Gwynevere ♕ Geula Sinclair (vivatregina) wrote in mythopoeics, @ 2012-03-01 16:34:00 |
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Current location: | backdated! |
Entry tags: | !mini-log, !zurvan, gwynevere, heimdall |
1O.
Gwynevere wasn't a princess. She was a queen - the queen of Camelot. The barren queen who had damned her own kingdom through love.
She would have been better off never remembering. All at once a rush of remorse and memories aged Gwynevere, removing her from the idealistic young princess she'd been in Glastheim. No, she was a woman, a traitor-queen, at once both the lowest and highest of all women. How could she have forgotten? The memories of her people's dying screams once more echoed through her memories, so stark and so painful Gwynevere thought it impossible they could ever have been silenced.
She descended from her carriage, numb and conflicted. And ashamed. Would Heimdall be waiting at the palace steps for her? Heimdall... Heimdall was a god. One whose function she could not expressly recall, but a god nevertheless. How would he feel about having a whore for a sister? The thought was a pick of ice through her heart.
But Gwynevere would not show weakness. Head raised high, she made her way to the palace steps. Real or not, Glastheim was a kingdom she had duty to. One whose king she would not fail the way she'd failed her first.
It hadn’t been the first time Heimdall had had his life turned upside down. It hadn’t been his first life either, though he normally remembered the end of the one before so the next wouldn’t upset him awfully. This time, however, everything had been too abrupt. One moment he was himself, Allaway, Heimdall, a human and a former God; in the next, he sat on a throne with a crown on his head married to Aubrey of all people. Aubrey, she was to him. Because if he thought her to be Sigyn, the rest of his sanity might as well follow.
He ignored everyone as he sat by himself, trying to place some order in his thoughts. Half of him was indeed Heimdall, the King of these people, of a land as cold as the one he had once guarded. The other was the Gatekeeper and that one spoke higher, battled and raged against whatever was happening. Why, how, when and for what? Norns guide him, his sister was named Gwynevere. Did that mean what he thought?
“My Lord. Your sister has arrived.”
A sister. The thought was as alien to the God as it was familiar to the King. The affection was there and he wasn’t about to ignore it. He had been worried for her, after all. Ever since he had known of the near murder of the prince (Samael, wasn’t that some kind of angel?) and Freyja’s blunt words about her possible culpability (Freyja, Freyja as a queen. Wasn’t that appropriate?). Heimdall walked down the stairs, through the halls without looking back until he reached that final door and stepped outside.
He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. He was suddenly gripping for one of the good things this mess had thrown his way.
“You’re late.”
"I'm sorry."
Gwynevere stood before him, aching to hold him yet hesitant. She had missed him so much, had worried over him as much as she had over the region. But were he shaken by revelations just as she was, such familiarity might not be welcome. Even if she needed it more than anything.
Gwynevere took a deep breath, keeping her bearing tall and regal. "I was framed and accused of a crime I didn't commit." She paused. "But there are many others that I have committed.
"I am Gwynevere, queen and ruination of Camelot."
“I know. I know the stories.”
It wasn’t too late to teach her that Heimdall had never been a King. He was a guard, the watchman, the Gatekeeper of Asgard. That meant formality was far from his alley. As way blaming others for past mistakes. If anything he had failed in his duty towards his own homeland. It had fallen, after all.
“My city was laid to waste too. If I’m not taking revenge because of that one, it’s unlikely I’ll bother with a place I’ve never seen, Gwen.” Well, wasn’t for now. His memory ran deep and there was no doubt in his mind Loki would linger at some point. It didn’t matter then and there though. Heimdall opened his arms and waited for her to get the hint, an eyebrow raised in questioning. “I’d accept it before I change my mind and decide I look like an idiot.”
With a strained but sincere laugh, Gwynevere allowed herself to fall into Heimdall's arms. He felt so warm, simply being near him was a comfort she was inexpressibly thankful for.
"You are my brother," she whispered fiercely. "You are always my brother."
As Heimdall, he had had no brothers or sisters. He was the single child with more mothers than any sane man would wish to deal with. Was it any wonder that he was attached to this blonde chit, regal and formal and still this vulnerable? Not really. At least, not in his mind. He closed his arms around her, head resting against her hair in a familiar (and unfamiliar) gesture.
“Silly brat,” he whispered roughly. “Then why were you so worried? You think you were the only one doing some odd choice during your life? I’m older, probably did much more than you.” His arms tightened a little more, actually restful because she was finally there and he had begun to count on it. Especially through the last days, between fire and poison, death and disease. And he had worried she was fine, safe, not wondering whether he was alright or not. “You’re my sister. Whatever anyone says. Got it?”
Gwynevere too had not had any siblings in any of her lives. Cousins, yes. Some she'd kept too close. Camelot was big and lonely, so she had clung to the likes Guiomar and Elibel with a grip that might have been harsh and unyielding. Such was the way she held Heimdall, but his words assured her he needed her just as much as she needed him. They were both being selfish, and that was justifiable.
"Historians don't have you pinned down as a mess." But even as Gwynevere protested, his words soothed her. He did not judge her nor did he hold her mistakes against her. In his gruffly humble way, he even dared some self-deprecating humor. Ah, she would do something about that. She would make him see how much he was worth and how much he meant to her. Just as he was doing for her.
Gwynevere pulled back to look him in the eye. "Got it." A grin lit up the face that had only moments ago been so somber. "Definitely got it."