed, 17 Jan 2024 14:10:07 GMT

Laertes doesn't do anything unusual after he encounters the fallen sheet of paper. He goes about his business; he shapes coil pots, he takes lunch with Sagramore, he does fencing drills until he's sweating and sore. All the while, his copy of the paper feels heavy and mordant, boring a hole through his clothes to burn his skin.

He has a date with Claudius to run through a few chemical experiments, and thus, he can be found waiting in their alchemy laboratory with his eyes trained on the door.

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[Closed Post: En Garde]

Wed, 03 Jan 2024 23:49:10 GMT

Just as Laertes has developed his own routine here--the regular rounds of breakfasts and dinners do much to give shape to his otherwise formless days--he's observed others' routines. Lancelot, for one, always trains at the same time every morning. At times, as he's shuttled back and forth between the clay bed by the lakeside and his kiln, Laertes has ridden Fenyes past the training yard while Lancelot has been practicing, and he'd reviewed the other man's swordplay with a critical eye. Watching him wheel and thrust in the cool grey light of morning, a part of him has craved the challenge of a second duel.

Today, he sates that craving. He strolls up on Lancelot with a thin, sheathed blade in one hand and his rapier buckled at his waist. "Hallo," he calls. "Wouldst thou like to try a rapier?"

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[Closed Post: A Pit of Clay]

Mon, 04 Dec 2023 18:06:06 GMT

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.

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[Closed Post: International Affairs]

Thu, 30 Nov 2023 14:56:49 GMT

Laertes has made an effort at tidying his and Sagramore's rooms--the empty or half-empty cups and mugs have been washed and stowed in the kitchen, the books and their associated notes have all been safely shelved, and the shed clothes have all been laundered and put away. There's a vase with some of the last dwarf sunflowers from the gardens set out on the table, sparks of yellow set off by elegant cardinal flowers and bushy orange chrysanthemums.

They've planned this moment for weeks, and still Laertes's nerves sing with anxiety. His heart hammers, iron on iron; he pauses now and then to rearrange the flowers, to adjust a pillow to a more inviting angle. He pours himself a little glass of sweet elderflower cordial and sips it to calm his nerves.

Claudius has been charming Sagramore in one of the bars, getting him relaxed and easy while Laertes has prepared for their tryst. Everything is now in readiness, except Laertes himself.

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[Interlude: Sustenance]

Tue, 28 Nov 2023 21:01:56 GMT

There is a basket set at Lancelot's door, with a Danish breakfast bounty in it: dense, fresh-baked rye bread, smoky Rygeost and creamy Danbo cheeses in waxed paper, sliced sausage and pickled beets, a jar of soft white butter, a spray of dill. In a smaller package, there are a few rolls of sweet walnut and raisin rugelach, with a bottle of lush red wine to finish out the gift.

Amidst this bounty is tucked a note:

My dear Sir Lancelot,

I have used thee ill in defense of Galahad, for which I beg thy pardon. His words have satisfied me that the strife between you was a much-regretted error, and that he is as willing to forgive as thou art to be forgiven.

For the offense I did thee, I crave the same forgiveness. In my haste to protect one friend, I did another much injury, and I regret it sorely. I hope we may start again as friends.

Yours in hope,

Laertes.

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[Interlude: Apple, Butter, Knife]

Sat, 25 Nov 2023 03:22:11 GMT

Laertes is enjoying a slice of perfect, caramel-drenched tarte tatin with vanilla ice cream--he's never had ice cream before, but the sweet creaminess perfectly complements the lingering tartness of the apples, and he's can already feel a new obsession brewing.

He'd spent hours with Galahad, and nothing had gone horribly wrong. He'd learned a few dozen signs, they'd made a delicious dessert together, and they'd parted ways as friends. The calamity he'd dreaded had not come to pass. A part of him worries at that little triumph as though it's a scab, trying to see if he can make it hurt by pressing on it: what if it all goes wrong next time? How can he be sure that this wasn't a fluke?

No, he thinks. I did something different this time. I didn't try to fix him, as though he must come to me whole or not come to me at all. I let him lead me toward what brought him joy, and he went their happily without my prompting.

He thinks back on that grey day when he'd been sure he'd ruined everything, when he'd stepped into the water to be alone with his thoughts and instead half a dozen people had found him. He hadn't wanted any of them to fix him, or even to acknowledge his melancholy. He had been most grateful to those who had given him the grace of quiet company.

He thinks of Galahad, silent, warm in his arms. A comfort that needed no speech.

His father had always handed down precepts as a way of showing love, as though there was no greater service than solving other people's problems for them. As though, once Polonius had told them how to mend their woes, continuing to have woes was a failure to reciprocate that love.

Maybe Laertes can love in a different way.

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