Ἕκτωρ ♚ Vincent King (armystrong) wrote in mythopoeics, @ 2012-02-19 01:11:00 |
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As the guards led the Glasthein princess along, their footsteps echoed with cold foreboding. It was strange, Gwynevere thought, that a place that had only yesterday been so warm was now so unwelcoming. But she understood. The life of a prince was a high price to pay, especially so suddenly and so swiftly. It was by the grace of a higher orchestrator that Prince Samael still lived. Yet Camlann could not be faulted for grieving, and Gwynevere would grieve with it. The Camlannians had received her with warmth and kindness. Even the Princess Polyxena she was so predisposed to hate was beyond castigation.
The thought led her to Mictlan and its recent debacle. (She refused to think specifically of Arthur, of Lancelot, of what that meant and what it made her feel.) She needed to be home soon; there was no telling if Mictlan would turn to its parent region for assistance. Every moment she spent in Camlann was another moment of uncertainty for her dearly beloved region.
But Hector had asked for her, and if it was Hector, she would bear a delay or two with her head held high. Her feelings had bloomed so quickly in the warmth of Camlannian spring - or perhaps it was only the proximity playing games with her tenuous attachment. Gwynevere hesitated to call it 'love', but she knew that, if nothing changed, the pieces would fall into such a place.
Still, the Camlannian right hand did not need to send so grand an escort to have her come to him. Was this about Elaine? Was Elaine all right? Anxiety seeped into Gwynevere's thoughts, but she did not allow herself to show it. She was composed and serene as at last the guards brought her before Hector.
Every precaution had been taken to ensure Freyja's safety, including having guards with her at all times. Hector had taken it upon himself to remain in the presence of his queen, serving as the mediator between anyone who dared speak with her. This was bigger than Samael, who lay in a bed pale from blood loss. This was an attack against the palace, against its sovereigns.
And he would do everything in his power to prevent a single hand from touching the queen.
The letter brought to him by Aeneas' men had shot cold through his heart. It was vague, yes, but the implications were there. For it to be to close to Gwynevere's handwriting -- was it coincidence, or the truth? With only one way to find out, he'd sent for her, fingers still clasping the letter upon her arrival.
He sucked in a sharp breath. "My lady." Ever courteous, this right-hand was. "I apologize for calling on you so suddenly."
Gwynevere had never seen Hector's countenance so severe. Momentarily, she considered approaching him with loving warmth and concern. The idea was shot down immediately. Had this been a moment for tenderness, there would be no guards, no eerie silence. Had this been a moment for tenderness, his courtesy would not leave her feeling terrified.
She retained her cool and serene composure, her words light but formal, "To what do I owe the honor of your summons?"
He was slowly unfolding the letter before her, eyes leaving her face for a moment as if he needed those seconds to assure himself of the truth. When they returned, they were apologetic.
"This was found in your chambers." The letter in question was offered for her to see, yet not to take. "Would you like to explain it?" If this was the two of them, Hector might have been softer, but the guards had not yet taken their leave.
As her eyes scanned the letter, Gwynevere took a moment to evaluate the situation. The letter, while by no means a solid basis for sending her to the gaol, easily put her in a bad light. The handwriting was uncannily similar to hers, and, though she could spot some differences, it would be virtually impossible to prove. All those that could testify on her behalf were Glastheins, and their testimony would hardly be of value in an issue like this.
Hector knew Gwynevere the princess, but he knew nothing of Gwynevere the right hand. This was not how she'd intended to introduce that aspect of herself, but his eyes, however apologetic, could not change the fact that this was an accusation. Not only against her, but also her people.
"What is the case against me, and what are my rights?" she began, her voice frigid but flawlessly polite. Any statements could be used against her - Gwynevere would not carelessly make denials until she was certain of her limits and bounds.
"This letter alone proves little," Hector admitted truthfully, folding it back along its creases without removing his gaze from the princess' face. "Nevertheless, until we can prove it to be genuine, your rights will be temporarily revoked. These men will see to it that you are placed within your chambers for the time being."
There was an uncomfortable electricity in the air. It pricked the hair at the back of his neck.
Forgive me, Gwynevere.
Gwynevere understood that he was doing his duty. But understanding did not mitigate the pain. His words and his lack of faith in her, merited though they may be, were like splinters of ice through her breast. It was unfair of her, but she thought of his promises, his pretty words. Where were they now, when she needed them most?
Still, her gaze was steady and unflinching. "May I request King Heimdall's counsel, at least? All communication between His Majesty and myself will, of course, be directed through you and Her Majesty Queen Freyja."
In his hand, the letter weighed more than it should have. "You have my word that I'll bring the request to Her Majesty." Hector did not have the final say in this. Rather, it was his queen who would make such decisions. However, in Aeneas' absence, it was he who would take the general's position in this house arrest.
Removing his gaze from Gwynevere's face took some effort. "Please escort the princess back to her chambers," he addressed one of the guards, who nodded but didn't take hold of her. This was not meant to be a true arrest -- after all, what substantial evidence did they have against her? A letter. Letters were easily forged, but there was no way to tell.
This was Hector's duty. And duty had never stung so much like salt in a wound.
"You have my sincerest gratitude, my lord." The words were said with all civility, but the 'my lord' was sufficient evidence of the rift duty had wedged between them. Gwynevere turned away with all the grace she could muster, her own counter-accusation left unsaid but painfully tangible.
You lied.
Arthur, father, brother, and now Hector - for all his promises, she'd lost him just as easily as she'd lost all the rest.