Post by Muse on Jul 1, 2011 0:28:32 GMT 10
Title: Always
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1157
Prompt: Love--#41
Summary: It's the biggest thing she will ever say but at the same time she always thought that circumstances would be different. (Possibilities 4)
White silk trails behind her when she moves, whispering softly at her elbows and hips; Gwynnen faces the mirror and stares into the eyes wide, unblinking eyes of a scared girl. They’re sunken into a thin, pale face, and Gwynnen can’t hold her gaze. She looks down to the unassuming flowers in her hands.
“Gwynnen?” Cythera pokes her head into the small room. “Come on--it’s time.”
Her stomach lurches and heaves, but all Gwynnen’s had so far this morning is tea, and she pushes down the uneasy rolling sensation in the pit of her belly.
Francis stands at the front of the room, grateful for Raoul’s presence at his back in front of all of the scrutinizing eyes watching him. He glances over his shoulder at his friend, and Raoul gives him a quick grin.
Raoul is dark, sun tanned and wind weathered by his time in the desert, which is where he had just ridden in from days earlier. Francis wonders if he too could’ve been adopted, and he remembers how Raoul was always urging for him to visit.
“You’ve love it out here, Francis--sand and sky as far as the eye can see...”
And maybe he would have. He’s seen the open, easy way that Raoul laughs; he could have had that, could have lived like that...its really no use thinking about it, anyway.
The chapel doors open, and Francis tamps down the thoughts running through his head. Those belonged to another person, in another life, and this—this is his life.
Dreams of the Great Southern Desert run through his fingers like sand, because he’s given his word and his word ties him to the hills of Nond and rocky craigs and oak forests instead.
The first time she lifts her head away from her feet tracing a careful one-two, one-two pattern across the floor, Gwynnen can see the Francis is smiling--isn’t he always smiling?-- but even at this distance its obvious that his eyes and mind are miles away.
Maybe once upon a time she had dreamed of something like this, sitting in the cool, dark rooms of the convent; surely every girl thought about finding a true love and marrying a knight, of being spirited away to a life of ease where her every whim was taken care of…
Gwynnen pushed away the thought of “always” and looked up at Francis, waiting near the alter of the Goddess’ chapel. Always was for people who still believed in love at first sight, whose first loves lasted; people for whom life was easy. People who weren’t looking at the man they had loved and wondering how life was would work out, now.
Gwynnen’s walk down the aisle seems interminable, and Francis can’t help but watch her as she slowly makes her way to him. He could still remember the night he told her goodbye, the night he had made the choice to leave after he had gotten his knighthood…he didn’t like to think of it as the night he broke her heart, but looking at it now, he supposes that that is more or less what happened.
They had shared clandestine kisses in the shadows of some balls, and her laughter had sparked his own for a summer, but he wanted to see the world. He wanted to get away from Nond, from the controlling, upright structure that had been his life for years and years. He would not make her a part of that and run away. And he had intended to run, and to run far.
And then the harvest failed. His mother, turned cold and bitter by years alone on the estate, arranged everything to her liking, and told him to marry, and return home. He shut his eyes against the image of the woman, in her middle ages, that his mother had presented to him.
Sacherell had knocked on his door, late one evening, saying he had been sent by Raoul. Behind him stood Gwynnen, pale and shaking, and she had told him—begged him—and he had agreed.
He had already agreed, so when Gwynnen reached him before the alter to the Great Mother Goddess, he took her hand in his and turned to face the priestess.
The words “for better and for worse” fall through her, rocks tossed into her still pond, and Gwynnen bites her lip. Her hand moves of its own accord, and she clenches her fingers tight before it can touch her stomach. Unwittingly, her hand tightens on Francis’, and surprisingly, he returns the squeeze.
He’s saving her honor and her family’s good name; she caught the pregnancy early but even now the bump begins to show and she daren’t smooth the front of her dress lest the slight curve of her belly is revealed. All his plans, all his travels have shuddered to a halt here before the alter and the Goddess herself.
She’s saving his home, his family’s traditions and landholdings--too proud to admit it until it was almost too late, Nond has fallen to disrepair, and strings of poor harvests have all but devastated his people. He’s selling his hand in marriage in return for her dowry, and she hasn’t spoken against their decision once, even though the word ‘love’ hasn’t crossed either of their lips once in these last months.
Love is for freedom, love is for choice. Love is for those who can afford to be carefree, or who are young enough to believe in its naive ideals.
The words “to have and to hold” cut like a knife, and Francis can’t bring himself to look at Gwynnen even though she shifts slightly beside him. He has her, now, and that alone causes him to wonder.
He remembers the fright in her voice when she told him, and the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze...
He promises himself, under his breath as he speaks his vows, the he’ll never ask her whose child it is, and prays to the gods that the infant will look like her, so he’ll never be tempted to ask.
Always keep your promises… Gwynnen remembers hearing her mother tell her when she was very small, and with her mother’s words echoing in her memory, she only pauses a moment before she promises.
“I do.”
The walk out of the chapel is the longest that Francis can remember; there are too many people watching, too many people that are too happy and too loudand too naïve… they are watching and they are waiting and they will always be around him, from now on.
He tries to tell himself it isn’t a sigh of relief that escapes him as the door behind them closes and the noise cuts out suddenly.
“I won’t begrudge you,” she offers softly in the fleeting moments they have to themselves after the ceremony. Gwynnen’s face is honest, her eyes large over a sad smile. “If you leave, I mean.” She took her hand from his arm to clasp both of hers together. “I know about the ambassadorial position you were offered, and I think you should take it.”
Francis gaped. She was offering...he could--!
His mind filled--
Always escaping, always running away, her eyes sad and heavy on his back as he rode away from a life that should have been his, responsibilities that should have been his, that he was too afraid to have and to hold. Obligation rode his back and wore him down until he could only be a shadow of himself, sharp and cruel, sending a dark haired boy to hide behind Gwynnen’s skirts; cold blue eyes staring at him--not yours, his mind screamed, not yours-- growing older and greyer and unhappier in a cold, dank fiefdom where a sullen young man scorned him--you’re not my father-- and Gwynnen,
Gwynnen, soft and tired and weeping slowly in a weary manner that spoke of years of tears...
“Thank you,” he breathed, gently touching a finger to her cheek, to his wife’s cheek, his wife, who understood... His other hand drifted to her stomach. “But only if you’re alright, if you’re happy. I won’t abandon you.”
Small spots of color bloomed over Gwynnen’s cheeks at his words, and another image ran unbidden across Francis’ mind--
Gwynnen, flushed pink and laughing the way he remembers she used to, so long ago, as she sets down a small, blessedly russet-haired girl, who toddles towards him with sheer adoration in her sparkling brown eyes...
“Thank you,” she whispers, a tiny, careful smile breaking through, and maybe if... Francis leans down and kisses her smiling lips chastely, drawing back to see the smile grow.
Perhaps they’ve always had a chance.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1157
Prompt: Love--#41
Summary: It's the biggest thing she will ever say but at the same time she always thought that circumstances would be different. (Possibilities 4)
White silk trails behind her when she moves, whispering softly at her elbows and hips; Gwynnen faces the mirror and stares into the eyes wide, unblinking eyes of a scared girl. They’re sunken into a thin, pale face, and Gwynnen can’t hold her gaze. She looks down to the unassuming flowers in her hands.
“Gwynnen?” Cythera pokes her head into the small room. “Come on--it’s time.”
Her stomach lurches and heaves, but all Gwynnen’s had so far this morning is tea, and she pushes down the uneasy rolling sensation in the pit of her belly.
Francis stands at the front of the room, grateful for Raoul’s presence at his back in front of all of the scrutinizing eyes watching him. He glances over his shoulder at his friend, and Raoul gives him a quick grin.
Raoul is dark, sun tanned and wind weathered by his time in the desert, which is where he had just ridden in from days earlier. Francis wonders if he too could’ve been adopted, and he remembers how Raoul was always urging for him to visit.
“You’ve love it out here, Francis--sand and sky as far as the eye can see...”
And maybe he would have. He’s seen the open, easy way that Raoul laughs; he could have had that, could have lived like that...its really no use thinking about it, anyway.
The chapel doors open, and Francis tamps down the thoughts running through his head. Those belonged to another person, in another life, and this—this is his life.
Dreams of the Great Southern Desert run through his fingers like sand, because he’s given his word and his word ties him to the hills of Nond and rocky craigs and oak forests instead.
The first time she lifts her head away from her feet tracing a careful one-two, one-two pattern across the floor, Gwynnen can see the Francis is smiling--isn’t he always smiling?-- but even at this distance its obvious that his eyes and mind are miles away.
Maybe once upon a time she had dreamed of something like this, sitting in the cool, dark rooms of the convent; surely every girl thought about finding a true love and marrying a knight, of being spirited away to a life of ease where her every whim was taken care of…
Gwynnen pushed away the thought of “always” and looked up at Francis, waiting near the alter of the Goddess’ chapel. Always was for people who still believed in love at first sight, whose first loves lasted; people for whom life was easy. People who weren’t looking at the man they had loved and wondering how life was would work out, now.
Gwynnen’s walk down the aisle seems interminable, and Francis can’t help but watch her as she slowly makes her way to him. He could still remember the night he told her goodbye, the night he had made the choice to leave after he had gotten his knighthood…he didn’t like to think of it as the night he broke her heart, but looking at it now, he supposes that that is more or less what happened.
They had shared clandestine kisses in the shadows of some balls, and her laughter had sparked his own for a summer, but he wanted to see the world. He wanted to get away from Nond, from the controlling, upright structure that had been his life for years and years. He would not make her a part of that and run away. And he had intended to run, and to run far.
And then the harvest failed. His mother, turned cold and bitter by years alone on the estate, arranged everything to her liking, and told him to marry, and return home. He shut his eyes against the image of the woman, in her middle ages, that his mother had presented to him.
Sacherell had knocked on his door, late one evening, saying he had been sent by Raoul. Behind him stood Gwynnen, pale and shaking, and she had told him—begged him—and he had agreed.
He had already agreed, so when Gwynnen reached him before the alter to the Great Mother Goddess, he took her hand in his and turned to face the priestess.
The words “for better and for worse” fall through her, rocks tossed into her still pond, and Gwynnen bites her lip. Her hand moves of its own accord, and she clenches her fingers tight before it can touch her stomach. Unwittingly, her hand tightens on Francis’, and surprisingly, he returns the squeeze.
He’s saving her honor and her family’s good name; she caught the pregnancy early but even now the bump begins to show and she daren’t smooth the front of her dress lest the slight curve of her belly is revealed. All his plans, all his travels have shuddered to a halt here before the alter and the Goddess herself.
She’s saving his home, his family’s traditions and landholdings--too proud to admit it until it was almost too late, Nond has fallen to disrepair, and strings of poor harvests have all but devastated his people. He’s selling his hand in marriage in return for her dowry, and she hasn’t spoken against their decision once, even though the word ‘love’ hasn’t crossed either of their lips once in these last months.
Love is for freedom, love is for choice. Love is for those who can afford to be carefree, or who are young enough to believe in its naive ideals.
The words “to have and to hold” cut like a knife, and Francis can’t bring himself to look at Gwynnen even though she shifts slightly beside him. He has her, now, and that alone causes him to wonder.
He remembers the fright in her voice when she told him, and the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze...
He promises himself, under his breath as he speaks his vows, the he’ll never ask her whose child it is, and prays to the gods that the infant will look like her, so he’ll never be tempted to ask.
Always keep your promises… Gwynnen remembers hearing her mother tell her when she was very small, and with her mother’s words echoing in her memory, she only pauses a moment before she promises.
“I do.”
The walk out of the chapel is the longest that Francis can remember; there are too many people watching, too many people that are too happy and too loudand too naïve… they are watching and they are waiting and they will always be around him, from now on.
He tries to tell himself it isn’t a sigh of relief that escapes him as the door behind them closes and the noise cuts out suddenly.
“I won’t begrudge you,” she offers softly in the fleeting moments they have to themselves after the ceremony. Gwynnen’s face is honest, her eyes large over a sad smile. “If you leave, I mean.” She took her hand from his arm to clasp both of hers together. “I know about the ambassadorial position you were offered, and I think you should take it.”
Francis gaped. She was offering...he could--!
His mind filled--
Always escaping, always running away, her eyes sad and heavy on his back as he rode away from a life that should have been his, responsibilities that should have been his, that he was too afraid to have and to hold. Obligation rode his back and wore him down until he could only be a shadow of himself, sharp and cruel, sending a dark haired boy to hide behind Gwynnen’s skirts; cold blue eyes staring at him--not yours, his mind screamed, not yours-- growing older and greyer and unhappier in a cold, dank fiefdom where a sullen young man scorned him--you’re not my father-- and Gwynnen,
Gwynnen, soft and tired and weeping slowly in a weary manner that spoke of years of tears...
“Thank you,” he breathed, gently touching a finger to her cheek, to his wife’s cheek, his wife, who understood... His other hand drifted to her stomach. “But only if you’re alright, if you’re happy. I won’t abandon you.”
Small spots of color bloomed over Gwynnen’s cheeks at his words, and another image ran unbidden across Francis’ mind--
Gwynnen, flushed pink and laughing the way he remembers she used to, so long ago, as she sets down a small, blessedly russet-haired girl, who toddles towards him with sheer adoration in her sparkling brown eyes...
“Thank you,” she whispers, a tiny, careful smile breaking through, and maybe if... Francis leans down and kisses her smiling lips chastely, drawing back to see the smile grow.
Perhaps they’ve always had a chance.