(no subject)
There is something comforting about the weight of a sleeping child. Gone to the world, Ygraine's bones seem to weigh more. Curled in Jenny's lap, she snores softly, sucking on her thumb and dreaming of who knows what. Trapped, for the moment, in her chair in the rec-room, Jenny thinks about the past. She spends a lot of her time thinking about the past. On the arm of the chair, an open book; a painting of a man and a woman, regal in their finery, their cloaks sewn with stars. Their names, written beneath.
ARTHER AND GUINEVERE.
She doesn't know why, but the thing displeases her. It might be the clothing, so unlike anything that she knew in life. It might be the starry-eyed looks, so unlike anything that exists anywhere in the world. It might be the way that Guinevere seems to fade back into the air behind Arthur, her husband outlined in gold. Jenny, Pretty Jenny, Jenny who could think and feel had loved more than one man, but she'd loved them both dearly, and with all of her heart. She had faded into no-one's background. She had been a Queen in Camelot, and she had sat on her own thrown, and it was her feet that Lancelot had knelt at, and it was at her feet that he had sent his captives to kneel. And that counted for something. That had counted for so much, in its time.
Shifting the weight of the sleeping child in her lap, Jenny studies the picture again. The dress is red, which isn't so bad, but the hair is flaxen gold. She stirs her own black hair with her fingers and then slams the book closed.
There is a story that her hair was yellow, but it was not. A line from one of the books that Robbie had read to her. She had liked that book.
Content to sit with the weight of her sleeping child, taking comfort from it, Jenny lifts the book and discarding it, barely noticing when it skids to a halt at someone's feet.
ARTHER AND GUINEVERE.
She doesn't know why, but the thing displeases her. It might be the clothing, so unlike anything that she knew in life. It might be the starry-eyed looks, so unlike anything that exists anywhere in the world. It might be the way that Guinevere seems to fade back into the air behind Arthur, her husband outlined in gold. Jenny, Pretty Jenny, Jenny who could think and feel had loved more than one man, but she'd loved them both dearly, and with all of her heart. She had faded into no-one's background. She had been a Queen in Camelot, and she had sat on her own thrown, and it was her feet that Lancelot had knelt at, and it was at her feet that he had sent his captives to kneel. And that counted for something. That had counted for so much, in its time.
Shifting the weight of the sleeping child in her lap, Jenny studies the picture again. The dress is red, which isn't so bad, but the hair is flaxen gold. She stirs her own black hair with her fingers and then slams the book closed.
There is a story that her hair was yellow, but it was not. A line from one of the books that Robbie had read to her. She had liked that book.
Content to sit with the weight of her sleeping child, taking comfort from it, Jenny lifts the book and discarding it, barely noticing when it skids to a halt at someone's feet.