1: Night-drunk: Bediverefic
By gileonnen, for eremon_lass. "Sir Bedivere is not a man of destiny."
Night-drunk
She could have been any Gwyneth, really; she could neither read nor write, just like most other maids in this part of the country, and she had every other innkeep's daughter's competence as she doled out bread and cheese. Her hair and eyes were shiningdark, like everyone else's in the inn; like everyone else, she greeted him with a brief nod and a soft "storm's coming."
She could have been anyone, and, deprived of his knightly trappings, so could Bedivere.
They had not actually negotiated over the tumble; they hadn't needed to negotiate. They had only found themselves in the stables after Gwyneth had tidied the front room and after Bedivere had gotten night-drunk on exhaustion and the feeling of lightning massing overhead. She had lain down in the soft hay, and he had knelt before her and lifted her skirts, and afterward (rain was striking the roof by then, wind chilling through the chinks in the woven walls) they had curled up beside each other and waited for the storm to blow past. If Gwyneth expected a trinket for the favor of tumbling a cripple, she didn't ask it; if Bedivere had expected praise for his prowess, he didn't receive it.
He held that memory warm to his chest now, even though it didn't keep out the chill of the rain soaking through his clothing, through his coif and hauberk and into hair, shirt, skin. Gwyneth, named and anonymous, with her black eyes half-lidded and bits of straw collected in her hair (disarranged; he liked it better that way, without artifice); the warm press of her hand against his chest and her chest against his arm. It didn't make the darkness any less hostile or the lightning any less harsh; it didn't help with the ache of new and old wounds in him.
It would have been ironic to pray to Lludd Llaw Ereint, he thought when he couldn’t sustain Gwyneth's face on the rain-swollen, corpse-swollen landscape; the old man's dog would have bitten him as soon as licked whole his wounds.
She or he or they could have been anyone. There was no reason for them to have coupled on the soft straw, and there was no reason for him to have been maimed like the god of healing, and there was no reason why he alone had survived.
Better if there wasn't a destiny, a reason for him to grope along a wall with one hand while the other lay rotted years behind--better if there was no higher purpose for this fool's errand with a dying man's sword.
It had been bright daylight when the first man had drawn his sword this morning; he had seen it glitter against the perfect blue sky. That the storm came now, foreshadowing nothing, reassured him. A storm didn't mean anything but more difficult footing on the way to the lake, and he had already made part of this damned journey twice before turning back--
"--damn you, Gwyneth!" His boot slipped on mud and viscera, and he fell to one knee beside a shattered face. It could have been anyone's, just like his own, and he scrambled up less from distaste than from sympathy.
Gwyneth wasn't to blame. There was no one to blame for this. In that imaginary warm place, Gwyneth let him put his right arm around her and draw her close enough to feel her heart beating just below his own. She hadn't been beautiful, but her face wasn't shattered, and that was almost enough for comfort.
When a jagged seam of lightning stitched the sky, the lake glittered in the next valley--he cursed all but reverently, forcing energy into his legs, dragging himself along the wall to the hill overlooking that expanse of black water that threw back silver flashes in the lightning.
It will be easy to say that a white hand arose from the lake to seize the sword, when he flings it from the hillside into the water; for all he knows, it did. It's too dark to know for certain, and too wind-loud to hear a splash or even a choir of angels.
When lightning flares again, the lake is only shiningdark as Gwyneth's eyes, and just as devoid of destiny.
Night-drunk
She could have been any Gwyneth, really; she could neither read nor write, just like most other maids in this part of the country, and she had every other innkeep's daughter's competence as she doled out bread and cheese. Her hair and eyes were shiningdark, like everyone else's in the inn; like everyone else, she greeted him with a brief nod and a soft "storm's coming."
She could have been anyone, and, deprived of his knightly trappings, so could Bedivere.
They had not actually negotiated over the tumble; they hadn't needed to negotiate. They had only found themselves in the stables after Gwyneth had tidied the front room and after Bedivere had gotten night-drunk on exhaustion and the feeling of lightning massing overhead. She had lain down in the soft hay, and he had knelt before her and lifted her skirts, and afterward (rain was striking the roof by then, wind chilling through the chinks in the woven walls) they had curled up beside each other and waited for the storm to blow past. If Gwyneth expected a trinket for the favor of tumbling a cripple, she didn't ask it; if Bedivere had expected praise for his prowess, he didn't receive it.
He held that memory warm to his chest now, even though it didn't keep out the chill of the rain soaking through his clothing, through his coif and hauberk and into hair, shirt, skin. Gwyneth, named and anonymous, with her black eyes half-lidded and bits of straw collected in her hair (disarranged; he liked it better that way, without artifice); the warm press of her hand against his chest and her chest against his arm. It didn't make the darkness any less hostile or the lightning any less harsh; it didn't help with the ache of new and old wounds in him.
It would have been ironic to pray to Lludd Llaw Ereint, he thought when he couldn’t sustain Gwyneth's face on the rain-swollen, corpse-swollen landscape; the old man's dog would have bitten him as soon as licked whole his wounds.
She or he or they could have been anyone. There was no reason for them to have coupled on the soft straw, and there was no reason for him to have been maimed like the god of healing, and there was no reason why he alone had survived.
Better if there wasn't a destiny, a reason for him to grope along a wall with one hand while the other lay rotted years behind--better if there was no higher purpose for this fool's errand with a dying man's sword.
It had been bright daylight when the first man had drawn his sword this morning; he had seen it glitter against the perfect blue sky. That the storm came now, foreshadowing nothing, reassured him. A storm didn't mean anything but more difficult footing on the way to the lake, and he had already made part of this damned journey twice before turning back--
"--damn you, Gwyneth!" His boot slipped on mud and viscera, and he fell to one knee beside a shattered face. It could have been anyone's, just like his own, and he scrambled up less from distaste than from sympathy.
Gwyneth wasn't to blame. There was no one to blame for this. In that imaginary warm place, Gwyneth let him put his right arm around her and draw her close enough to feel her heart beating just below his own. She hadn't been beautiful, but her face wasn't shattered, and that was almost enough for comfort.
When a jagged seam of lightning stitched the sky, the lake glittered in the next valley--he cursed all but reverently, forcing energy into his legs, dragging himself along the wall to the hill overlooking that expanse of black water that threw back silver flashes in the lightning.
It will be easy to say that a white hand arose from the lake to seize the sword, when he flings it from the hillside into the water; for all he knows, it did. It's too dark to know for certain, and too wind-loud to hear a splash or even a choir of angels.
When lightning flares again, the lake is only shiningdark as Gwyneth's eyes, and just as devoid of destiny.