Refried Scenes

It's been nearly ten years now since they settled, and, just as he does every morning, Athyr rolls out of bed and pulls on a pair of pants, yawning. He used to have bad dreams, back in the day, but by now those have passed away, along with many of the fine details of his old life. He grabs a shirt and pokes out to the kitchen, looking around warily for Clarissant--sometimes she comes downstairs unexpectedly to put the fear of God into them, and it still makes him paranoid.

The kitchen is empty, so he starts to look for the breakfast things, abandoning his shirt on the chair he always takes. He still isn't allowed to cook, but he never gets up much earlier than Mordred, and he might as well get things ready. Besides, Mordred's been more restless lately, and it's making Athyr nervous in a way he can't quite get a handle on.

Part of him is wondering if they're going to be on the move again, and he's not sure how he feels about that. He's not sure at all.

Most days it feels as though there are no reasons to be happy any more. Arthur is in France at war with Lancelot, and Guenever has no tasks; a fair number of the servants don't heed her requests any more, as though she were a prisoner in the castle for whom no accommodations should be made.

All her work from before, the few charitable enterprises it was her duty as Queen to oversee, the groups of noble ladies to be entertained in embroidery circles in her rooms--all that is gone. It's either sit in her room alone or go to the rose garden Arthur gave her for a wedding gift. The groundsmen no longer maintain it for her, so she's taken to tending it herself, stooping and kneeling to pull the weeds, cutting off the dead rosebuds with a little knife, bringing jugs of water from the kitchenyard to water the rose-trees. It's more work than she's ever done before in her life, and it hurts her hands and her knees, but at least it keeps her busy.

It's something to do besides think--about Arthur, about whether he's safe, about Lancelot, about Gawain's family (sometimes she thinks she might as well have murdered them herself), about her sister--about how this war is her fault, and everyone who dies is on her head--

She cuts herself with the knife, carelessly, and startles, straightening up to suck at the finger, her mouth full of the iron taste of blood.

Bread is rising on the board and beans are slowly turning somersaults in the heat currents of their simmering pot. Clarrisant has swept the floor, scrubbed down the table, done the dishes from the last stage of cooking, and is now standing in the center of her kitchen floor, barefoot and bareheaded, hands on her hips, considering whether or not to sit down and be quite for the while until the dough doubles its bulk.

Childermass, it must be said, is not in the best of moods.

He was a clever man, and a patient one, and most problems eventually yielded to the combination of attributes eventually. Beyond this, he knew as much about magic (on paper and in observation) as any man in England. Which may, in fact, have been the problem. When he became stuck, there was no one else to consult. And now that John Uskglass was returning, there was the possibility for real magic in England again.

Deciding if he was going to be crossing networks in and out of worlds, back and forth between them, he needed some form of protection, Childermass had decided on a basic protection and recall charm. It was not, it must be noted, going as he'd planned. So he'd decided to take a walk.

He's not heading anywhere in particular, and he's fingering a silver watch fob idly as he goes. Perhaps it was the silver that was the problem. Conducting where it should dampen, or the opposite. Or perhaps... He shakes his head absently, lost in thought as he walks.

Linden has his dangerous moments, for all as bland as he makes himself as part of Morgause's household. Moreover it hasn't escaped Morgause's knowledge that someone has been tampering with of her children--somehow it never does--and Linden manages, through one method or another, to find out where Magda has gone.

Whereupon he promptly sends out a small missive, addressed in his extraordinarily beautiful script, requesting that one Sir Martel be good enough to return Magdalen Kohlrabi to her mother's house immediately (he doesn't bother to mention that he is her father; it is, in his opinion, not a particularly relevant fact).

Since their marriage, late in the winter, Agravain has begun to be distant. He's often away, either in border skirmishes with his brothers for Arthur, or just wandering into the woods and camping there pointlessly for days at a time. Once he even went on a quest that lasted considerably longer than it was supposed to.

It's bordering on summer when he returns this time, having sent no word ahead. He gets off his horse in the courtyard of their small estate--a gift from Gawain when he learned about the wedding--without alerting any of the three or four servants, then unloads the horse and curries her, stables her, and comes into the front hall, stripping off his shirt as he goes in mopping sweat off his face.

There is a large, thick scab wrought across his shoulder, and the chain mail in the bundle under his arm is torn where the spear pierced it.

Linden is used to his position in Morgause's household; that he's still a servant, no matter what, and not a lover, and he makes no imposition. He attends her in his reserved way, and when he isn't needed he reads in his room, reads and sometimes prays.

The room is spare: his bed, his bookcase, and a tall cage of birds, little else. He sleeps badly, so the means to distract himself as night is vitally important.

During the day, he has other duties to take up his time. He's finally finished speaking with Hero in the kitchen on the subject of supper and laundry, and now he's off to discuss the arbour with the gardener.

Laurel's father, almost to Agravain's surprise, gives his consent for the marriage. Agravain himself has been pursuing this whole business doggedly for the last two weeks, earnestly and gruffly; he isn't a man for endearments or compliments, but these outdoor convoys are the closest thing to freedom he gets while in the society of others, and that keeps his temper easy during the journey. Laurel likes riding and hawking and the dog he insisted on bringing with him, she knows how to rub down a horse, and she wears plain clothes and isn't too pretty, so he doesn't have to worry about her getting offers or attention from other men, she's likely to accept him even if he is homely and blunt. As far as he's concerned now, she'll make a perfectly good wife. More to the point, since she hardly lets him kiss her now, he's learning a kind of anticipation for the wedding night.

And, eventually, the journey ends; her father is an elderly, ill knight with very poor lands to offer for a dowry, and he accepts Agravain's proposal immediately. Rather than waiting to ride back to Camelot, he even offers to host the wedding at his small estate, and calls in a priest.

It happens quickly enough. Agravain borrows some of her father's clothes since none of his are suitable for such an occasion, and her father plies him with ale ahead of time, as if he were afraid Agravain needed the liquid courage to get through the ceremony. The priest is brief and to the point, concluding early so he can make the ride back to his church before it gets dark. The feast is less brief, although equally last-minute and threadbare, but there's more ale and Agravain's dog gets free roam through the hall. He's more than pleased.

Laurel had never been to Camelot before.  Though her temperament didn't lend itself to staring, she couldn't help admiring such a shining place.  Of course, she didn't know a soul other than her servant and her cousins, and they were both more than busy.  Still, these things had a ceremony to them, and Laurel let herself get lost in the shuffle of preparation.

Now that the day itself has arrived, however, she's finding that after the ceremony, there's not much to do.  She's danced the requisite dances, but is rather aware of her relatively plain dress and her less than courtly training.  Still, Lyonors looked gorgeous, and even Lynet seemed happy in her own spiky way.  Laurel does her best to just relax and enjoy the feasting.

Sagramore is not, and has never been, fond of making good choices, and it's bearing that in mind that may explain that fact that he's been nearly impossible to find for the last few weeks. When he does return to Camelot, it's looking somewhat the worse for wear, but extraordinarily pleased with himself. He is also dressed in a reasonable approximation of full Hungarian court dress, and his horse is carrying three or four packs more than usual when he gets down at the stable and starts to unload her.