Gwynevere ♕ Geula Sinclair (vivatregina) wrote in mythopoeics, @ 2012-02-26 15:38:00 |
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The past week had been unbearable. First with the stabbing, and then the arrest of Gwynevere. Granted, there hadn't been much to go by, but at the time, it had been enough. They had only wanted someone to be held for the crime against the prince. Even if, it seemed, it wasn't the right person.
Now moreso than ever, he was convinced the Glasthein princess was not their culprit. Even without evidence, it was his heart and head that felt inclined toward giving her the benefit of the doubt. After all, what motive would she have had? This was not Svarga. Striking the Svargan prince would've made more sense. But in Camlann? The pieces didn't fit.
It was the dress they'd found, not the alibi, that sealed the deal for Hector. The scent of the fabric was foreign to him. It was cold, as if it didn't truly belong to anyone. Cold and unlike Gwynevere's scent, which he believed he could recognize in an instant. Despite being of Glastheim, she smelled of spring. A comforting scent, even for him.
The comparison of the hairs found upon the dress and those taken from a hairbrush (acquired from a guard; he hadn't found the time to visit in those days) further proved that something was not right. No motive, no solid proof to truly keep her held, an alibi to corroborate her story. Not to mention the letter -- it was too vague. Gwynevere was no assassin. Hector had to believe that.
As he knocked upon her chamber door, he couldn't help but wonder if it was his heart that had led him here.
Glastheim was burning.
Gwynevere had no way of contacting her brother (Did he even know what had held her in Camlann? Did he even care?) or anyone in Glastheim, for that matter. But she knew to listen to the hushed whispers exchanged between the maids that brought her food and replaced her sheets. They were careful, but the very idea of being in the presence of a murderer had them jittery, nervous. Careless.
Though she was no true murderer, she would gladly have become one given the chance to lay her hands upon the blackguards who'd set her city to flames. Death was right. After all, if Gwynevere had set her mind to it, she could have overseen the Svargan ploy from Glastheim. Additionally, her cover, that of diplomatic well wishes for the happy couples, lost its use when the Camlann-Mictlan marriages collapsed.
She should have stayed home. Her fingers tightened on the fabric on her skirt, uncaring of wrinkles. Her brother's reign was so new - too new to suffer a blemish like this one. How was he dealing without her to ameliorate the debacle? There were Death and War, Gwynevere did not doubt, but neither could be what she was to the king. Not even Sigyn had a chance in hell of understanding Heimdall like she did, of complementing Heimdall's failings the way she did.
The train of worried thoughts was brought to a screeching halt by sudden raps upon her door. Gwynevere paused, closing her eyes to compose herself. Her mindset had to shift from Glastheim to here and now. There was nothing she could do for Glastheim if she could not attend to herself. She had no idea how to solidify her alibi, but if circumstance could not speak for her, her bearing would.
When she opened the door, her heart lurched. "My lord," she said, words pleasant but eyes frigid. "Do you require further testimony?"
He expected this, that she should react so coldly to his presence. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that their relationship had been ruined, but a distant hope ensured him not all was lost. Whatever their relationship was; they had never given it a name. Now Hector could feel it crumbling between his fingers.
In return, his eyes were far from icy. "We require no further testimony. I've--" He was tired of playing the right-hand around her. His voice softened. "I've come to release you."
She could go home? Back to her brother, her people? These thoughts, coupled with the sudden warmth on his end, disarmed her so utterly that, for a moment, her own guard dropped.
"What?" Gwynevere said, a hand resting over her heart, as if it palpitated so jubilantly it could not be contained. "But - how?"
"We have no further reason to keep you here, my lady," Hector informed her with that same soft tone. One he reserved only for those he truly cared about, and as of that moment, it was only two women. Only one of whom could know with a certainty that his love would never waver.
"Your region needs you. Your family needs you." There came a pause where he sincerely considered sputtering out an apology, but it was only his duty. Duty never needed to be apologized for. Did it?
"Do you?"
The traitorous words came out unbidden. Gwynevere flushed - one part embarrassment and two parts anger. Here was a man who'd filled her head with promises he hadn't the wherewithal to keep. "How was this proven?" she added, again all distant cordiality, hoping another question would erase the existence of the first.
That first question startled Hector some, and it showed in his face. He, too, had allowed a fair portion of his guard to crumble, as it often could around her. Of course he did. How did she not know? But rather than stumbling over an answer just yet, he tended to her second question.
"By comparison. It was a very... meticulous process." To say the very least. There was a pause. "If you felt shamed by this, or that your free will was taken advantage of, then know that I did not mean for it." Hector took a breath.
"And I do, Gwynevere."
"As long as the record shows I played no part in this," Gwynevere said tersely. There was no way she could have wanted any ill on the people of Camlann, much less its prince. But she wasn't as angry as she could have been. One of the reasons for her having come to Camlann was to search for her father's murderer. Her own grief and desire for justice soothed her indignation.
So much so that it quivered in the face of his admission, which was more than any man barring family had ever given her. She'd asked a question that sent most unshackled men running, but here Hector stood. Too inconsistent - only one week before, she'd felt bereft, even abandoned by him. Now, he was stalwart and unyielding. Words of both anger and affection vied for their chance to be heard, but Gwynevere could not choose which to speak. Deliberating, she gazed at him, awed into silence.
Hector contemplated a sigh, and then thought against it. Through his peripheral vision, he couldn't quite tell if anyone was within hearing distance, but if so, he lowered his voice to be safe. Gossip could spread so easily within the walls of the palace, what with the varied staff, who only had gossip to satisfy them.
"I can't claim to know how you felt, or feel now. If there was ever trust between us, then duty saw fit to destroy it," he began in as quiet a voice as he could manage without whispering. "I made you a promise once. A promise I intend to keep if you allow it."
"I don't know," Gwynevere replied, her eyes falling shut. Her tone was just as soft as his; she was too weary to fight. "Time, Hector. Give me time."
And it was time that he would give her. With a nod, he touched his fingers to the other door, resting them there hesitantly. His words, however, were firm.
"Would you prefer for me to leave?"
Gwynevere raised a hand to cover his fingers. She wasn't being fair, but soon enough they would have mles and miles in between them. Yes, she was angry. A large part of her did want to cast him away. But to do so, she realized, would cause irreparable damage. While she needed time to ensure that his affection truly did hold, Gwynevere wasn't about to go burning bridges.
"Stay." The metaphorical door was closed, but by no means was it locked.
Those soft, smaller fingers were taken in Hector's, clasped in a loose grip so as not to frighten Gwynevere away with his touch. Her walls had come up, and he could clearly sense it. But in time, he would chip at them, as best as one could from a distance.
Because some walls couldn't stand forever.