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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"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."

"I did not give that - it only sort of happened."

Mary barely shrugs, more a twitch of her shoulder muscles than anything else.

"But it shall go on happening anyways. It will help the tree, at least. Even if it does not help you where you are."

"It still matters."

Soft and simple as she keeps Mary closer.

"And it will help the tree. And it helps me wherever I am."

Mary doesn't say anything to that, but nods, if a little grudgingly.

She's already said she will. It is not as if it is a choice she can make. She doesn't need to repeat it, she thinks.

She still does not know how much she believes about if it will help Lucy, once she's gone to the place where everything (they say) is love, and angels and harps and things. But Lucy thinks it now, and Lucy is stubborn, and Mary is stubborn too but she is also tired.

And Lucy, she feels, will keep saying it regardless.

Mary is, perhaps, right.

"Is there aught I could do to make it any better, Mary?"

Mary takes the time to think about it, even though she already knows the answer.

She's going, still. That is the only thing, and they both know it.

"No," she says. "I do not think there is."

They both know it.

"I'm sorry," she says again, just a whisper, and rests her cheek on Mary's hair, watches how her own hair falls and brushes against Mary's.

"Would you let me give what I may?"

Mary will never accept anything blindly.

Not even from Lucy, not even now.

"What would you like to give?"

"My love. My promise that if you need me I'll come."

She breathes for a minute.

"The things I own that are dearest to me and you'd take.."

"I already have the first two," Mary says, reasonably enough. "I could not give them back - and I would not."

She frowns. "What is it that you own that you wish me to have?"

They've already been over the tree.

"My cordial," she says after a moment. "My knife. A dragon."

It's her will, in a way.

"I don't know beyond that. I'd need to think on it more."