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tamingthemuseTitle: Indecision
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Prompt: 115 – Cavort
Rating: PG
Summary: Guinevere thinks in circles.
Notes: UNBETAED!
Guinevere often worries because she cannot understand herself. Arthur is devoted, handsome and the love between them has always been deep, strong enough to overcome the lack of an heir. It was love at first sight, but nothing like this madness that possesses her whenever she sees Lancelot. It became a part of her over time and she cannot fathom a world without Arthur, cannot remember how it was before him.
Yet... yet Merlin, the old goat, was right to say women's hearts are treacherous things. Hers, for instance, relinquishes its worries and smiles, sings with unabashed joy as she watches from the window her husband and Lancelot cavorting below in the courtyard like two boys. Their shouts and laughter woke her and her ladies from the boredom of their afternoon and they all came to the windows to see them, Arthur with his golden mane, his broad shoulders, frank laughter, Lancelot with his elegant body, his laughing eyes as dark as dangerous.
The ladies giggle and comment with open admiration on their favourites. The blade of jealousy has long been dulled for Guinevere in what concerns Arthur. She laughs with them, allows them their silly sighs, for she knows that Arthur is hers and hers alone. His blue eyes won't stray, his hands won't rove, his heart and his groin are tied to her.
But Lancelot... she bites a harsh retort to Elaine's overly enthusiastic comments. For shame, the girl should bridle her lust before people start thinking her unchaste. When Lancelot looks up and waves, Guinevere wants to wipe the smile off her face in a most painful way. She stays herself. It is undignified for a queen to stoop so low and Elaine is a child, deserves to dream... If only she could dream of another.
The room is stuffy and the giggling has risen to the point where Guinevere feels like she is stuck in a henhouse. Arthur throws her a kiss and she catches it in her hand, a playful gesture that they have repeated since those long days of courting. On an impulse, she steps back and rushes for the door. Some ladies move to accompany her has she dons her shawl, but she bids them to stay, under the pretext of their health. Some smiles sour, Elaine's the most, and a pang of guilt tinges Guinevere's malicious satisfaction. She brushes it off as she flies down the corridor: the girl is young and has everything in her favour. She will be over it before dinner time.
She reaches the courtyard in no time, does not look up at her ladies, only sees Arthur and Lancelot engaging in another sparring match. The circle of knights opens for her and when Arthur spots her, he loses concentration for a heartbeat. His smile never dims, even as Lancelot hits his armoured hand, and the play-sword flies through the air. He laughs. How can you not love a man who laughs like that, open hearted, as his friend bests him in front of his wife and his subjects. But that is Arthur and Guinevere forgets Lancelot and her wants for a second and throws herself into his arms, inhaling the scent of fresh sweat and pine from Arthur's soap. He laughs, spins her around, kisses her deep, right there, in front of everybody.
Arthur puts her down and drapes an arm around her waist. "Lancelot," he calls, and Guinevere's heart skips a beat. Lancelot smiles but she sees how it is a too quick smile, how his shoulders slump a little, how his eyes don't crinkle. She bites her lips, aching because she hurt him, happy because she hurt him. Because he cares enough to be hurt.
She smiles at him, contrite, hopeful and watches as Arthur congratulates him on the victory, his arm leaving her waist for Lancelot’s. The afternoon wanes, the mild October day giving way to a cool breeze for which her shawl is no match. Her presence is unneeded, but Arthur holds her as he discusses a few finer points regarding the upcoming tournament, a silly idea Kay had to celebrate the coming of winter. It will take place right before All Soul's day. These events are nothing but excuses to make alliances, political, romantic, or both. It might be that this time Elaine will finally fish Lancelot.
Guinevere eyes him as he gravely listens to Kay and Arthur's discussion. She should let him go, should ground herself to the love she has, not the one she cannot have. Arthur is warm and solid and real. Lancelot is the dream.
Vespers rings in the pristine air. Arthur looks up at the sky, vaguely startled that time had the audacity to interrupt his play. They move inside; she holds on to him, tries to ignore the queasiness in her stomach every time Lancelot speaks, every time their eyes cross. This is wrong, wrong, so deliciously wrong.
Lancelot should be married and sent far off. She has told herself this a million times. But their hands brush as they cross the threshold and her knees melt as if she were fifteen. The group comes to a halt in the front hall, a few parting words are uttered and she and Arthur are on their way to their rooms.
"Arthur, my love," she blurts. Arthur's step slows and he turns to her.
"My, I thought my lovely queen had lost her tongue," he teases, depositing a kiss on the top of her head. "You have my attention," he says, gracing her with the informal addressing that he saves for their intimacy.
Guinevere's burst left her unprepared, but she knows the words are there, knows what is the right thing to do. She finds the strength to do it. "I'm thinking that maybe... maybe... it is time Lancelot finds a wife. Elaine would be a nice match. Her father has land in Maridunum."
"You, a matchmaker?" Arthur feigns surprise, though the laughter is there again, dancing in his eyes.
"We have seen stranger things," Guinevere replies, meaning her meddling as much as she means the match.
"Indeed we have. I thought you disliked Elaine..."
Guinevere shakes her head. "She’s a child, has nothing on her head, but she is not bad."
"Well, I cannot force people to marry each other..."
"You can give wise counsel to your closest friend..."
Arthur's smile loses some of its vivacity and an expression of open curiosity replaces his amusement. Guinevere sees the moment when he brushes off whichever thought he entertained, when his frank smile returns.
"Your wishes are my commands, my love."
Guinevere smiles as he leans down to kiss her cheek, but she feels cold inside. What has she done? What on God's Earth has she done? And more importantly, can it be undone? Should it?
She barely has time to close the door to her own dressing room before the first sob chokes her. Arthur must not hear it, must never know. She takes deep breaths, tries to push down the pain that balls in her throat and it is so hard to be strong, so incredibly hard...
She has done the right thing. For the first time in months, she has surpassed her egoism. Arthur knocks on her door, interrupting the train of her thoughts and she manages to swallow the pain for long enough to reply and tell him that she i almost done.
She changes in a hurry, regretting that she sent the maid away, and opens the door to find Arthur standing there, waiting for her.
"You look beautiful," he says.
She does not. Her dress is probably crooked in some place she cannot see and her hair is a bit of a mess. Still, he kisses her on the mouth, presses her to him.
"I haven't been taking good care of you, have I?" he asks, concerned.
"I am fine," she lies, cringing at herself.
"No... Lately you are not fine," Arthur replies pensively. He holds her tighter, and she melts into him, letting her pain be dissolved by his love, leaving her perplexed by the ease with which her heart changes moods.
"Come, let us dine, and after we will retire early and converse," Arthur bids, pulling her by the hand.
She follows him, thinking already of ways of going back on what she said, of keeping Lancelot for herself. None is fair or clean. She hates what love has made of her. She loves how love fills her to the brim. She smiles at Arthur. Everything is going to be fine.
Finis
September 2008
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Prompt: 115 – Cavort
Rating: PG
Summary: Guinevere thinks in circles.
Notes: UNBETAED!
Guinevere often worries because she cannot understand herself. Arthur is devoted, handsome and the love between them has always been deep, strong enough to overcome the lack of an heir. It was love at first sight, but nothing like this madness that possesses her whenever she sees Lancelot. It became a part of her over time and she cannot fathom a world without Arthur, cannot remember how it was before him.
Yet... yet Merlin, the old goat, was right to say women's hearts are treacherous things. Hers, for instance, relinquishes its worries and smiles, sings with unabashed joy as she watches from the window her husband and Lancelot cavorting below in the courtyard like two boys. Their shouts and laughter woke her and her ladies from the boredom of their afternoon and they all came to the windows to see them, Arthur with his golden mane, his broad shoulders, frank laughter, Lancelot with his elegant body, his laughing eyes as dark as dangerous.
The ladies giggle and comment with open admiration on their favourites. The blade of jealousy has long been dulled for Guinevere in what concerns Arthur. She laughs with them, allows them their silly sighs, for she knows that Arthur is hers and hers alone. His blue eyes won't stray, his hands won't rove, his heart and his groin are tied to her.
But Lancelot... she bites a harsh retort to Elaine's overly enthusiastic comments. For shame, the girl should bridle her lust before people start thinking her unchaste. When Lancelot looks up and waves, Guinevere wants to wipe the smile off her face in a most painful way. She stays herself. It is undignified for a queen to stoop so low and Elaine is a child, deserves to dream... If only she could dream of another.
The room is stuffy and the giggling has risen to the point where Guinevere feels like she is stuck in a henhouse. Arthur throws her a kiss and she catches it in her hand, a playful gesture that they have repeated since those long days of courting. On an impulse, she steps back and rushes for the door. Some ladies move to accompany her has she dons her shawl, but she bids them to stay, under the pretext of their health. Some smiles sour, Elaine's the most, and a pang of guilt tinges Guinevere's malicious satisfaction. She brushes it off as she flies down the corridor: the girl is young and has everything in her favour. She will be over it before dinner time.
She reaches the courtyard in no time, does not look up at her ladies, only sees Arthur and Lancelot engaging in another sparring match. The circle of knights opens for her and when Arthur spots her, he loses concentration for a heartbeat. His smile never dims, even as Lancelot hits his armoured hand, and the play-sword flies through the air. He laughs. How can you not love a man who laughs like that, open hearted, as his friend bests him in front of his wife and his subjects. But that is Arthur and Guinevere forgets Lancelot and her wants for a second and throws herself into his arms, inhaling the scent of fresh sweat and pine from Arthur's soap. He laughs, spins her around, kisses her deep, right there, in front of everybody.
Arthur puts her down and drapes an arm around her waist. "Lancelot," he calls, and Guinevere's heart skips a beat. Lancelot smiles but she sees how it is a too quick smile, how his shoulders slump a little, how his eyes don't crinkle. She bites her lips, aching because she hurt him, happy because she hurt him. Because he cares enough to be hurt.
She smiles at him, contrite, hopeful and watches as Arthur congratulates him on the victory, his arm leaving her waist for Lancelot’s. The afternoon wanes, the mild October day giving way to a cool breeze for which her shawl is no match. Her presence is unneeded, but Arthur holds her as he discusses a few finer points regarding the upcoming tournament, a silly idea Kay had to celebrate the coming of winter. It will take place right before All Soul's day. These events are nothing but excuses to make alliances, political, romantic, or both. It might be that this time Elaine will finally fish Lancelot.
Guinevere eyes him as he gravely listens to Kay and Arthur's discussion. She should let him go, should ground herself to the love she has, not the one she cannot have. Arthur is warm and solid and real. Lancelot is the dream.
Vespers rings in the pristine air. Arthur looks up at the sky, vaguely startled that time had the audacity to interrupt his play. They move inside; she holds on to him, tries to ignore the queasiness in her stomach every time Lancelot speaks, every time their eyes cross. This is wrong, wrong, so deliciously wrong.
Lancelot should be married and sent far off. She has told herself this a million times. But their hands brush as they cross the threshold and her knees melt as if she were fifteen. The group comes to a halt in the front hall, a few parting words are uttered and she and Arthur are on their way to their rooms.
"Arthur, my love," she blurts. Arthur's step slows and he turns to her.
"My, I thought my lovely queen had lost her tongue," he teases, depositing a kiss on the top of her head. "You have my attention," he says, gracing her with the informal addressing that he saves for their intimacy.
Guinevere's burst left her unprepared, but she knows the words are there, knows what is the right thing to do. She finds the strength to do it. "I'm thinking that maybe... maybe... it is time Lancelot finds a wife. Elaine would be a nice match. Her father has land in Maridunum."
"You, a matchmaker?" Arthur feigns surprise, though the laughter is there again, dancing in his eyes.
"We have seen stranger things," Guinevere replies, meaning her meddling as much as she means the match.
"Indeed we have. I thought you disliked Elaine..."
Guinevere shakes her head. "She’s a child, has nothing on her head, but she is not bad."
"Well, I cannot force people to marry each other..."
"You can give wise counsel to your closest friend..."
Arthur's smile loses some of its vivacity and an expression of open curiosity replaces his amusement. Guinevere sees the moment when he brushes off whichever thought he entertained, when his frank smile returns.
"Your wishes are my commands, my love."
Guinevere smiles as he leans down to kiss her cheek, but she feels cold inside. What has she done? What on God's Earth has she done? And more importantly, can it be undone? Should it?
She barely has time to close the door to her own dressing room before the first sob chokes her. Arthur must not hear it, must never know. She takes deep breaths, tries to push down the pain that balls in her throat and it is so hard to be strong, so incredibly hard...
She has done the right thing. For the first time in months, she has surpassed her egoism. Arthur knocks on her door, interrupting the train of her thoughts and she manages to swallow the pain for long enough to reply and tell him that she i almost done.
She changes in a hurry, regretting that she sent the maid away, and opens the door to find Arthur standing there, waiting for her.
"You look beautiful," he says.
She does not. Her dress is probably crooked in some place she cannot see and her hair is a bit of a mess. Still, he kisses her on the mouth, presses her to him.
"I haven't been taking good care of you, have I?" he asks, concerned.
"I am fine," she lies, cringing at herself.
"No... Lately you are not fine," Arthur replies pensively. He holds her tighter, and she melts into him, letting her pain be dissolved by his love, leaving her perplexed by the ease with which her heart changes moods.
"Come, let us dine, and after we will retire early and converse," Arthur bids, pulling her by the hand.
She follows him, thinking already of ways of going back on what she said, of keeping Lancelot for herself. None is fair or clean. She hates what love has made of her. She loves how love fills her to the brim. She smiles at Arthur. Everything is going to be fine.
Finis
September 2008
no subject
Date: 2008-10-04 10:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-04 08:07 pm (UTC)Tal