Post by Muse on Jun 19, 2011 6:03:51 GMT 10
Title: Never
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1649
Prompt: News--#38
Summary: Of all the things she could ever do, all the words she could ever say, she never thought that this would be one of them. (Possibilities 3)
A/N: Nat is an amazing beta, and major props go to her!
“War.” Gwynnen tried the word out, tasting it carefully as she rolled it around her tongue. It started off bland, but hid a bitter edge that had her flinching. No, she didn’t care for it at all.
“That’s what Gary said,” Cythera nodded.
Gywnnen made a face. “Sir Gareth has been out riding border patrols all winter; how should he know if we are to go to war?”
Frowning slightly, Cythera argued, “Just because you’re upset that Francis was sent to the border is no reason--”
“If Sir Gareth hadn’t picked a fight with Sir Raoul over darling, precious Delia’s riding glove, Francis never would’ve gotten in the middle of their argument and been sent away!” Gwynnen blew up, and Cythera shot her a dirty look and gathered her skirts.
“Fine, if that’s what you want to believe...”
“Its not just a belief!” Gwynnen shot back hotly, and Cythera huffed, nose in the air.
“If you want to be this way, it’s on your head. Good day.”
“What were you thinking?” Gwynnen wondered, running her thumb over the back of Francis’ hand. “Surely Delia’s glove isn’t--”
“Delia and her glove had nothing to do with it,” Francis turned, bringing Gwynnen’s hand to his face. “I just--”
Gwynnen touched a finger to his lips. “Shh. Its alright.”
Francis kissed her fingertip, then moved her hand so he could kiss her properly.
The door to the Royal Gallery was open when Gwynnen arrived, and the table by the fire already occupied as she slid into what had become her seat.
“I had wondered if you would come this evening,” the man across the table said as Gwynnen studied the chessboard between them, a game already underway. She glanced up, catching the sunken eyes in the lined face of the Lord of Groten before returning to the board in front of her.
Francis had already left for the Drell River Valley.
“Where else would I be?” she asked lightly, her voice belying the twisting, roiling emotions beneath her calm facade as she moved a pawn forward.
He left without saying goodbye.
Her chess partner said nothing as he countered her move deftly, and the room slipped into the familiar silence that had enveloped so many evenings in just this way while pieces paced endlessly around the board, locked in unending combat.
Even Gary said goodbye to Cythera.
Thinking hurt too much, so Gwynnen let habit take over and her hands sent her miniature army around the board, the same as so many other evenings this past, cold, lonely winter.
“Look up.”
Gwynnen giggled at Francis’ odd request, but tipped her head back just the same.
Above them, stars shone brilliantly, tiny specks of light against the dark, crisp winter sky.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, leaning back even further to see the sky better.
She didn’t see Francis’ intense, fierce happiness.
“They are returning!”
The cries came from the battlements, and even in the gardens, the Queen and her ladies heard the message.
“The war is over!”
Queen Lianne’s head came up, eyes no longer on her needlework.
“King Roald and Prince Jonathan have returned!”
Gwynnen held her breath, waiting; silk slid through Queen Lianne’s fingers, taking a fortnight to fall from her lap to the ground as the Queen stood, her pale, thin face alight.
“Come on,” Cythera tugged at Gwynnen’s arm, and Gwynnen happily abandoned the garden to follow the tide of people, pulling her inexorably towards the sounds of shouting, hooves, and metal-on-metal.
She stood on her tiptoes on the steps to the palace as King Roald swung off of his warhorse, gathering his wife into his arms, but Gwynnen scarcely saw the reunion before her as she scanned the amassing crowd.
There.
Francis lifted a hand to her briefly, their gazes connecting across the courtyard. His smile, as soft as ever, sends laughter bubbling up in her throat.
He’s safe--
And she pressed a hand to her mouth, maybe to hold her laughter in, maybe to hold back the unexplained sob that threatened to send tears onto her cheeks.
Gwynnen was floating on air when her father requested her presence in his study, and his words dragged her back to reality.
“He is quite taken by your beauty and charm, and has offered a handsome sum for your hand in marriage,” her father declared from behind his great oak desk.
“But, but I, it wasn’t,” Gwynnen stammered, horrified.
“You accepted his offers of chess, many an evening, if I might remind you, and he has grown fond of your company.”
“But I never—“
“We cannot afford to lose this opportunity, Gwynnen. We will not lose this opportunity.”
“But I don’t--”
“I have already accepted his offer of engagement for you,” her father flipped open a box sitting inconspicuously on his desk, and Gwynnen shrank away from its contents--a ring, bearing the coat of arms of Groten. “I have told him of your willingness and you will not prove me a liar. Now wear it, there’s a good girl.”
The cold, heavy metal sliding onto her finger was her shackles, and the slamming of the box under her father’s unforgiving hand the final closing of her cell.
When Gwynnen woke, the first thing she recalled was that Francis had returned. Her heart leapt, and she reached to brush her hair from her face; her fingers were unusually heavy and tangled in her locks before the rest of the evening returned in a rush, a slap in the face that left her tingling and breathless.
Still there, the ring squatted on her finger as if it belonged there. Throat closing rapidly, Gwynnen shut her eyes against the sight of the dull gold.
She could still feel it.
She stood in the gardens, still twisting the ring around and around her finger--get it off, get it off now-! -- When footsteps ran up behind her. Francis pulled her into his arms, picking her up off her feet as he spun her around and around. His face was alight, his dark eyes intense as they took her in; Gwynnen couldn’t resist, and her right hand found his face, cupping his cheek as Francis gently set her feet back on the ground.
Words fled from Gwynnen’s head, looking up at him, and it is all she could do to swallow and blink back tears.
“Hush, shh...don’t cry.”
Francis’ hand slid down her arm, reaching to tangle her fingers with his own, and Gwynnen’s heart stopped with a thump when he paused.
Cold, hard metal presses between their fingers painfully.
“Gwynnen--” the question wasn’t even out as he looked down, looked at her hand, looked at the ring; his left hand, still behind her back, crushed her closer. “Gwynnen,” his voice, strangled in his throat, “Gwynnen,” she wished he could keep saying her name forever, “...what is this?”
“I’m,” oh gods, I can’t say it.
Francis’ face, so close, pulled back as his disbelief faded into betrayal; she clutched at the fabric of his tunic.
“I’m engaged.”
Gwynnen hated how her voice broke on the last word, hated how suddenly tears cascaded down her cheeks, hated how hurt flashed across Francis’ eyes, his mouth tightened into a hard straight line, and she pressed her face into his familiar shoulder so she would not see anything more.
She knew she had broken his heart; she couldn’t bear to watch it fall to pieces before her.
“I swear, I didn’t want it, I didn’t encourage him, I never—“ Gwynnen bit back a sob, frantically trying to keep herself under control, but Francis took her hands from his shoulders, stepping back so that space suddenly yawned between them.
“I can’t do this,” he murmured, and Gwynnen’s heart clenched.
“Please, you have to believe me!”
“Stop it!” Francis’ fingers tightened around her own, and his expression hardened, an iron barrier slamming shut between them. “You’re engaged now, Gwynnen!”
The words stung, thrown in her face, and her hands clenched reactively; at the pressure, Francis looked down and dropped her hands fast, as though her touch burned him. “I can’t do this; don’t—“ he swallowed hard, “Don’t ask me to do this.”
For one long moment, Gwynnen fought the urge to ask him, to beg him. “You can’t think I wanted this,” she gasped finally, even as he turned slightly, keeping his face from her.
“I don’t know what I think.”
His words were sharp, and cold, shattering like glass and sending shards skittering over Gwynnen’s feet. Hundreds of tiny pieces lay between them, and there would be no repairing those words, once promises, now dead and broken.
Gwynnen’s hand, hovering indecisively between them, stretched as if to pluck at Francis’ sleeve but fell short and dropped back to her side.
“You have my congratulations on your upcoming marriage, Lady Gwynnen.”
The words were smooth, each one perfectly calm and Gwynnen’s jaw dropped slightly; gone were his emotions, gone was the knight that she knew, and in his place stood a serene, cold copy.
He bowed to her. “I’m sure you will be very happy.”
The perfect smile appeared on his mouth, a mask that fell into place and smoothed over the deep, angry lines scored across his features, and he sketched the perfect bow, not one degree too low.
“I, I--”
Gwynnen’s mouth shut, and she straightened her back before trying hard to control her voice, to pretend that this, everything--that he was nothing.
“Thank you.”
She turned before she could give herself away, knowing that her own charade was about to slip, and she risked one more glance at Francis’ face; at least she could have this.
His arms fell loosely by his sides, and his blonde hair flopped--so familiar-- over his forehead, but his eyes...none of his acting reached his dark, accusing eyes.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1649
Prompt: News--#38
Summary: Of all the things she could ever do, all the words she could ever say, she never thought that this would be one of them. (Possibilities 3)
A/N: Nat is an amazing beta, and major props go to her!
“War.” Gwynnen tried the word out, tasting it carefully as she rolled it around her tongue. It started off bland, but hid a bitter edge that had her flinching. No, she didn’t care for it at all.
“That’s what Gary said,” Cythera nodded.
Gywnnen made a face. “Sir Gareth has been out riding border patrols all winter; how should he know if we are to go to war?”
Frowning slightly, Cythera argued, “Just because you’re upset that Francis was sent to the border is no reason--”
“If Sir Gareth hadn’t picked a fight with Sir Raoul over darling, precious Delia’s riding glove, Francis never would’ve gotten in the middle of their argument and been sent away!” Gwynnen blew up, and Cythera shot her a dirty look and gathered her skirts.
“Fine, if that’s what you want to believe...”
“Its not just a belief!” Gwynnen shot back hotly, and Cythera huffed, nose in the air.
“If you want to be this way, it’s on your head. Good day.”
“What were you thinking?” Gwynnen wondered, running her thumb over the back of Francis’ hand. “Surely Delia’s glove isn’t--”
“Delia and her glove had nothing to do with it,” Francis turned, bringing Gwynnen’s hand to his face. “I just--”
Gwynnen touched a finger to his lips. “Shh. Its alright.”
Francis kissed her fingertip, then moved her hand so he could kiss her properly.
The door to the Royal Gallery was open when Gwynnen arrived, and the table by the fire already occupied as she slid into what had become her seat.
“I had wondered if you would come this evening,” the man across the table said as Gwynnen studied the chessboard between them, a game already underway. She glanced up, catching the sunken eyes in the lined face of the Lord of Groten before returning to the board in front of her.
Francis had already left for the Drell River Valley.
“Where else would I be?” she asked lightly, her voice belying the twisting, roiling emotions beneath her calm facade as she moved a pawn forward.
He left without saying goodbye.
Her chess partner said nothing as he countered her move deftly, and the room slipped into the familiar silence that had enveloped so many evenings in just this way while pieces paced endlessly around the board, locked in unending combat.
Even Gary said goodbye to Cythera.
Thinking hurt too much, so Gwynnen let habit take over and her hands sent her miniature army around the board, the same as so many other evenings this past, cold, lonely winter.
“Look up.”
Gwynnen giggled at Francis’ odd request, but tipped her head back just the same.
Above them, stars shone brilliantly, tiny specks of light against the dark, crisp winter sky.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, leaning back even further to see the sky better.
She didn’t see Francis’ intense, fierce happiness.
“They are returning!”
The cries came from the battlements, and even in the gardens, the Queen and her ladies heard the message.
“The war is over!”
Queen Lianne’s head came up, eyes no longer on her needlework.
“King Roald and Prince Jonathan have returned!”
Gwynnen held her breath, waiting; silk slid through Queen Lianne’s fingers, taking a fortnight to fall from her lap to the ground as the Queen stood, her pale, thin face alight.
“Come on,” Cythera tugged at Gwynnen’s arm, and Gwynnen happily abandoned the garden to follow the tide of people, pulling her inexorably towards the sounds of shouting, hooves, and metal-on-metal.
She stood on her tiptoes on the steps to the palace as King Roald swung off of his warhorse, gathering his wife into his arms, but Gwynnen scarcely saw the reunion before her as she scanned the amassing crowd.
There.
Francis lifted a hand to her briefly, their gazes connecting across the courtyard. His smile, as soft as ever, sends laughter bubbling up in her throat.
He’s safe--
And she pressed a hand to her mouth, maybe to hold her laughter in, maybe to hold back the unexplained sob that threatened to send tears onto her cheeks.
Gwynnen was floating on air when her father requested her presence in his study, and his words dragged her back to reality.
“He is quite taken by your beauty and charm, and has offered a handsome sum for your hand in marriage,” her father declared from behind his great oak desk.
“But, but I, it wasn’t,” Gwynnen stammered, horrified.
“You accepted his offers of chess, many an evening, if I might remind you, and he has grown fond of your company.”
“But I never—“
“We cannot afford to lose this opportunity, Gwynnen. We will not lose this opportunity.”
“But I don’t--”
“I have already accepted his offer of engagement for you,” her father flipped open a box sitting inconspicuously on his desk, and Gwynnen shrank away from its contents--a ring, bearing the coat of arms of Groten. “I have told him of your willingness and you will not prove me a liar. Now wear it, there’s a good girl.”
The cold, heavy metal sliding onto her finger was her shackles, and the slamming of the box under her father’s unforgiving hand the final closing of her cell.
When Gwynnen woke, the first thing she recalled was that Francis had returned. Her heart leapt, and she reached to brush her hair from her face; her fingers were unusually heavy and tangled in her locks before the rest of the evening returned in a rush, a slap in the face that left her tingling and breathless.
Still there, the ring squatted on her finger as if it belonged there. Throat closing rapidly, Gwynnen shut her eyes against the sight of the dull gold.
She could still feel it.
She stood in the gardens, still twisting the ring around and around her finger--get it off, get it off now-! -- When footsteps ran up behind her. Francis pulled her into his arms, picking her up off her feet as he spun her around and around. His face was alight, his dark eyes intense as they took her in; Gwynnen couldn’t resist, and her right hand found his face, cupping his cheek as Francis gently set her feet back on the ground.
Words fled from Gwynnen’s head, looking up at him, and it is all she could do to swallow and blink back tears.
“Hush, shh...don’t cry.”
Francis’ hand slid down her arm, reaching to tangle her fingers with his own, and Gwynnen’s heart stopped with a thump when he paused.
Cold, hard metal presses between their fingers painfully.
“Gwynnen--” the question wasn’t even out as he looked down, looked at her hand, looked at the ring; his left hand, still behind her back, crushed her closer. “Gwynnen,” his voice, strangled in his throat, “Gwynnen,” she wished he could keep saying her name forever, “...what is this?”
“I’m,” oh gods, I can’t say it.
Francis’ face, so close, pulled back as his disbelief faded into betrayal; she clutched at the fabric of his tunic.
“I’m engaged.”
Gwynnen hated how her voice broke on the last word, hated how suddenly tears cascaded down her cheeks, hated how hurt flashed across Francis’ eyes, his mouth tightened into a hard straight line, and she pressed her face into his familiar shoulder so she would not see anything more.
She knew she had broken his heart; she couldn’t bear to watch it fall to pieces before her.
“I swear, I didn’t want it, I didn’t encourage him, I never—“ Gwynnen bit back a sob, frantically trying to keep herself under control, but Francis took her hands from his shoulders, stepping back so that space suddenly yawned between them.
“I can’t do this,” he murmured, and Gwynnen’s heart clenched.
“Please, you have to believe me!”
“Stop it!” Francis’ fingers tightened around her own, and his expression hardened, an iron barrier slamming shut between them. “You’re engaged now, Gwynnen!”
The words stung, thrown in her face, and her hands clenched reactively; at the pressure, Francis looked down and dropped her hands fast, as though her touch burned him. “I can’t do this; don’t—“ he swallowed hard, “Don’t ask me to do this.”
For one long moment, Gwynnen fought the urge to ask him, to beg him. “You can’t think I wanted this,” she gasped finally, even as he turned slightly, keeping his face from her.
“I don’t know what I think.”
His words were sharp, and cold, shattering like glass and sending shards skittering over Gwynnen’s feet. Hundreds of tiny pieces lay between them, and there would be no repairing those words, once promises, now dead and broken.
Gwynnen’s hand, hovering indecisively between them, stretched as if to pluck at Francis’ sleeve but fell short and dropped back to her side.
“You have my congratulations on your upcoming marriage, Lady Gwynnen.”
The words were smooth, each one perfectly calm and Gwynnen’s jaw dropped slightly; gone were his emotions, gone was the knight that she knew, and in his place stood a serene, cold copy.
He bowed to her. “I’m sure you will be very happy.”
The perfect smile appeared on his mouth, a mask that fell into place and smoothed over the deep, angry lines scored across his features, and he sketched the perfect bow, not one degree too low.
“I, I--”
Gwynnen’s mouth shut, and she straightened her back before trying hard to control her voice, to pretend that this, everything--that he was nothing.
“Thank you.”
She turned before she could give herself away, knowing that her own charade was about to slip, and she risked one more glance at Francis’ face; at least she could have this.
His arms fell loosely by his sides, and his blonde hair flopped--so familiar-- over his forehead, but his eyes...none of his acting reached his dark, accusing eyes.