adivasheadvoices | (no subject)

(no subject)

Is it a blessing or a curse to be reunited with those who are gone?

The question has been much on Kate's mind since she returned to this place and found her Harry here, seemingly alive -- and yet, as he told her, trapped in this purgatory, unable to move forward or back. So Kate finds herself in a position no widow has ever been in: she may have the enjoyment of her dead husband again, but not the keeping of him. Should she leave this place at the end of the world, he dies to her again. And she's not sure she has the strength to lose him more than once.

They're heavy thoughts, but she can cast them off for hours at a time in Harry's bed. They only begin to creep up on her when she slips out of his room while he sleeps. (He looks too much like the dead Hotspur of her nightmares, then, still and quiet. She used to love sleeping beside him; now she prefers him awake and laughing.)

So evening in Milliways finds her in the common room, dressed again in her mourning black -- the only clothes she has here -- and splitting her attention between brooding glances at the fire and fascinated people-watching.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The world moves on after we come back from war.

Hal came home, faced other rebels, watched his wounds turn to scars, turned away old friends, grappled with a crown. But the king is dead and growing colder by the hour. Now do the wheels Hal set spinning so long ago bear him home. He is not yet coronated, but already he feels the weight of it, and already commits himself not to shake it off.

Yet there are a few tokens of himself still remaining: when he wanders through the darkened halls and emerges into Milliways, his shoulders slacken and he feels relief. He will hide a while tonight, and spend some hours among the ranks of common men, as of old. The world will know his star soon enough.

His easy stride, coupled with his height, makes him unmistakeable, and he does not think to look for familiar faces in the crowd.

And by chance, or by fate, or by some twist of both, Kate looks up from the fire to rest her eyes on the crowd.

And they land on the Prince of Wales.

Her first moment of numb shock, like being plunged into a freezing lake, passes quickly. Is it really him? If Allan A Dale can wander around this place wearing her husband's face, could not someone else wear Henry Monmouth's?

Best not to be too rash. Just rash enough. She stands abruptly and strides across the bar after him, and when she's near enough:

"Sir?"

A voice he had not thought to hear again -- nor a conversation he thought he would have to endure. He turns, shocked and, yes, more than touch uncertain. "My Lady Percy."

Her eyes narrow.

"Are you, then, he they call the Prince of Wales?"

He holds himself steady, and keeps his voice low. "But for a few hours longer."

Even noble-born ladies know how to slap, and Kate is not averse to using her nails if need be.

But for this man? No, for this man, Hotspur's wife will do one better.

Which is why she balls up her fist and lands quite a serviceable right cross on Hal's jaw.

That...

...that he did not see coming.

Though he should not be shocked, given whose widow she is.

He laughs, once, and tastes blood in his mouth. "Best that you did that now, before it is an offense before God."

Ow that hurt. She hisses, shaking out her hand -- but forgets the pain when he laughs.

"And gladly would I offend again!"

She lunges forward, aiming another blow for his stomach.

He catches her fist, but only just. "Kate--Kate!"

It just slips out. He doesn't mean to call her that.

She rocks back, and her voice rises to a shout. "How dare you!"

"Hey, hey!"

Quick as a shot, Allan appears between them. It's Kate he has to really push back; the other fellow mostly seems to be reeling and clutching his jaw.

"Is there a problem?" He shoots a suspicious look at the stranger, who's looking at him like he's seen a bloody ghost. "Is this man bothering you?"

"Let me go," Kate spits. "He killed my husband and never will he see justice! Let me go, I say!"

He holds her tighter, and leans close. "Kate, stop and think, eh? This is pretty much the definition of outside business. And fighting. Neither of which are allowed in here."

"Your pardon," stammers Hotspur's killer, "but you're not--"

"Allan A Dale, Sherwood Forest," he snaps. "You made this nice lady a widow? Really?" He turns back to Kate. "That doesn't mean you can hurt him here. Wait until you both go home."

"Where he is prince and will be king, and I am the widow of a traitor?" she says, wild and bitter. "Ha!"

"All right, fair enough. Listen, though, I'm not being funny. I think some people might be angry if you get tossed in the cells. So behave yourself, all right?" He points at this prince person. "That goes for you too."

Hal holds up his palms. "I am content to be civil," he says quietly. "For kill her husband I did, and took little joy in it, though he sought to overthrow my father's line."

"As your father overthrew Richard's, with his father's help!"

"How can I make thee recompense? I cannot change what is done."

She glares at him, breathing hard -- then finally slumps, passing a hand over her face as her shoulders fall.

"Nay, nor can any man. Such are the limits of a king's power."

Allan frowns at Hal, then sets a hand on Kate's shoulder. "I'm going to get you something."

"No." Half gingerly, Hal steps forward. "Let me." He straightens. "My Lady Percy, will you allow me to pay for a drink?"

Cold: "I do not ask for charity, your highness."

"I offer no such thing. But we were friends once, or so I believed. Allow me to offer this now in honor of that."

She gasps a little, as if struck.

"You would call on such a title now?"

Shaking her head, she shrugs Allan's hand off her shoulder. "Go to, Allan, go to. I'll not lay another finger on him."

Unblinking: "I am a shameless villain, remember. Neither of us profits from enmity."

Allan frowns, at both of them, but pointedly, perhaps, wanders off. Not that he won't be keeping an eye on them. No rest at all for the wicked in this place.

She eyes him.

"Tell truth and shame the devil, sir," she says at last, quietly. "Art shameless?"

"No. I know when to be shamed; my father well knew where to find it in me. He saw my heart vivisected before the end, and it contented him." He gestures toward a booth. "Please. Will we sit together and speak privately?"