|Sagramore (petitmorte) wrote,|
@ 2009-07-02 00:31:00
|Entry tags:||rp: mordred|
It's just one of those inevitable achingly hot July evenings, when you think that the sun going down means things are going to get cooler and instead it just makes them stifling, everything suspended in the heat, so much so that even sounds seem impossible and everything is still.
It makes him miss Hungary, or the bits and pieces he can remember of Hungary, which he's always grasping desperately at (Hungary is the same as his father, his father is Hungary; and everything that fades into childhood feels more and more like some kind of betrayal of a man Sagramore had only got fragments of to begin with (but he was kind, Sagramore thinks, he never worried about anything, and he cheated at cards, and he promised to teach me to ride and use my sword), before he and Hungary were lost to Constantinople and the masters there who taught Sagramore to ride and use his sword, and the physician who was always present). In the heat he feels as though he's gotten as far away as it's possible to get from Hungary.
And compounding it all is the fact that another girl has left him because of his seizures ("No, no," he told her desperately, when she refused to talk to him that afternoon in the courtyard. "The priest swears God did not do this, I am baptised, I have been blessed and anointed, I swear to you," but she hurried past with her lips tight. "Them black ones always gets the Devil," her companion said. He spent the rest of the afternoon in his room cursing his mother and her swarthy Greek skin, and trying not to sob).
Now he's in the stables with his horse, stroking her velvety brown nose and nursing a bottle of wine Cecily stole for him from the King's cellars. His eyes are wet and red, and he's talking to the horse in Hungarian, his accent unusually thick.