merlin ficlet: what grew (and inside who) [gwen/lancelot, g]
what grew (and inside who). merlin, g, 345 words.
Gwen wonders what she is supposed to do with her hands.
Gwen wonders what she is supposed to do with her hands.
She and Arthur are sitting in their thrones - her throne, what an impossibly strange world this is - listening to a petitioner protesting about the scanty protection of his borders and explaning how the duties he's been paying on his wife's imported silks are positively unconscionable and why the neighbouring landlord should be hauled in for misreporting his taxes. And there's also something to do with his sheep. Arthur is listening intently, one hand drumming a quick tattoo on his thigh, the other propping up his chin. Should she follow his example? Best not; Arthur's serenely lazy grace is bred in his bones and impossible to imitate. She considers what Morgana used to do when she sat at Uther's side, hands folded serenely in her lap or taut with tension and clutching at the arms of her chair when she was particularly intrigued or maddened; but then, Morgana has perhaps proven to be a poor example as well.
Gwen is not used to sitting for so long with nothing to do with her hands and it makes her feel uncomfortably exposed, as if everyone can see that she is left at a loss.
Gwen lifts her hand to her mouth and starts unconsciously worrying at her thumbnail with her teeth. After a moment her eyes lock with Lancelot's. He is standing in quiet conversation with several other knights against the far wall, his helmet tucked under his arm, and when he catches her gaze he just slightly shakes his head; guiltily, she drops her hand back into her lap.
Arthur looks over at her quizzically. Gwen smiles at him and he raises an eyebrow and shifts his attention back to the petitioner; she looks past him again to Lancelot. She can see the muscle in his jaw jumping in a stoic effort to keep himself from grinning as he turns away from her back to Gwaine, and Gwen ducks her head and bites the inside of her cheek so she does not laugh out loud.
Gwen wonders what she is supposed to do with her hands.
Gwen wonders what she is supposed to do with her hands.
She and Arthur are sitting in their thrones - her throne, what an impossibly strange world this is - listening to a petitioner protesting about the scanty protection of his borders and explaning how the duties he's been paying on his wife's imported silks are positively unconscionable and why the neighbouring landlord should be hauled in for misreporting his taxes. And there's also something to do with his sheep. Arthur is listening intently, one hand drumming a quick tattoo on his thigh, the other propping up his chin. Should she follow his example? Best not; Arthur's serenely lazy grace is bred in his bones and impossible to imitate. She considers what Morgana used to do when she sat at Uther's side, hands folded serenely in her lap or taut with tension and clutching at the arms of her chair when she was particularly intrigued or maddened; but then, Morgana has perhaps proven to be a poor example as well.
Gwen is not used to sitting for so long with nothing to do with her hands and it makes her feel uncomfortably exposed, as if everyone can see that she is left at a loss.
Gwen lifts her hand to her mouth and starts unconsciously worrying at her thumbnail with her teeth. After a moment her eyes lock with Lancelot's. He is standing in quiet conversation with several other knights against the far wall, his helmet tucked under his arm, and when he catches her gaze he just slightly shakes his head; guiltily, she drops her hand back into her lap.
Arthur looks over at her quizzically. Gwen smiles at him and he raises an eyebrow and shifts his attention back to the petitioner; she looks past him again to Lancelot. She can see the muscle in his jaw jumping in a stoic effort to keep himself from grinning as he turns away from her back to Gwaine, and Gwen ducks her head and bites the inside of her cheek so she does not laugh out loud.