called_lioness | (no subject)

(no subject)

The hike to the castle is easy enough. It would likely have taken less time if Mary hadn’t been curious and wanted to stop and look at some of the older trees.

But that’s what holidays are about, really.

The plan is to ride to Port Caynn tomorrow and swim in the sea before spending the night at an inn of…slightly dubious reputation. (Alanna assures her it’s safe now. Lucy makes a note not to mention any former smugglers to Archibald Craven.)

But tonight is for camping, and as the evening approaching Lucy heads out to stroke her borrowed mare’s neck and make sure the supplies are all ready.

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Mary thinks about this a moment, barely noticing the handkerchief rubbing away at her face.

"That is still not fair," she says, eventually. "Because you will be able to see me - and I shall not be able to see you."

"Life isn't fair, Mary. And God's not, either. Not really. He's just perfectly good. That's not the same thing as fair."

That's a tired whisper as she rests her cheek on Mary's hair.

"Part of me will still be with you, though. Even if you can't see me. I'll be there. I promise."

It's still not enough.

And that's life, too; it's never enough.

"But if you are I won't know it."

She pulls back, looking at Lucy in order to try to get across her seriousness - Lucy being there is something, even if it's not enough, but if she doesn't know how can it be anything?

"How can I know?"

Faith, she wants to say, and for Lucy that's enough.

But this is for Mary, and Lucy cradles her a bit more carefully as she thinks.

"Do you love me, Mary?"

"Yes."

It's flat - a statement of fact. Right now, Mary isn't sure it's something she's happy about.

"I think it's like love, a little. You can't see it and it's just something you know, without proof."

Her fingers are drifting over Mary's hair, slowly, and Lucy's silent as she looks at the trees over her head, green eyes shutting once and she listens to something far away and deep within.

"The tree isn't just a tree," she says softly. "It's my gift for you. It's a piece of me. It's my sweetest dream, and the part of me that's most me. While you have it, you have me. You know I'm watching while the tree is alive. I love you as dearly as I could any girl. I can't give you blood, and I can't give you my body. But I'll give you my dream and that piece of myself and my being."

The handkerchief is set down on one knee, next to Mary, before she goes back to stroking her hair.

Mary listens; and says, again, after a moment, "I am not going to let it die."

It's what she said before. But it's different - fiercer, for a start.

It's really all that needs to be said.

"And I will never stop watching or loving you," she says back.

It's a quiet and simple fact.

"Your uncle--if he was right and I should not have spoken with you so, if I've no right to your love, then I ask your forgiveness, Mary. But you bless me so. And I can give you those two things in return for the blessing loving you is for me."

"My uncle?"

Mary shakes her head, almost immediately - she's growing fonder of her uncle (or at least, more used to him) but she's used to thinking of him as wrong, always, on this sort of thing.

"My uncle does not know much about love. He is very bad at it. He only did it once before - and I think he wished he had not and did not care.

"But it is worse to not care. I know that. Even if it hurts to. And it does hurt very much now."

She says it all in the same flat, honest tone. This is how it is.

"I know."

There's a soft kiss to Mary's hair again before she adds, "I hurt too.

"But it will get better. It will."

"I do not know," Mary mutters, quietly.

She doesn't. And Mary has never been very good with faith.

"I do. And I promise. It won't be perfect, perhaps. I don't know that. But it will be better. And I'll be waiting for you. For as long as I have to."

"You could hardly go anywhere else after -"

She stops, and then stares at Lucy, suddenly and accusingly.

"Could you?"

Once was bad enough. Twice - who knows how many places there are?

Lucy's silent for a minute.

There are more things on heaven and earth, they say, and dreams, they speak of, and sometimes it gets so mixed up she doesn't know which is which.

It's hard to think and put everything Lucy is musing on and contemplating and being into words.

And it's Mary, so she has to.

"I think I could come back," she whispers after a minute. "But it would hurt. And it would be for need only, and I couldn't stay. If you needed me I would."

Lucy's silent for a minute.

There are more things on heaven and earth, they say, and dreams, they speak of, and sometimes it gets so mixed up she doesn't know which is which.

It's hard to think and put everything Lucy is musing on and contemplating and being into words.

And it's Mary, so she has to.

"I think I could come back," she whispers after a minute. "But it would hurt. And it would be for need only, and I couldn't stay. If you needed me I would."

Mary stiffens, and stares down at her knees.

She wants to say she would not ask Lucy to do something that should hurt her, but she knows it is not true. She will not say something that is not true.

(And there's a small warmth inside her that wasn't there before, too - she would come back. She would.)

"I do not want you to hurt," she says, finally - which is true. "I should not ask - not unless I really really needed it. But I do not think I should. I am good at taking care of things on my own.

"But - but it is good to know."

Lucy presses her lips to Mary's temple, silently.

"If you need me," she repeats and it's all she can give. "Ask if you need it. And I'll know."

Gabriel Tam made her promise to ask him if he needed help.

Everyone tells Mary to ask if she needs help. Everyone tells her not to try to do things on her own.

It's usually harder to promise than this.

"I will."

"Good," and that's fiercer when she whispers it than she means it to be.

It's that way for a reason, though.

"I love you so, Mary."

And that just aches.

Mary's voice is a whisper too, though a matter-of-fact one; the only other option is a shout.

"I love you, Lucy."

Lucy's the one crying now, silently, as she pulls Mary close.

She wants it different.

She wants to be alive. She wants Mary to be family, to be sister or niece (or daughter, and she's tried so hard to never think that) and to be able to keep Mary with her always. She wants to not go back to the bar, and she wants to stay forever in it, and she wants to leave now.

And mostly she wants it different.

And want's never changed anything.

(And with the want is guilt; what right did she ever have to Mary Lennox's love?)

"Thank you," is what she whispers through her tears, and, "I'm sorry," she whispers too and loves with all she is.

"I do not know why you are thanking me," Mary says, and though she's talking into Lucy's shirt it's as clear as is possible, under the circumstances.

"I have not done anything."

It is not as if loving Lucy is something she can help, by now.

"Because," and her voice is as steady as she can make it, "you give me more than you know."

For what feels like the fiftieth, the hundredth time already, even in such a short time, Mary reminds her, "You are leaving.

"I do not know what I have given you that you may take with you."

"Your love." That's just whispered. "It's all I could want."