Gwynevere ♕ Geula Sinclair (vivatregina) wrote in mythologs, @ 2011-12-29 18:53:00 |
|
|||
Current music: | The Beatles discography~ |
[closed/complete]
Characters: Arthur Pendragon (rexquefuturus) and Gwynevere (vivatregina)
Date/Time: December 23rd
Location: The Lobby
Rating: Low
Warnings: Angst and awkward situations. And singing.
Summary: The King and Queen of Camelot on life, love, and the Beatles.
Arthur jogged down the stairs, avoiding any strangely-placed mistletoe. He didn’t have the time to build another fort and, anyway, it wouldn’t be as good as the first one. He shook himself. Now was not the time to be thinking about such things.
As invariably happened these days, Arthur found himself thinking of Polyxena. He didn’t want to hurt her, ever. He had stated his intentions to her, quite clearly, and he lived in the hope that she might accept them. But Gwynevere. She was - or had been - Arthur’s wife. He was not so blinded as to think that she was the sole architect of Camelot’s fall; so many of them had to take a fair share of that claim, Arthur most of all.
While now was not the time to revisit the why of it all, and he certainly didn’t want to think of the how, he did briefly wonder if Lancelot knew of Gwynevere’s return. Somehow, Arthur didn’t think so. They had drunk enough together to have been quite frank with each other. If Gwynevere was here and Lancelot knew about it, Arthur would know, too. He had to trust to that much or there was no redemption.
With a deep breath, he pushed open the door at the foot of the stairs. The lobby seemed unthreatening but Arthur knew always to be on his guard. The tree was rustling, which was a little unsettling until he saw two squirrels chasing each other up and down its trunk. He thought squirrels hibernated. Thus distracted, he stepped further into the lobby.
Gwynevere was losing it. She couldn’t understand the whys or wherefores of her sudden attack of nausea. Hadn’t she spent the last few years steeling herself up for this? Hadn’t she come to bloody New York for this?
It wasn’t like he could send her to the fire again.
… Could he?
Oh Lord. No, this couldn’t do. Now was not the time to be procrastinating in the stairwell, nervously picking at her hair. It was almost comical, how she’d gone from distraught woman to panicking teenager at the drop of a hat. She was sorely tempted to spend another ten minutes berating herself for her silliness, but it was imperative she face him now and hold herself with all the dignity she could muster.
Gwynevere had to remember that, above all, she had sinned greatly against this man. What she should feel was an eagerness to serve, to submit herself to his judgment. This insipid behavior had no place in the dealings she would have with Arthur henceforth. She may not have been the best wife or queen, but perhaps in the near future, she would function wonderfully in some capacity. Any capacity. Geula Sinclair... She was nothing but a tool for her King’s disposal.
Putting on her best poker face despite her red-rimmed eyes, she finally threw open the door and ventured out into the lobby. To distract herself, she tried to focus on the superficial. Returning to a topic she often went over in her head, Gwynevere wondered how Arthur appeared in this life. A blonde? Brunette? Tall? Short? Lanky? Stocky? Distracted just as much as Arthur was, and having no idea what he looked like, she nearly stumbled into him as she paced around the large tree.
Arthur automatically put out his hands to grasp Gwynevere’s shoulders, just to keep her from colliding with him. As quickly, he released her, recognising in an instant that she was Gwynevere, whether his or Lancelot’s (or perhaps her own).
“My Queen,” he said, inclining his head, and a fall of curls tumbled down over his forehead. With practised ease, he pushed them out of his eyes. Perhaps there was something imperious in how he looked at her, but his expression, though grave, was kind. She seemed so young but, then again, he supposed he was young, too. He couldn’t ignore how his heart had begun to speed up, as any number of emotions (carefully masked) rushed through him. Wife and traitor, advisor, friend and foe. More than Mordred, more than Lancelot, this was the meeting that concerned him the most.
Sucking in a breath, Gwynevere followed her first instinct - which was to back off quickly. She’d been abducted far too many times to be comfortable with a man’s hands on hers, however momentarily, and this stranger was no different from others. But the moment he addressed her served to distinguish him from all other men in the world.
“Arthur,” she breathed, amazed. The moment was entirely surreal, though she’d yet to entirely escape panic’s cloying grasp. He was so full of youth, of life - adorable, even, with his head of curls. Markedly different from the severe, weary man she’d lost to battle. Battle of her own doing. Gwynevere was quick to school her features back into their original, bland arrangement, mirroring his somewhat strict facade. “My King.”
Arthur who, by Lancelot’s account, tended to be long-winded, found himself at a loss for words. It was hard to know if he’d have recognised Gwynevere if he hadn’t been looking for her. It made his stomach squirm to think that he might have walked past her in the street. Had he walked past her? Here in New York, or in London, or anywhere in the world.
“Happy Christmas,” he said, his voice soft, though not unsure.
“Thank you,” Gwynevere replied, her voice equally quiet. “Merry Christmas.”
There was so much she wanted to say to him, but she had no idea how she was to articulate all that she felt. All the plans she’d drawn up in her head had somehow disappeared, leaving her clueless and bereft. Where to begin? Oh, there were pretty nothings, sentiments often enough expressed in succinct yet paltry terms: I’m sorry; I love you; I’ve made my mistakes; I promise I’ve changed; I’ll do better; I regret; I can’t change the past. However, none of the words man had so pitifully hackneyed could convey the gravity of how wrong she’d been and how much she cared for her King. How badly she wanted to put her life into his hands.
But maybe Gwynevere didn’t have to get there right away. At the very least, she could ascertain her King’s welfare. Her words were a little louder, measured but sincere. “Has this life been treating you well?”
“This life has been treating me to many surprises,” said Arthur. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze still traveling over her. The more he saw, the more he felt that, yes, he would know her. “There are many of us here, as I gather you have seen.”
He paused. Then he took her by the elbow and indicated a couch on which they could sit down more comfortably. Not one to avoid the issue, even if he wasn’t precisely economical with his words, he said, “Lancelot is here. Mordred, too. Many of my knights, in truth.” Another pause. “I can assure your safety, though, or they will have me to answer to.”
There was no doubt that, in his mind and in his bearing, Arthur was still king, even if he owned no land and wore no crown. “And you. What brought you to New York?” Our little prison, he wanted to add, but didn’t.
Gwynevere bristled inwardly at how familiarly he grasped her elbow and led her around. It was nothing against Arthur himself, but she was never quite comfortable with being told what to do. Moreover, her time in the nunnery and in this life had led to a distinct discomfort around men.
But she could work through it, she knew. She had to. If only for Arthur.
“You need not worry about that, my King. I have met Mordred, and he is a most excellent colleague to have.” Despite her distaste for his slights against Arthur, that much was the truth. He was perfectly polite and capable. On that front, she had no complaints. If Arthur was going to have to rein in anyone, it’d be Elaine. But what sort of queen was she if she was to bring such petty matters to her king?
She decided she wasn’t going to even think about Lancelot. She hadn’t met him yet, and all would be well if things remained that way for the meantime. “I’ve met Tristan, Morgan, and Agravaine, as well. Tristan has been most helpful.” She paused. “He... he told you of my presence here, didn’t he?”
Gwynevere hesitated. “I was -” For all her pretty remorse, she still had pride in spades. There was a little more reluctance before the next words came out. “- looking for you.”
Arthur looked faintly surprised but, really, he shouldn’t have been. Gwynevere had never been cowardly, though perhaps her actions in the past had not been the most circumspect. Arthur could not speak of love as an excuse or explanation for her actions; that she loved Lancelot and that he loved her were facts, it seemed, but even love could not excuse what they had done. Still, if Arthur could forge a new alliance with Lancelot, in spite of that great betrayal, he must surely be able to do the same with the woman who was his wife.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he said, after a while. “Being faced with the fact that our lives coexist once more.” He nodded. “But, yes, Tristan told me because I asked. He is a fine knight, still.” Arthur, at least, was certain of that; Tristan, Gawain and Galahad remained exemplary. Camelot still breathed, in a way, and here, now, her King and Queen sat on a couch in a strange building in the twenty-first century.
He did not ask what she thought of him; Gwynevere’s opinion of him certainly mattered but he was not the sort to seek approval. He was too used to being the one whose approval was sought. There was a rather familiar, lopsided grin on his face. “This is a rather different yuletide, isn’t it?” He looked at the tree, rustling with any manner of wildlife.
“Nothing worth having comes easily.” Gwynevere said this with the knowledge that her life henceforth would be fraught with struggle and difficulty. This life was penance, and penance was worth everything. It stood to reason that the challenges to come would be herculean.
“I cannot fault him that,” Gwynevere assured firmly. “His loyalty to his King is admirable. ” That, and Tristan had been the only person of her previous life to treat her with kindness. Were she as weak-willed as she had once been, she would have ran to him the moment she’d arrived at this godforsaken place. But she was determined to be independent in this life, no matter how disastrous the results. If no harm came to anyone barring herself, all was well.
Arthur’s almost childlike grin unwittingly soothed Gwynevere’s tension. Allowing herself to loosen up, she leaned against the back of the couch. “Does this happen often?” she asked, some humor in her voice. “Being whisked away by forces unknown?”
Arthur rubbed his cheek. “Too often, truth be told. Something happens, at least once a month.” He squinted as he contemplated the various incidents and episodes to which he and their acquaintances had been subjected. “We were trapped in a hotel before Hallowe’en. It got rather hairy.”
Arthur swallowed, a bit thickly. “People have died but they’ve come back, within days.” Oh, Polyxena; though she was alive still, Arthur felt guilty. “Strange things happen that make us act not like ourselves. Odd compulsions.”
He turned to look at Gwynevere. “We are little more than marionettes, I fear.” He gestured at the lobby. “This seems one of their more benign tricks.”
Arthur seemed greatly distressed by what happened in the past. Gwynevere found no trouble believing this was among the kinder evils to have passed. Realizing they were looking at each other, she turned to face the lobby as he gestured. His gaze unsettled her. What is it that he saw when he looked at her?
Gwynevere resisted a cringe. Nothing good, most likely. “From what I’ve seen, I doubt they’re fans of charity, much less Yuletide spirit. In my honest opinion, there’s worse trouble brewing.” She pursed her lips. “But even if I were correct, we’d have no means of preparation.”
Her voice trailed off slightly, taking on a more thoughtful tone. “There have been no clues as to their motivations?”
Arthur looked rather tired when he spoke. “Mischief and malice.” He shrugged. “I do not know why else they would toy with us. There are so many here, as I’m sure you’ve seen, from Archangels to Norse and Greek gods.”
His lopsided smile was back, self-deprecating as ever. “I’m afraid, my dear, that we are mere mortals.” He closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch, and then opened them to look up at the mercifully mistletoe-free ceiling. “Tell me. When did you remember your previous life? Or lives, indeed.”
Gwynevere frowned at the jadedness in his voice. That was quickly checked, but nonetheless the sentiment behind it lingered. She was not overly fond of anything that tried her King, hypocritical as that was.
“This has been my only rebirth, my lord,” she said softly. By God did she wish that there had been no rebirth at all. “I began remembering the nunnery when I turned twenty-one.” Her hands turned into fists on her lap. The first memory had been of her first visit to his grave. The first visit of countless. How disconcerting it was to feel him near, warm and alive. “The memories have progressed quickly since then. Some details remain fuzzy, but the visions here have been insistent on rectifying that.” She smiled wryly. Such a kind way to phrase the torture she’d undergone. “How many lives have you led thus far?”
“Hm?” asked Arthur, though he had been listening. “Oh. This is my - fifth life, in total. I’ve always been an Englishman and I’ve always been Arthur. I have always grown up knowing who or what I am.” Another shrug and then he stretched out his legs in front of him. “I’ve not always been the most pleasant of individuals, or the kindest.”
(But then Arthur was the man who agreed that the slaughter of infants was a wise precaution; he was no better than Herod and he, too, had a great deal for which to repent.) “This has been the first life in which I’ve encountered others. I have felt rather like a skimming stone until now; touching into life only occasionally. I daresay I shall sink, sooner or later.”
“We all will.” Gwynevere dared not to believe this would go on forever. There had to be an end, one way or another. “But, this life. How have things been with...” She paused, making a circular gesture with her right hand. “The former citizens of Camelot? There have been no problems with the Houses of Ban and Orkney?”
What limited influence she’d had at court she’d spent in trying to keep the peace between those two factions. It was a most painful irony that her indiscretions with a member of the House of Ban would serve to thwart not only her efforts in keeping peace within the Round Table, but also Arthur’s efforts in keeping Camelot from harm’s way.
Again, Arthur smiled, though it was a little forced. “They will never be best friends, by any stretch, but Mordred and Lancelot did work together, with me, some time ago to rescue a damsel in distress.” He rubbed his cheek. “One must hope that chivalry will hold fast, in spite of the different faces we must wear.”
Still gazing at the ceiling, he hesitated before speaking again, “I think - I hope - that they still understand the high standards to which I hold them. My nephews are good men, though it sometimes is not always so evident.”
“Would this be the Trojan princess?” Gwynevere asked. To her credit, her voice was entirely without any inflection indicating hostility. She didn’t have the right to be angry, even if all she wanted to do was throw a tantrum. “And before you ask, the explanation for my awareness is quite simple: literacy.”
Gwynevere sighed. “People like adhering to your standards, my King. It’s part and parcel of...” She wanted to gesture at him in his entirety, but that would look ridiculous from her position on the couch. “It’s you.” A pause to regain her bearings before she started pulling her hair out. “Your kinsmen would understand entirely.”
Arthur’s eyes flew open. He replied very carefully. “No, in that instance the damsel was in the form of a Horseman. He is kin to Galahad in this life and so we were rather caught up in that whole affair. It is strange to speak so casually of Horsemen and Angels and everything.”
He fell silent again. He could not ignore the mention of Polyxena, any more than he could acknowledge Gwynevere’s impression of his worth. He wasn’t sure how to tell her that she might be astute and smart but he was not worth such credit. “The Trojan Princess - she is very dear to me.”
“I didn’t realize you’d expanded damsel to include men,” Gwynevere said dryly. Brit, through and through. “But I embrace the modern way of thinking.”
Gwynevere didn’t care what the damned woman was or what she was worth. Gwynevere was Queen of Camelot. Even if she’d been nothing but worthless and barren, she’d tried her damnedest as a monarch. She may have failed as a wife, with no child or fidelity to her name, but she was the queen. The Round Table was her gift and her duty to safeguard. She was the queen -
“I support you entirely, my King.”
In some measure, it was the truth. She was nothing in this life. Not even a queen. Gwynevere bit her cheek to keep from letting her emotions bleed through. She was not even a queen. She was Arthur’s in whatever capacity, but not his queen. Not. The. Queen. “Her myth would say... Her will is stronger than her heart. She was noble to sacrifice herself for the Achaean hero. She is good.”
Arthur was sombre. “She is good. She is pure of heart and strong of will. She is one who should have been a queen but for the betrayal of men.” Now was not the time to dwell on Polyxena’s virtues, he knew, but he could not help but defend her.
Now, his smile was wry. He could no sooner think of Gwynevere as a subject than he could forget that she was a queen, for all her misdeeds. He wondered, though, about her feelings, now. He had not even begun to extricate his feelings for her when he had been angry with her for so long. If he could rebuild a relationship with Lancelot, though, he must be able to do the same with Gwynevere. He was King and he could be gracious. A trickle of unease ran through him as he wondered what was to happen between Lancelot and Gwynevere now. Arthur was not so pure or good a man as to wish them well, but neither was he cruel enough to wish them unhappiness. God, this was a fine mess.
“And now she will be a queen,” she replied flatly. There was only so much Gwynevere could give in one day, no matter how much she wanted to lay everything on the line for Arthur in one go.
With an arched eyebrow, Arthur faced his wife (former wife, he did not know). Still cautious, though his lips curved into a very wry smile. "She should be a queen, most assuredly, but whether I am a good enough man to be her king remains to be seen." He held up a hand, forestalling any interruptions. "And that is my assessment, not hers. I do not expect you to be kind about her, Gwynevere, and neither do I expect you to forgive me this betrayal, but -"
What could he say? That Gwynevere, of all people, should understand the vagaries of love? He sighed and rose to his feet. With a practised motion, though it was not a gesture he had performed in this life, he knelt on one knee before her and pressed his lips to her knuckles, before resting his forehead against her hand, like a subject before his queen. "I do not ask forgiveness," he said, stubbornly.
It was rather unfortunate that he had moved into the direct line of a sprig of mistletoe. "It's just ..." His voice changed. "Take a sad song and make it better-"
Well. That was new.
Gwynevere wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him down on one knee, her hand grasped in his. It was so easy to pretend that they could just start over, that there was no Polyxena, no Lancelot, that she could set fire to the world until all that remained were Arthur and herself -
But those were dreams not meant to be. Assuring and comforting words hovered at the edge of her tongue. She had to tell him that she was his, if not as a queen then as a knight, ready to lay down her life for him even if it meant acknowledging this Trojan usurper -
Was he singing? Even glassy-eyed and hurting, Gwynevere could not help but laugh. Could Arthur be any more adorable?
Strung along by affection for Arthur rather than the mistletoe's pull, she continued onto the next lines of the song. "Remember to let her into your heart," she sang softly. "Then you can make it better."
Fitting, that. Somehow, the song encompassed everything she wanted to say.
Arthur really didn't have a choice but Hey Jude made for a very appropriate duet, as it turned out. He pulled Gwynevere to her feet, inadvertently tugging her into direct line with the offending, offensive plant. His singing voice wasn't great but it was good enough to manage as much of the Beatles' discography as could be squeezed into the three hours of the mistletoe-effect. Every song seemed to lend itself to the occasion although the very idea of the King and Queen of Camelot belting out Beatles classics sounded rather like someone's bad dream.
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Sorrows forgotten, Gwynevere held on to his hands as she sang along with wherever his fancy went. His hands were warm, his voice was warm - she wanted to sink into everything that he was.
And if only for the next three hours, she would.
Who knows how long I've loved you?
You know I love you still.
Will I wait a lonely lifetime?
If you want me to, I will.