Another return

[hardlyagravated]

She is dirty: smudges on her face, clumps in her half-loose hair. Her clothes are mainly rags, still blood stained on the side where she was wounded. Her shoes are gone, somewhere or other. But the most marked change is in her expression. There is something hard there, that wasn't before. Something truly broken, though covered with calm

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[le_desirous]

Sagramore is sober, but he looks thinner and wearier than ever, the relative health he won himself during his month away evidently overruled by the quick successive losses of Helen and Laurel, and Molly's trauma at Caliban's hands. His face is shadowed, his eyes bruised, and he's losing weight again.

All the same, when he sees her, he runs. He catches her in his arms without even thinking and pulls her close, burying his face in her shoulder. "Aranysziv!"

[hardlyagravated]

She rocks with his impact, and he can feel she's gotten a bit thin. But then, that happened even before the murder. Still, there's strength enough in her arms as she returns the embrace, quiet for now, though he can't help but feel some of the affection in it.

[le_desirous]

"Oh, Jesu, you're back. Oh, Lady." His hands grasp at her shoulders in that feeling way, making sure she's there and solid.

[hardlyagravated]

"Aye, aye." She touches his hair, light but reassuring. "Will-I, nil-I, I am that."

[agravaiting]

Agravain has not, since she died, much lived anywhere except the mews. He has no idea what he's feeling, he doesn't understand it and he doesn't like it, but there's nothing really to be done about it. At least there's no excuse to be indoors at all. He sleeps in the stables in general and spends most of his days with the birds, taking a certain vicarious pleasure in watching them swing in the air and dive into rabbits and wild wood birds, tearing into them with both clawed feet. It helps a little. His family has hardly seen him: he hasn't been back to the cottage since he buried Laurel.

With that in mind, Laurel won't find him in the room, only the bed a nest of covers that haven't been slept in for more than a week. If she ventures out to the mews, however, he's there, with a merlin on his fist, straw in his hair, and three days' worth of beard.

[hardlyagravated]

When Laurel doesn't find him in their rooms, she takes the time to clean herself up and change clothes. There's a scar, she notes, where her death wound was, but it's healed fully now.

She knows her husband well enough to head out to the mews once she looks a bit more human. Though her expression is still as it was, calm covering something broken and still breaking.

[agravaiting]

He's muttering to the bird, in a low and thoughtful tone, his shoulders hunched against the slight cool in the air. His face is haggard in a way it's never been (he doesn't understand mourning, he doesn't know how to mourn, and it's like a small cut that's been badly treated and become large and dangerous to the body).

[hardlyagravated]

"My lord," she says softly, standing in the doorway but not coming in all the way. It's almost a question, the way she says it.