( blood has dried into his hair; run in rivulets down between his fingers. his shirt was white, once, and presently it is—not. kneeling on the beach in salt water and blood that wasn't his, he had drawn himself a path to next friendliest door he might find, but he is still surprised, a little, when he reaches her gate and sees her profile through the window.
fair, he supposes. she will probably be surprised to see the reverend mr roy at her step, swaying as he is, his own half-hearted attempts to bandage wounds that look older than they really are keeping him upright. he doesn't look much the civilized presbytarian minister that had met the hamiltons on several occasions when visiting england, always mild in soft scots burr. kind-eyed.
there is something implacable about him, now, though when he raises his fist to knock (the shock of it reverberates back through him, and he regrets it so fiercely he knocks only once) he composes himself to the point where that, in fact, is the more unusually striking sight. that he should look so much as he did, underneath the blood and the sweat and the cold anger coiled up and put away. )
Lady Hamilton, this is—a surprise.
( hell of one, if wherever he's come from to find her he hasn't collected her new name on his way. )
[She hasn't the faintest idea who to expect at this hour; the sun's nearly set, her supper eaten, and she's spent an idle hour with a well-thumbed collection of Suckling's poems. One of the more hospitable neighbors, perhaps, in need of a favor. It isn't the night she generally gives music lessons to the children from across the way. Even one of the less hospitable neighbors, driven by duty or curiosity or necessity, seems possible. It wouldn't be James, of course--he would let himself in.
The face she finds at the threshold is bloodied enough that she thinks it might be one of the men of the Walrus--but James isn't along behind. This is a man alone, one who becomes familiar in an instant when she hears his voice. One hand flies to her mouth.]
Mister Roy!
[Dear God, what's brought you here? is lurking there in her voice, in the worried set of her brow. She's pulling him in, getting an arm around him in support as she knocks the door shut with one foot. Over to the kitchen table, that will do. There's a practiced familiarity to her manner, something beyond the good sense and hardy disposition she'd possessed in England. This isn't the first time a broken man has come to her doorstep.]
I'm Mrs. Barlow here. [They might as well have that out first--though if he's taken a blow to the head, they might have to go over it again later. She's setting the kettle back over the fire to boil, finding cloths and bandages and little pots of this and that.] What happened?
Mrs Barlow, ( he repeats, letting himself be guided to the kitchen table; he is all tense, wiry muscle, resisting only enough not to lean too much of his weight on her in the process. not none—he is stubborn, not foolish. he came this far for help, and he won't spurn it when she is kind enough not to sensibly close her door in his face.
nothing good has brought him here, but it is behind him now, and he is tired. )
Mrs Barlow.
( it sounds as if he intends it to be the beginning of a sentence, but it takes him a short time to find his way back to it; sat at the table, his hands flattened out upon it, knuckles bloody, every part of him reminding him suddenly of his assortment of aches now that he slows enough they might catch him up. )
I had heard tell a witch lived here, ( he says, eventually, which is not an answer to her question but carries a genuine trace of humor dredged up from some place within him, a ruefulness that seems more human than his stern mien had ever hinted at before. a study in contrasts, he'd been, looking nothing so much as a man who would disapprove of all things under the hamilton roof and sharing more of their politics than most, regardless. tolerable as englishmen go, he had once neatly summed up her husband. excellent taste in wives, he had deemed it impolitic to further say. ) Thought it unlikely, though I might suppose you to be nearly as sympathetic.
( as a witch, yes. he pulls a hand over his mouth and sinks back in the chair, flinching when it pulls his back wrong. )
Shipwreck, ( then, briefly. ) No one else will be along.
[Yes, she's tempted to say as he repeats her name, but he doesn't seem to be in his right mind. That's the Ambrose Roy she recalls, at least in voice, but the look of him has changed in ways that won't be washed away with the blood--that much seems self-evident.
(Perhaps it's the blood that so alters him, and like Lady Macbeth, she'll simply continue to see it even after he's been rinsed clean. But Nassau changes men, in small and insidious ways.)]
Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. [And there's a sort of weariness to that her good humor. She's at his side again, carefully reaching to run her fingers through his blood-crusted hair, trying to determine whether any of the mess came from his own scalp.] I'm afraid unsympathetic witches are in short supply; you'll have to make do with a tired exile.
[Surely he heard the talk; it all felt devastatingly public when it happened. She bites down on the thought of it, focusing intently on his brow, just north of his gaze.] Now. Which of your injuries is most grievous?
( exhaustion, he thinks, as he looks at her blankly for a moment before parsing unsympathetic with a barked laugh; yes, no, of course. it is the natural interpretation of his words, with what is known of him, and of exile...
he doesn't imagine that the woman he recalls would have come to this place by choice or preference, but by the time the hamiltons had fallen from grace he had been far from london and embroiled in his own affairs; the next he had been there, the roar of the gossip had dulled to scandalous whisper, and more immediate troubles, and his had not been such to seek them out. the absence a warning that he had recognized the shape of, without the details.
his eyes are still kind, when the sharpness of the sound fades. he might describe himself an unsympathetic witch, but the former at least is not true. )
Exhaustion, ( he says, eventually, because it's true. but he loosens his shirt, sea-stained and blood-stained, and there's an ugly brand beneath it over his heart in the recognizable shape of a crucifix, for all it looks rather like someone had taken a knife to it at some stage. the cauterized burn of it is older than the knife-marks, some of which still sluggishly bleed, others begun to scab, begun to heal over.
it is a mess, and will scar. if he isn't careful and it isn't cleaned, it will poison him to death long before that happens. )
I heal well, Mrs Barlow. But I have lacked the opportunity to do so this past while.
( healing is no simple thing. from wounds; from exiles. )
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no subject
Date: 2020-04-27 02:19 am (UTC)fair, he supposes. she will probably be surprised to see the reverend mr roy at her step, swaying as he is, his own half-hearted attempts to bandage wounds that look older than they really are keeping him upright. he doesn't look much the civilized presbytarian minister that had met the hamiltons on several occasions when visiting england, always mild in soft scots burr. kind-eyed.
there is something implacable about him, now, though when he raises his fist to knock (the shock of it reverberates back through him, and he regrets it so fiercely he knocks only once) he composes himself to the point where that, in fact, is the more unusually striking sight. that he should look so much as he did, underneath the blood and the sweat and the cold anger coiled up and put away. )
Lady Hamilton, this is—a surprise.
( hell of one, if wherever he's come from to find her he hasn't collected her new name on his way. )
no subject
Date: 2020-05-03 10:06 pm (UTC)The face she finds at the threshold is bloodied enough that she thinks it might be one of the men of the Walrus--but James isn't along behind. This is a man alone, one who becomes familiar in an instant when she hears his voice. One hand flies to her mouth.]
Mister Roy!
[Dear God, what's brought you here? is lurking there in her voice, in the worried set of her brow. She's pulling him in, getting an arm around him in support as she knocks the door shut with one foot. Over to the kitchen table, that will do. There's a practiced familiarity to her manner, something beyond the good sense and hardy disposition she'd possessed in England. This isn't the first time a broken man has come to her doorstep.]
I'm Mrs. Barlow here. [They might as well have that out first--though if he's taken a blow to the head, they might have to go over it again later. She's setting the kettle back over the fire to boil, finding cloths and bandages and little pots of this and that.] What happened?
no subject
Date: 2020-05-04 04:22 am (UTC)nothing good has brought him here, but it is behind him now, and he is tired. )
Mrs Barlow.
( it sounds as if he intends it to be the beginning of a sentence, but it takes him a short time to find his way back to it; sat at the table, his hands flattened out upon it, knuckles bloody, every part of him reminding him suddenly of his assortment of aches now that he slows enough they might catch him up. )
I had heard tell a witch lived here, ( he says, eventually, which is not an answer to her question but carries a genuine trace of humor dredged up from some place within him, a ruefulness that seems more human than his stern mien had ever hinted at before. a study in contrasts, he'd been, looking nothing so much as a man who would disapprove of all things under the hamilton roof and sharing more of their politics than most, regardless. tolerable as englishmen go, he had once neatly summed up her husband. excellent taste in wives, he had deemed it impolitic to further say. ) Thought it unlikely, though I might suppose you to be nearly as sympathetic.
( as a witch, yes. he pulls a hand over his mouth and sinks back in the chair, flinching when it pulls his back wrong. )
Shipwreck, ( then, briefly. ) No one else will be along.
( he doesn't sound grieved; he sounds sure. )
no subject
Date: 2020-06-08 09:20 pm (UTC)(Perhaps it's the blood that so alters him, and like Lady Macbeth, she'll simply continue to see it even after he's been rinsed clean. But Nassau changes men, in small and insidious ways.)]
Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. [And there's a sort of weariness to that her good humor. She's at his side again, carefully reaching to run her fingers through his blood-crusted hair, trying to determine whether any of the mess came from his own scalp.] I'm afraid unsympathetic witches are in short supply; you'll have to make do with a tired exile.
[Surely he heard the talk; it all felt devastatingly public when it happened. She bites down on the thought of it, focusing intently on his brow, just north of his gaze.] Now. Which of your injuries is most grievous?
no subject
Date: 2020-06-08 10:46 pm (UTC)he doesn't imagine that the woman he recalls would have come to this place by choice or preference, but by the time the hamiltons had fallen from grace he had been far from london and embroiled in his own affairs; the next he had been there, the roar of the gossip had dulled to scandalous whisper, and more immediate troubles, and his had not been such to seek them out. the absence a warning that he had recognized the shape of, without the details.
his eyes are still kind, when the sharpness of the sound fades. he might describe himself an unsympathetic witch, but the former at least is not true. )
Exhaustion, ( he says, eventually, because it's true. but he loosens his shirt, sea-stained and blood-stained, and there's an ugly brand beneath it over his heart in the recognizable shape of a crucifix, for all it looks rather like someone had taken a knife to it at some stage. the cauterized burn of it is older than the knife-marks, some of which still sluggishly bleed, others begun to scab, begun to heal over.
it is a mess, and will scar. if he isn't careful and it isn't cleaned, it will poison him to death long before that happens. )
I heal well, Mrs Barlow. But I have lacked the opportunity to do so this past while.
( healing is no simple thing. from wounds; from exiles. )