Chapter Text
“I humbly beg your indulgence, your Majesty,” said Lieutenant Ursa, her head bowed.
“Rise, Lieutenant,” Morgott rumbled, eying the woman curiously as she got to her feet. She was a relatively new recruit – meaning she had only been a Nightrider for a century – but she should know by now that requests should be relayed to him through a superior officer. She was skirting the edge of military protocol. “What is thy purpose?”
Ursa stood at attention, gazing just past his shoulder – or what she could see of it through the Veil’s distortion – her helmet tucked under one arm. Like the rest of the Night’s Cavalry, she was taller than a typical human, a mere two feet shorter than himself. Her smoothly professional countenance betrayed nothing of her intentions.
“Your Majesty. I was directed to you regarding an…exception to relationship restrictions.” She fell silent, an odd hesitation in her eyes that did not fit with the quiet certainty in her words.
“Which restriction concerns thee, Lieutenant?” Morgott prompted. He, himself, was at a loss. The Night’s Cavalry tended to turn a blind eye to relationships between squad members. Furthermore, carnal relations with civilians – while not exactly encouraged, due to the dangers inherent in these dark times – were not forbidden.
“The restrictions regarding a superior, your Majesty.”
Morgott frowned, his confusion rapidly sliding into annoyance. That was hardly unheard of, either, though the involved parties needed to exercise a great deal of discretion.
“Surely this matter could be resolved by thy Captain,” he said, his voice stern.
She shook her head, a pink flush blossoming on her cheeks.
“Beg pardon, your Majesty, but I was directed to you by my Captain, Sir Raoul,” she said, bowing her head.
“I see,” Morgott replied, though he certainly did not. “Lieutenant, I fear that thee hath been…misled,” he said, with a pang of sympathy as her eyes widened.
Honestly, Raoul should know better than to involve the King in his pranks. Occasionally sending a relatively new officer on – as the infantry would say – a ‘wild goose chase’ was to be expected, if not encouraged. This wasn’t the same as requisitioning striped paint. Or the time Raoul had sent a newly minted squire to Margit, to fetch his staff ‘for polishing.’ No, this was wasting the King’s time with a matter best resolved among the Nightriders.
But…he was curious. Ursa was not so green as to have missed the permissive nature of battlefield relations. In fact, she was quite level-headed and perceptive, at least from what he had observed through Margit’s eyes. While she was rather stoic, she had a way of putting her fellows at ease, even if she often preferred to sit beside the fire and watch – and sometimes talk, sometimes to him – instead of dance when the ale started flowing.
Morgott suddenly recalled a casual observation from his older brother.
There are two kinds of people, Godwyn had said, with a distant smile. Those who dance, and those who do not . Brother, I love thee dearly, but you do not dance.
Sometimes Godwyn spoke of humanity in broad strokes, especially when he’d been drinking. Morgott still wasn’t sure whether or not he should be offended. However, he did not believe that his brother had meant anything by it.
And it seemed to Morgott that being one of ‘those who do not dance’ was hardly a barrier to intimacy, at least for Ursa. From the more, ah, direct conversations that he’d overheard – and attempted to ignore – around the campfire during her absence, she could have her choice of partners, should she wish it. Morgott knew that several of her superiors would gladly risk a scandal for a chance to fill her bed.
This was, indeed, strange. Morgott tilted his head, looking at her more closely. Surely all that a woman such as her would need to do is ask.
“I apologize, your Majesty,” she murmured, a light flush on her cheeks the only indicator of embarrassment. “It’s just that…I was told that only you could lift the…restriction. It is absolute, your Majesty. And the man who I, ah…” Morgott’s brow furrowed as Ursa’s eyes softened for a moment. “He is a man of honor, and his sense of duty is strong. I do not wish to offend him, even inadvertently, and –”
“Lieutenant Ursa,” Morgott said, cutting her off. “What restriction concerns thee?”
“Relations with Omens, your Majesty.”
For a moment, Morgott could only stare.
“Thy jest is in poor taste, Lieutenant,” he said slowly, barely keeping his voice level.
“It is no jest!” she said quickly, and then balked. “My apologies, your Majesty, for my frankness. But it is not.” Ursa stood up straighter, and looked into the distorted shadow of his face, all that she could see through the Veil. “I humbly request permission to pay court to Margit the Fell,” she said, her cheeks now blazing red.
Morgott was silent for a long moment. Then he turned and sat behind his desk.
“Thou art dismissed, Lieutenant,” he said coolly, and picked up a quill.
“Your…Majesty?”
“Dismissed, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice dropping dangerously low. “This charade shames thee and thy unit. And thou may tell thy Captain thus.” Morgott drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “I do not grant thee… permission.”
“Your Majesty – “
“Silence,” Morgott snapped. “And pray that the Fell Omen never hears of thy… request.”
“I - Yes. Yes, your Majesty. Of - of course…”
Ursa dropped to one knee, head bowed, face utterly blank. Morgott turned pointedly to his paperwork, and bade his guards shut the door behind her when her footsteps were finally out of earshot.
The initial shock faded quickly, and slid right into anger. Surely ‘Margit’ was owed more respect than this. Morgott stared at the pages before him, and clenched his jaw as his mind ran through the possibilities, re-evaluating all of his interactions with Ursa. She tolerated his company well enough, it seemed. She spoke with him at times, even when she had no obligation to do so. She did not mind his presence beside her at the fire, and –
He hadn’t thought her the sort to pursue a jest of this nature. Not at his – well, Margit’s – expense, and as there was no possible way that she could be serious… Perhaps she had taken a wager? Or a dare? Or…
The Omen King threw his quill down with a scowl. He’d be having a word with her Captain, though whether as Morgott or Margit, he had yet to decide.
******
“So,” Captain Raoul murmured as Ursa slipped into the officer’s mess hall. “How did it go?”
“I beg your pardon?” Ursa asked, not looking at him. “Sir?” She grabbed a tray and stepped into line behind Lieutenant Justinian, despite not being even the least bit hungry. But bread and broth sometimes helped steady her stomach. And tea with honey did a fair job at distracting her. Not as good as ale, though, but her unit was headed out to the field the following morning.
Gods, they were headed to the field . Margit would be there.
Ursa’s insides crumpled. The King’s voice still echoed in her ears.
“Ah,” said Raoul, and got into line behind her for a second bowl of stew. “A ‘no,’ I take it?”
“He said that…” Ursa looked down, clutching her tray tightly. “He said no.”
“I…see…” Raoul said slowly.
“Did you lie to me, sir?” she asked without thinking, distantly shocked by the disrespect in her words. “Was there ever a chance that he’d say yes?”
“Well…”
Ursa frowned as her Captain suddenly looked more awkward than she’d ever seen him.
“His Majesty said that I’d been ‘misled,’” she said, with growing suspicion.
“What?”
“And that…well… gods I’m an idiot…”
Ursa loaded up her tray, nodded a sharp goodbye, and retreated to a far corner of the mess hall.
His Majesty is right, she thought. I should be ashamed of myself. She truly had made a mistake, possibly the worst of her life.
Ursa sat on the end of the bench and kept her eyes on her food. At least she hadn’t confided in any of her friends. Captain Raoul, though…Well, it wasn’t his fault in the slightest. Her superior could be a bit loose on the regulations sometimes, but he was loyal to Lleyndell and its King. He would not make use of his Majesty’s time to humiliate an inferior officer.
Would he? No, she had simply misunderstood. Was the suggestion a …hypothetical? Was it just to show her how impossible such a thing would be? Or –
“May I sit?” Captain Raoul asked quietly, interrupting her rumination.
“Of course, sir,” she said automatically. After all, it was her fault for misunderstanding him. But taking ‘you should ask the King if you can court Margit’ literally had made sense at the time.
For sneaking behind the backs of her fellow officers and, worse, the laws of the Order, would dishonor the Omen warrior. He deserved better than that. Ursa, meanwhile, had distant, but happy, memories of the boys and girls in her village requesting permission to court their peers, both before and after they’d had their official debuts at the summer solstice revels. She’d thought that such practices were common in Lleyndell…and in a way, she’d been correct. Women simply did not take that initiative, oddly enough. And Omens were not permitted to seek intimacy in any way, shape, or form.
But surely Margit would be an exception. His reputation preceded him, after all. He was intelligent, respected by her peers, and had the favor of the King. And in Ursa’s village, if someone was not permitted to seek companionship, for whatever reason, it was customary to request an exception from whoever had forbidden it. The plea could be denied, of course, but the act itself was an expression of submission, of respect.
It was not done idly. Not at all.
But gods above, she’d been selfish…
Her Captain settled in across from her, looking strangely anxious.
“Ursa,” he began. Raoul reached for his spoon, and then paused, gesturing as though he was about to launch into a speech.
“Do not trouble yourself, sir,” she said quickly. “The mistake was mine, and mine alone. How is the stew?”
“What? Ah…” Raoul set his spoon down and looked at her carefully. “It is middling. And I do need to speak with you.”
“I am truly sorry, sir,” Ursa murmured. And she was. Everything hurt. All she could do is remind herself that it would fade eventually. The trick would be to hold onto herself until she was alone.
“The fault is mine,” Raoul said.
“Why would you say such a thing, sir?” Ursa asked slowly.
“I believed, erroneously, that you and Sir Margit had an…understanding…”
Ursa blinked at him.
“What?”
Raoul grimaced, and dunked a hunk of bread into his stew.
“You sit with him often,” her Captain said. “You talk. I’m not sure about what, but you talk. And you get that same blank-but-amused look when Harold whips out his mandolin, and – “
“Sir, I would not keep such an…understanding a secret,” Ursa said quietly, turning slightly red. “I wouldn’t advertise it, because honestly, it’s nobody’s business, but hiding it…No…”
Captain Raoul fell silent. Ursa took it as permission to continue.
“But I realize now that I acted…gods, sir, my selfishness shames me…”
“What…do you mean?” her Captain asked, an odd quiver in his voice.
“What I asked…I ought to have petitioned his Majesty for Sir Margit’s release from the restrictions entirely,” said Ursa, her voice pained. “Not just for…” Her voice fell quiet. “For me…”
She gave up on her broth, and started to stand.
“Lieutenant,” Raoul said sharply. “Sit.”
Ursa obliged, frowning slightly as she noticed that her Captain’s face was downright ashen.
“Is something wrong, sir?” she asked.
“No, Lieutenant,” said Raoul, in a slightly strangled voice. “But I have a question, before you retire for the evening.”
“Of course, sir,” said Ursa, fatigue dragging in her voice.
Raoul let out a rough breath, and sat up as straight as he could.
“What would you do, Lieutenant,” he asked slowly. “If you received an exception?”
Ursa turned bright red.
“Sir!” she hissed. “That is not – “
“I mean, how would you court him?” Raoul’s eyes flicked over her shoulder for a moment, and then back to her. His voice grew stern. “If you were the only human that Sir Margit could legally be intimate with? And that was your intent, was it not, Lieutenant? Intimacy?”
Ursa glared at him, anger and shame grinding painfully in her chest.
“I’d take back my request, and ask His Majesty to lift the restriction entirely,” she hissed. Now that her romantic notions had fallen away, she well and truly wished that she could take everything back. “Sir Margit deserves that.”
“That was not what I asked, Lieutenant,” her Captain said. “And we are not leaving this table until you explain.”
Ursa’s face fell. She sat, back straight, eyes front, and tried to find words. She wasn’t terribly good at this…and in truth, she hadn’t really had a plan.
“I would…talk to him, sir,” she said haltingly. “It sounds silly, I know, but I like talking with him. And, ah, for awhile that would be it. If I got the impression that my suit might be welcome, I’d leave him a…a flower somewhere.”
Raoul’s eyes went comically large. Ursa stared at her broth, the ache inside her deepening. Was it possible to bruise one’s heart?
You’re being silly, she thought. You’re a Knight, for Marika’s sake, not some lovesick little girl.
“Flowers are harder to trace than letters,” she said quietly. “Courting is supposed to be discreet…And I don’t have any hair ribbons. Or calligraphy paper, for that matter. I’d have to work out how to show him that it was from me…I’ve never courted anyone before, you see?” Her shoulders sunk lower at Captain Raoul’s rather strangled cough. “A few people I know back home had a system – “
“I get the picture, Lieutenant,” said Raoul, regaining his composure. He looked over her shoulder again. “...You’ve never courted anyone?”
Ursa turned bright red, and laid her utensils across her plate in the most exact, regulation ‘x’ that she could manage. Honestly, that was what he was focusing on?
“No,” she muttered. “Not that it’s any of your business. Sir.”
“Fair enough,” said Raoul, looking as though his head was about to pop off. “And what would you do if your, ah, suit was rejected?”
Ursa looked at him strangely.
“I’d carry on as before,” she said slowly. “Before the courting started, I mean. Unless he doesn’t wish to speak to me.” She looked momentarily pained. “Then I wouldn’t. Speak to him. Permission to retire for the evening, sir?”
Her Captain was silent for a moment, clearly thinking hard. Finally he nodded.
“Of course, Lieutenant,” he said slowly.
Ursa practically leaped to her feet.
“I can take your tray too, sir,” she said, not bothering to hide her relief.
“No need,” said Raoul tiredly. “Get some rest. We depart at dawn.”
Ursa was up and out before Raoul could blink. Such was her haste to leave that her eyes skipped right over the shadow leaning against the pillar behind her. She was long gone when it straightened, stepped into the torchlight, and took her place at the table.
“Hath thee a moment, Captain?” Margit asked, his face utterly expressionless.
Raoul gulped.
“Of course sir,” he said, as steadily as he could. “My time is yours.”
****