Post by Muse on Jun 12, 2011 3:12:28 GMT 10
Title: Maybe
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1210
Prompt: Holiday--#40
Summary: Maybe, Gwynnen allows, the convent won't be so bad, if this is what she can return to. (Possibilities 2)
Warning: off screen character death.
A/N: More special thanks to Nat for beta-ing!
Gwynnen can’t quite believe that she has been let to accompany her mother to Court this midwinter. There’s been talk of her heading to the convent, which Gwynnen scoffs at, but never, never had she imagined something like this.
The glow of the candlelight, held in branching candelabras throughout the room, sparkles in Gwynnen’s eyes, and she knows her excitement is causing her cheeks to flush, but she can’t help herself and her giddy hands are creeping out of her velvet covered lap to brush over the ornate silverware and trace the gilt patterns on the plate before her.
Around her, figures in red and gold--such bright colors!--wait at the edges of the room with the first course of the evening. So focused is she on those dazzling people that she jumps at the voice behind her.
“Something to drink, milady?”
Gwynnen forces herself to turn slowly, and sees a page with a glass pitcher at her shoulder. He blushes, a little, under her gaze, but her startled laughter provokes a small smile. He fills her glass carefully and his blond hair flopping into his eyes as he offers her a graceful bow, smiling sheepishly before moving on to the next guest at her table.
The conversation amongst her mother’s friends drifts over the other members of the Court, and Gwynnen cranes her head--be discreet, child!--to see the people that come up in conversation. Prince Jonathan isn’t hard to recognize, in Conte blue behind his father, nor is his cousin Gareth, a squire now. She watches them, and the blond page nods to the both of them during the meal; perhaps they are friends.
She wishes she could find her voice as the meal comes to an end, but several hours of her giggles and his shy smiles have her words stuck somewhere in her throat. Her mother notices only that her daughter is behaving properly, after all this time, and Gwynnen searches the room just once more before she is sent back to her own chambers; the nice page is nowhere in sight.
The Midwinter celebrations are days long, and Gwynnen looks around each evening for the blond page, the one she calls “her” blond page in the recesses of her mind, and sometimes she catches a glimpse of him across the room, bowing to a Lord, or carrying some delicacy to another Lady.
The last evening of the holiday brings a touch of sadness with it, because Gwynnen can’t imagine settling for the drab grey convent after all of this, but at the quiet voice behind her, her face lights up.
“A drink?” the boy offers, and she giggles and smiles her yes, her dancing blue eyes meeting his gentle brown eyes before they both look away; him with the pretense of serving her mother, and her to her plate before her newly pink cheeks can give her away.
She has permission to stay for the dancing following the banquet this evening, and she looks up from under her lashes shyly as the last of the meal is completed. “Will--” she swallows as the blond page’s eyes find hers again, “--will you be, be dancing tonight?” she asks softly.
He flushes, and his hair flops into his eyes again as he ducks his head. “No, miss, pages aren’t allowed.”
Gwynnen flushes at this, and her own eyes drop to her hands. “Oh.”
“But,” he stammers, reaching to take another tray from the table, “in a few years, if, if,” he smiles shyly at her, “I’ll claim a dance then, milady--” he breaks off, and Gwynnen realizes she’s never given him her name.
“Gwynnen,” she tells him, suddenly as shy as he is. “Who--who are you?”
“Francis of Nond,” he bows to her--just to her-- and straightens. “I’ll look for you, Lady Gwynnen.”
And Gwynnen realizes that the convent might not be so bad, if she can learn to be delicate and dance like the other ladies at Court.
The City of the Gods is dull and dry and Gwynnen wonders sourly how anyone can expect the “delicate Court flowers” to grow in someplace that’s this cold and colorless. It’s more than she can stand, she thinks, especially when her memories of court linger like after-images on the backs of her eyelids. It’s easy to superimpose those memories over the Convent’s blank slate-life, so Gwynnen imagines rich tapestries on bare walls and quiet music floating just out of reach in halls that stifle every other sound. It’s hard, though, to focus on her needlework, or her ettiquette lessons, or her never-ending curtsy practice, when she remembers a certain smile, a familiar face, the way Francis of Nond’s hair flopped in his eyes when he smiled at her.
Gwynnen is sure that the size of her stitchery or the degree of her head’s incline when she sweeps her best curtsy doesn’t matter to Francis--not that he’s ever seen her curtsy, she reminds herself--not when he smiled at her laughter, which the cloister nun’s are always tutting over. Not when he blushed when she caught him watching her...But she won’t get out of the Convent if the nuns are not satisfied with her grace and needlework, so Gwynnen tries her best, working at innumerable stitched pillows and the perfect, floating waltz steps, and exactly which fork is for fish, and which is for chicken until she starts coughing.
She coughs and she coughs and she coughs, and the cloister nuns send her to bed, whispering behind their hands. She spends more time dreaming than she does awake--she’s hot, she’s so hot-- and the whispers reach her bed when they think she’s dreaming... delirious...sickness in the capital...sickness, sweating... The honeyed tea they try to coax her to drink--it’s too thick, choking, she can’t breathe--she can barely swallow, and the shadows in her room creep towards her bed across the floor.
Stopnodon’t...her arms shield her face. Hothothot no can’t comfortable--she pushes at the sheets wrapped around her. Coughing rips at her, and more tea is tipped down her throat.
She lingers, between light and dark with the shadows in her room, shadows of dancers and pages and all around her whirls odd disjointed music that isn’t what she remembers but she can’t, can’t quite...and she’s dancing, dancing around and around and her partner is smiling, his blond hair in his eyes, and she’s flushed warm from their second--third, was it the third?--waltz and he leaves her in her chair to get them something to drink.
She sits up straight in bed when she hears someone saying names, and the nuns think she’s dreaming again, the poor thing, she’s at the mercy of her delirious dreams, but Gywnnen’s listening now. She hears the names, sitting in the chair by the dance floor, and suddenly there are tears making gentle paths down her face. The sickness has claimed its first victims, the nuns whisper amongst themselves, and they look to Gwynnen, noticing her as she shakes silently. They give her something to drink, and she relaxes under its potent taste, sinking back into dreams, but her blond page is nowhere in them now.
Francis of Nond is gone.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1210
Prompt: Holiday--#40
Summary: Maybe, Gwynnen allows, the convent won't be so bad, if this is what she can return to. (Possibilities 2)
Warning: off screen character death.
A/N: More special thanks to Nat for beta-ing!
Gwynnen can’t quite believe that she has been let to accompany her mother to Court this midwinter. There’s been talk of her heading to the convent, which Gwynnen scoffs at, but never, never had she imagined something like this.
The glow of the candlelight, held in branching candelabras throughout the room, sparkles in Gwynnen’s eyes, and she knows her excitement is causing her cheeks to flush, but she can’t help herself and her giddy hands are creeping out of her velvet covered lap to brush over the ornate silverware and trace the gilt patterns on the plate before her.
Around her, figures in red and gold--such bright colors!--wait at the edges of the room with the first course of the evening. So focused is she on those dazzling people that she jumps at the voice behind her.
“Something to drink, milady?”
Gwynnen forces herself to turn slowly, and sees a page with a glass pitcher at her shoulder. He blushes, a little, under her gaze, but her startled laughter provokes a small smile. He fills her glass carefully and his blond hair flopping into his eyes as he offers her a graceful bow, smiling sheepishly before moving on to the next guest at her table.
The conversation amongst her mother’s friends drifts over the other members of the Court, and Gwynnen cranes her head--be discreet, child!--to see the people that come up in conversation. Prince Jonathan isn’t hard to recognize, in Conte blue behind his father, nor is his cousin Gareth, a squire now. She watches them, and the blond page nods to the both of them during the meal; perhaps they are friends.
She wishes she could find her voice as the meal comes to an end, but several hours of her giggles and his shy smiles have her words stuck somewhere in her throat. Her mother notices only that her daughter is behaving properly, after all this time, and Gwynnen searches the room just once more before she is sent back to her own chambers; the nice page is nowhere in sight.
The Midwinter celebrations are days long, and Gwynnen looks around each evening for the blond page, the one she calls “her” blond page in the recesses of her mind, and sometimes she catches a glimpse of him across the room, bowing to a Lord, or carrying some delicacy to another Lady.
The last evening of the holiday brings a touch of sadness with it, because Gwynnen can’t imagine settling for the drab grey convent after all of this, but at the quiet voice behind her, her face lights up.
“A drink?” the boy offers, and she giggles and smiles her yes, her dancing blue eyes meeting his gentle brown eyes before they both look away; him with the pretense of serving her mother, and her to her plate before her newly pink cheeks can give her away.
She has permission to stay for the dancing following the banquet this evening, and she looks up from under her lashes shyly as the last of the meal is completed. “Will--” she swallows as the blond page’s eyes find hers again, “--will you be, be dancing tonight?” she asks softly.
He flushes, and his hair flops into his eyes again as he ducks his head. “No, miss, pages aren’t allowed.”
Gwynnen flushes at this, and her own eyes drop to her hands. “Oh.”
“But,” he stammers, reaching to take another tray from the table, “in a few years, if, if,” he smiles shyly at her, “I’ll claim a dance then, milady--” he breaks off, and Gwynnen realizes she’s never given him her name.
“Gwynnen,” she tells him, suddenly as shy as he is. “Who--who are you?”
“Francis of Nond,” he bows to her--just to her-- and straightens. “I’ll look for you, Lady Gwynnen.”
And Gwynnen realizes that the convent might not be so bad, if she can learn to be delicate and dance like the other ladies at Court.
The City of the Gods is dull and dry and Gwynnen wonders sourly how anyone can expect the “delicate Court flowers” to grow in someplace that’s this cold and colorless. It’s more than she can stand, she thinks, especially when her memories of court linger like after-images on the backs of her eyelids. It’s easy to superimpose those memories over the Convent’s blank slate-life, so Gwynnen imagines rich tapestries on bare walls and quiet music floating just out of reach in halls that stifle every other sound. It’s hard, though, to focus on her needlework, or her ettiquette lessons, or her never-ending curtsy practice, when she remembers a certain smile, a familiar face, the way Francis of Nond’s hair flopped in his eyes when he smiled at her.
Gwynnen is sure that the size of her stitchery or the degree of her head’s incline when she sweeps her best curtsy doesn’t matter to Francis--not that he’s ever seen her curtsy, she reminds herself--not when he smiled at her laughter, which the cloister nun’s are always tutting over. Not when he blushed when she caught him watching her...But she won’t get out of the Convent if the nuns are not satisfied with her grace and needlework, so Gwynnen tries her best, working at innumerable stitched pillows and the perfect, floating waltz steps, and exactly which fork is for fish, and which is for chicken until she starts coughing.
She coughs and she coughs and she coughs, and the cloister nuns send her to bed, whispering behind their hands. She spends more time dreaming than she does awake--she’s hot, she’s so hot-- and the whispers reach her bed when they think she’s dreaming... delirious...sickness in the capital...sickness, sweating... The honeyed tea they try to coax her to drink--it’s too thick, choking, she can’t breathe--she can barely swallow, and the shadows in her room creep towards her bed across the floor.
Stopnodon’t...her arms shield her face. Hothothot no can’t comfortable--she pushes at the sheets wrapped around her. Coughing rips at her, and more tea is tipped down her throat.
She lingers, between light and dark with the shadows in her room, shadows of dancers and pages and all around her whirls odd disjointed music that isn’t what she remembers but she can’t, can’t quite...and she’s dancing, dancing around and around and her partner is smiling, his blond hair in his eyes, and she’s flushed warm from their second--third, was it the third?--waltz and he leaves her in her chair to get them something to drink.
She sits up straight in bed when she hears someone saying names, and the nuns think she’s dreaming again, the poor thing, she’s at the mercy of her delirious dreams, but Gywnnen’s listening now. She hears the names, sitting in the chair by the dance floor, and suddenly there are tears making gentle paths down her face. The sickness has claimed its first victims, the nuns whisper amongst themselves, and they look to Gwynnen, noticing her as she shakes silently. They give her something to drink, and she relaxes under its potent taste, sinking back into dreams, but her blond page is nowhere in them now.
Francis of Nond is gone.