Lancelot du Lac (knightofthelake) wrote in mythologs, @ 2011-12-28 18:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | !event #016, gwynevere, lancelot |
[ closed / complete ]
Characters: Gywnevere and Lancelot
Date/Time: Backdated to Christmas Eve
Location: Manager's Office
Rating: Low
Warnings: Angst?
Summary: A kiss shared between former lovers.
If it was the Manager's Office, why wasn't there a bloody manager? Gwynevere frowned petulantly at the vacated desk. Granted, her query was rather daft to begin with. Hospitals had chapels. Not apartment buildings. But tomorrow was Christmas mass and a Sunday. Two days of obligation rolled into one! For someone with a list of sins as long as hers, the desperation was definitely exemptible.
That, and if Gwynevere was being honest with herself, she needed space to pray and reflect. The memories, meeting Elaine and Arthur... It was far too much to bear in far too little time. She closed her eyes, sighing. At the very least, she'd been getting somewhat of a reprieve from the memories. From minutes, the intervals between shocks were beginning to delve into hours. That much, she could be thankful for. The visions exhausted her far more than she cared to admit, and it was wonderful to be strong enough to get food into her stomach.
Getting a little carried away by her thoughts, Gwynevere began to wonder if her greyhound, Eli, was eating anything either. Lord, she'd forgotten all about him in the tempest of events! That, if anything, spoke volumes of the trauma she was undergoing. The oversight was grossly out of character for Gwynevere. He had been her constant and beloved companion since her eighteenth birthday, after all. Perhaps she could ask the manager if she could arrange for her spare key to be delivered to a friend? A more sensible request, surely. And potentially a life and death situation for her loyal pet.
Opening her eyes, she sucked in her upper lip. She drummed her fingers on the wood of the desk, pondering whether or not it would be worthwhile to wait.
Lancelot made his way toward the Manager’s Office with a question. Or perhaps it was better called a request. He had a pair of earrings for Elaine wrapped and waiting in his condo, and he wanted to know if there was a way to get them delivered to the building on time for Christmas. And if he didn’t get the answer he liked, he would have to try very, very hard not to punch someone’s face in.
Before stepping into the office, he rapped his knuckles against the door frame to catch the attention of the woman standing in front of the desk with her back to him. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said, feeling a little more confident knowing that he would be dealing with a woman. Lancelot didn’t have a silver tongue, but he could be charming when he put his mind to it. “Are you part of management?”
Gwynevere turned around, startled by the sudden interruption. But the little jolt from that was nothing compared to what she felt upon seeing the newcomer's face. She'd... she'd looked very closely over that face before. Though what she'd previously been scrutinizing was technically nothing more than a bunch of 1s and 0s. Hardly enough to equip her for flesh and blood.
Lancelot. She could feel her heart beat picking up with dread and... No. She would not acknowledge anything other than fear. The fear of the woman she could become when around this man, above all others.
But perhaps he did not recognize her yet. Uncomfortable as she was, Gwynevere could boast more than a bit of adeptness at deception. "I'm afraid I'm not," she replied in an easy and polite tone, shaking her head with a good-natured smile. "Management's quite poorly represented. I've been waiting for quite the while." A minute pause. "Did you have something pressing to ask?"
“No? Well damn,” Lancelot said, frowning in disappointment. Lancelot didn’t recognize the young woman. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have recovered with such a sympathetic smile. She was pretty. And she looked lovely to kiss, too. It was an odd thought to have sitting in his head about a perfect stranger (or so he thought), but there it was.
“Yeah? Shame, that. I have something that’s a bit time sensitive... but not too pressing,” he admitted, hitching his shoulders in a shrug. The knight leaned back against the doorframe. If they were both going to wait, may as well get comfortable. “What about you? What’re you in for?”
Gwynevere was almost disappointed that some flash of understanding hadn't given him insight into her actual self. Almost being the keyword, she emphasized to herself with glaring obstinacy. She was pleased to keep up her anonymity. Pleased.
Two seconds around Lancelot, and already she had to restrain herself. The thought resulted in the impulse to frown, though that was quickly checked. Had she not spent enough time in remorse and prayer to know better? She certainly seemed to control herself better the last time they'd met in the nunnery.
Ah, for the wounds of Arthur's death had yet been fresh. She tried to relive those feelings, and they did much to cool her growing ardor. She could not grow complacent. Her work was far from over.
Gwynevere managed to carry all these thoughts without a single hitch in actual conversation. "Time sensitive? Probably Christmas related, then?" she asked, mirroring him by leaning against the desk. "To plead on the off chance I might be able to go to mass." Here, she pursed her lips in frustration. "And to ask if I might be able to get someone to feed my dog. Or, if I'm lucky, have him brought over here."
“Yeah, s’about a present I need delivered here,” Lancelot replied, seeing no harm in sharing the information with her. Working in a pub taught you how to talk as well as listen to people. He did most of the listening when he was bar-tending, but Lancelot was a sociable man. Give him enough ale, and he was a chatterbox.
“Honestly, I doubt you’ll be able to leave even if you get on your hands and knees and beg ‘em,” he said, frowning sympathetically. “But hopefully they’ll bring you your pup. This your first time getting trapped in a place by those assholes?” he asked before realizing he shouldn’t cuss around a good Christian girl.
“Er, sorry ‘bout that. Excuse my language.”
The casual American vernacular was amusing. Lancelot was very good at his job: his easy demeanor relaxed the panicked Gwynevere immensely. Almost shyly, she clasped her fingers together.
"Having presents delivered here. I never thought of that," she said, thinking about things she could get for Tristan, maybe Arthur. Even Elaine, if she was feeling particularly generous. "And yes." Her brow furrowed. "About how long does this last? Didn't get a clear answer from anyone on the forums."
She laughed at his awkward apology. She couldn't help being a little giddy. "Nothing I haven't heard before."
Glad he hadn’t offended her, the knight relaxed again. He flashed her an easy smile. “Oh, good. Wouldn’t wanna ruin your virgin ears,” Lancelot teased before thinking over her question. It meant reflecting on some less than pleasant memories.
“Welp... We could be here anywhere from a week to a whole month, depending on how long they wanna toy with us. But it could be worse. S'been a lot worse,” he replied, hoping to provide her with some consolation.
Still without any suspicion he was chatting up his former lover, he extended a handshake. “I’m Lancelot, by the way.”
Gwynevere stepped forward, an introduction with her incarnation's name just on her lips. However, as she did so, she unwittingly passed under a sprig of mistletoe.
She paused. The thoughts were not entirely her own, and they came with a power she was helpless to stop. Lancelot was so handsome - sinful, even, where Arthur was adorable. Those lips - they looked absolutely sensual.
"Come closer," she uttered. Her tone was low, sultry, one she hadn't used in a long, long time.
Lancelot felt like he was under her spell the moment she used that voice on him. It was familiar, somehow, but he couldn’t place it. Or, maybe he didn’t want to. The knight pushed off the door frame and stepped closer. He still wouldn’t mind that kiss, but he wasn’t in a hurry to get it. Teasing it out of her, that could be more fun.
“You gonna whisper it in my ear?” he asked, standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her body.
"If you make it worth my while," Gwynevere drawled, looking up at him with a challenge in her eyes.
Were she in a more rational state of mind, she would have run far, far away, realizing the mistletoe was yet another of this apartment's oddities. As it was, she was far too addled by the sprig's effects to consider anything other than getting that damned kiss.
“Think I can manage that,” Lancelot replied, his eyes dancing with mischief. He reached forward, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “Shall I sing a song for you? Dance? Seems to be popular up on some of the floors.”
He knew he was playing with her. Teasing her. He never would have acted this way with a perfect stranger, but the mistletoe was bringing out the darker qualities in a knight who had seduced a Queen and betrayed their King.
Unconsciously, Gwynevere leaned into his touch. "I was thinking of something a little more pleasurable."
And that, really, was all he needed to hear. Lancelot cupped her cheek, tilting her mouth to just the right angle before he leaned down and kissed her. Her lips were even softer than he imagined. When he pulled back, it was hard not to immediately dive back in for another.
“Something like that?” he asked, voice husky.
It seemed the mistletoe had been appeased. Logic returned to Gwynevere with all the collisional force of a meteor. His kiss had been perfect, absolutely perfect, and she knew the familiarity was won with a practice he was yet unaware of.
Bewildered, she took a few steps back. What worth was hiding her identity now? At least, if he knew who she was, he would understand her trepidation.
"Gwynevere," she said softly, turning away. "My name is Gwynevere."
Why did she look so ashamed? His confusion was lost in a flash when she spoke her name and revealed her true self. Emotions he hadn’t feel in years – centuries – all rushed back, hitting him harder than a bag of bricks. Lancelot stepped back, stunned.
He was at a complete loss for words.
All he could think about was Arthur. His friendship with Arthur. Would it be lost now that she had returned? And Elaine. Lord, if she found out about this, he’d be in big trouble. Galahad. His son. What would they think, knowing that he still wanted Gwynevere?
“That,” his voice was gruff, “will be the last kiss we share, my Queen.”
"My lord, we shall not kiss now, or ever; and I pray you depart," Gwynevere said, quoting herself in a dull voice. She exhaled sharply, her hands coming up to massage her temples. "I know the drill, Sir Lancelot."
Ironic that they ended their previous lives' relationship with his begging for a kiss and started their new one with hers. Gwynevere couldn't tell if the symmetry was an omen of good fortune or bad.
Hands resuming their place at her sides, she eyed him warily. There were a fair number of things she wanted to ask him. But one question persisted above all. Did her death really send him into such sorrow, enough to ensure his death? But she could not ask that, no. Her last words had been a prayer to never again see this man with earthly eyes, and it had not taken long for her to cross herself. To stray too far again into the realm of temptation was only asking for misery.
Her eyes flicked momentarily to the mistletoe. Gwynevere took another step back, just to be sure, then returned her cautious gaze to the knight. "I gather you have... reconciled with our King?"
Those words. They had haunted him until his death in his previous life.
“I have,” Lancelot answered, half sighing the words. He scrubbed a hand down his face. What the fuck were they supposed to do now? “And he’s not going to like this. Even if it was an accident.”
"I wouldn't say it was an accident. Whoever brings us here delights in giving us difficulty." Gwynevere's first instinct was to decide that Arthur did not need to know. But that was far too close to her early mistakes.
Now that Lancelot, of all people, knew who she was, dissembling was difficult. She'd always been transparent with him, if her tantrums alone were anything to go by. "He has his woman, anyway," she muttered under her breath. "It's not like - "
Gwynevere paused. She had made the first move. Mistletoe or not, she had to remember to own up for whatever mistakes she made. Learning how to do this would be crucial for her penance. No more blaming extraneous factors. "I'm sorry," she said, pursing her lips and looking down. "I should have found some way to resist."
Hadn’t they said that before too? Revisiting so many old emotions and memories at once brought a thin, mirthless smile to the knight’s face. “S’not all your fault.” Lancelot shook his head. He couldn’t let his Queen take all the blame. He hated to see her frown that way, but stayed his hand from reaching out and lifting up her chin. If he couldn’t resist her now, there would be trouble.
“It’s true, he has no claim over you now, but I think we can both agree the only way to make this right is to tell him what happened and move on, yeah?”
Gwynevere exhaled sharply. Arthur had every claim over her in this life, by her own choice. She'd condemned herself to doing whatever she could to bolster him.
All the same, Lancelot's humorless smile was a stab to her heart. In one life, he'd been her soulmate. Did she have the same soul now? Or -
No, another taboo.
"I'll tell him." A pause, a stolen glance. Hesitation. "Have you... been well in this life? The ones before it?"
Small chat? As much as Lancelot wanted to leave, he nodded out of respect for his Queen. “Yeah, I’ve done pretty well for myself, I guess. What about you?”
There were a lot of questions he would have liked to ask her, but he knew better than to ask them all. The sooner they were apart, the better. Lancelot wouldn’t be tempted to kiss that sweet mouth again if he couldn’t see it.
Gwynevere shook her head. "I just - " She hesitated. But it was not like they would have what they had before. The moment they parted ways, she would be alone, and he would return to his wife and child. That was... as things should be. This was a last drop of affection before he returned to filial bliss and she returned to.... nothing. "I just needed to know you were okay."
She began to approach the door, carefully circumventing the seemingly innocent sprig of mistletoe on the ceiling. She was taken by surprise when her fingers were grazed by the leaves' sharp ends despite her efforts. Turning to look at where her fingers had caught, she realized there'd been another sprig on one of the tables.
Gwynevere stilled. She would not move another inch closer to Lancelot.
"Please stand back. Away from the door," she requested without turning, voice choked and weary. All the better that she could not see him.
Lancelot frowned, but didn’t press her. He made no move to stop her. His Queen – she needed to go before he made another mistake that wasn’t an accident.
“Of course,” he said gruffly, stepping back as she requested. Respectfully, he bowed his head. “Have a good night, my Queen.”
Gwynevere turned back to see his head bowed. The urge to grasp both sides of that beautifully blonde head and kiss that surrender away... It was almost violent. Harshly, Gwynevere bit her lower lip, almost drawing blood.
She might as well say her goodbyes before proximity addled her brain any further. "I'm no longer a queen, Lancelot." It was the most painful of truths. If Gwynevere had had any worth in her past life, it was because she was queen and because she truly loved Lancelot. The former was no longer so, and the latter... It could not be. "But I wish the same for you."
Biting her lip once more, Gwynevere proceeded as gracefully as she could toward the exit. Despite his stepping back, she still had to near him as she made her way out. As she drew closer to him, her fingernails dug into her palms. Closing her eyes tightly, she began to pray mentally. This would pass. This too would pass.
“And I’m no longer a knight, but you still called me Sir,” Lancelot said simply. His sad smile remained as she walked past him. “So, my Queen you’ll stay.”
Pausing at the threshold, Gwynevere allowed herself one last glimpse. With doleful eyes, she tried to memorize his features. His smile - sad enough to match hers. Why did all their raggedy edges fit? "If only that were true."
The urge to kiss him was becoming overwhelming. Without any more ceremony, Gwynevere walked out the door and did not look back.