never_promised | (no subject)

"Quarrel! I, sir! I have better care of my head than to quarrel with a king."

"Thy head! Thy head, Cesario, is in no danger from this king." He taps his hand irritably on his leg a few times, then strides down the hall again to catch up with the football. "There, thou seest it, a king cannot even fall out properly with a friend; his friends will have it that any little thing will lose them their heads--"

Oh. God. His tongue has run ahead of his thoughts, and suddenly he's back in Southampton. The mercy that was quick in us but late, by your own counsel is suppressed and killed.

"Come sir!" Her tone is mostly light, but there's a hint of sharpness beneath it: don't pick a fight with me. She trots after him and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Come, friend. I am not thy subject, I shall mock thee to thy heart's content."

He can hear that sharpness; his shoulder tightens a little under her hand.

Come on, now, Hal, find a smile. "Heh." That's better. "Heh, pray do, sweet Cesario; didst thou flatter me, I would fear some treachery. Mock me most roundly."

She keeps her hand there, on his shoulder.

"If I must mock you to mirth, I shall do it," she says. "Or indeed, be sad, if it please thee be so-- but mask not thy moods by claiming 'tis I who doth provoke them."

He doesn't have an immediate answer. (If only because the only honest answer is that Viola is quite right; he would do exactly that.)

"Well--well, then, let me lay these humors at other feet than thine. I found myself lately disappointed in a man who had heard every least thought of mine, every doubt; and it has set me all contrary to the currents of trusting, candid friendship."

"I am very sorry for it," she says sincerely. "There is little sooner lost and harder found than trust, methinks."

He touches the back of her hand, on his shoulder, very lightly and briefly before laughing. "'Tis so. Just now thou didst task me with the losing of friends' heads, saying that thou hadst better care of thine than to quarrel with a king, and I did laugh at thy fears. Well, if thou art not right there, thou art not so far wrong neither. I can hardly say that thy trust might not be misplaced in me."

She realizes how long her hand has been resting there, and pulls it away. "And wherefore would I be?"

"Well--'tis true you cannot in any way commit high treason against me, no capital crimes. There, now, thy starling's-nest is safe from me--"

He reaches tentatively over to ruffle her hair? Because they're goofy friends like that?

Sure they are! After all, Orsino gets much handsier than that.

"Cannot and would not. I would be thy faithfullest subject."

"O, do not say it! For I have heard so much before--" Bah. All right, he does need to say more of it. "--from a dear friend. Thou wouldst have laughed to see me, Hal o' Eastcheap, in such company, so fitting for any prince or king! A man of good family, good counsel, every grace and honor, perfect in every quality a prince might admire. Grave and learned, attentive to religion, governed by no gross appetites for meat and drink, moved to glory and yet still modest; my very bedfellow, he; and all those perfect qualities were bought by France and turned into naught but a tongue ready for deceit and a hand ready for murder."

Viola starts. "What, murder! In truth?"

"Such was the plot." He glances away down the hall at the neglected football. "Why--is it not what one does with a king? The French here would have it so, they that are so dear to Harry Percy."

...That's a really unattractive sound of self-pity in his voice, isn't it. Ugh. "But here, thou hast promised to mock me, wilt not do thy duty?"

"You see now, sir, why I must be a page and not a fool," she says. "I can find no mirth in death, or the threat thereof. I am sorry for thy false friend."

"--Nay, there is no mirth in it."

A pause, and he touches her shoulder. "But come, shall we play at football, we being alive and being good friends, with no treason over our heads?"

"--I have never played it," she says, which can be taken as agreement. "And much doubt I shall show any native skill."

"Thou wert a very natural at tennis, as I recall! Why, thou didst know on the instant where the ball would be--and didst flee it most nimbly--"

He mimes flinching away from an incoming ball, and laughs. "Thou'lt learn."

She laughs too, and swats at his arm. "Why, for this reason thou need'st fear no treason: I am a very coward, my might cannot be bought and sold for any price."

"O, yes, such a coward! A coward that goes to live with great dragons, and laughs at kings, and goes to strange lands to buy horses. What a coward thou art, Cesario! --Now, let us find that room where we did play at tennis; unless thou dost prefer the snow to play in?"

There's not much snow on the ground at the moment, but--yeah. Snow.

"O, that is no courage," she laughs. "It is no war, no duel, no feat of arms. --but ay, let us keep indoors, if we may."

If we may being the operative phrase: the next door they find opens out onto the grounds. Right, well, must have turned wrong somewhere. Try again.

The next door, and also the next, open again into the brisk January air. "...I have no luck with doors in this place."

Viola makes a face. "Well... it seems the lady of the house would have us venture forth."

She's definitely wishing she'd worn a cloak.

"So it seems." Yeah, Hal is wishing much the same; he tucks his chin into his collar and gives the ball a solid kick out onto the frosty turf. Yay. There's less snow than there was after the first onslaught of magic winter, but it's not gone

"The ground by the stables may be clearer." And rougher, where people exercise their horses, but eh.

Viola bows and says quite formally, "And I shall beat you there, your majesty."

And she takes off. Race?