Post by Muse on Jul 1, 2011 0:30:52 GMT 10
Title: Ever After
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1350
Prompt: Happily Ever After-- #14
Summary: Life goes through many seasons; a year of possibilities for Francis and Gwynnen. (Possibilities 5)
“Come, Gwynnen, you must dance with someone, if you love it so much,” Cythera wheedles, but Gwynnen tugs her hand from Cythera’s.
“I can love dancing and not want to dance with anyone at the same time,” she mutters, wishing that her friend would just leave her be; Cythera could go dance by herself.
“For goodness’ sake, Gwynnen, it’s Midwinter!” Gwynnen, hearing this particular sentiment multiple times over the evening, just keeps shaking her head.
“Hush. I don’t want to dance with any of them,” she admonishes, still glancing around the ballroom.
“Who are you looking for?” Cythera asks again, craning her neck to try and catch a glimpse. “Oh look, there’s the prince, surely you’ll dance with him!”
Gwynnen’s eyes pass right over Jonathan of Conte, even as he moves in their direction. “I told you—“
“Fine. Then I’ll dance with him myself,” Cythera sweeps off in a whirl of silk skirts, which is just as well. She’ll be back, she and her questions both. At least now Gwynnen can have a quiet moment to look…
A quiet voice catches her attention, drawing her out of her thoughts.
“Does something ail milady, that you choose not to dance?”
A knight offers his hand, and Gwynnen is about to politely refuse his offer when she notices his small, shy smile and his ears burning dark red against his fair hair.
“You—Midwinter, years ago—“ she stutters, and the blond knight’s smile grows a little more.
“So you do remember,” he remarks, his brown eyes dancing. “I believe I owe you a dance, milady Gwynnen.”
“I believe you do,” she replies, her surprise wearing off as Francis directs her out onto the dance floor, and as he spins her, Gwynnen throws back her head and laughs.
A sudden change in the weather catches Corus by surprise, and almost overnight the winter wonderland melts away into the first blushes of spring. The grass still sparkles like it’s been touched with diamond dust in the mornings, but weak, new sunshine melts it away as the first flowers spring up, dressed in fashionable pale pinks and violets like the Court blossoms that spill out onto the Palace grounds like a tumbled basket of petals.
Gwynnen wears blue, thank you very much, even though Cythera’s intent on getting her into one of the new gowns that had been shipped in recently from Elden.
“We’re of a size, Gwynnen, and you simply must try this one that I’ve picked out--”
“If it’s pink, Cythera, I shan’t.” She shakes her head, tossing her bright hair over her shoulders.
“But what if it’s yellow?”
Gwynnen jumps; it isn’t Cythera that speaks, continuing their playful banter from just a moment ago, but someone else, someone with a deeper voice—
She glimpses a spray of yellow out of the corner of her eye and turns towards the brilliant color: a daffodil, offered to her by…
Francis smiles, ducking his head down before Gwynnen’s laughter, as bright as the yellow flower, brings his eyes back up to her face.
“If it’s yellow, my dear knight, then I simply and gladly must accept!”
Cythera takes this as acceptance of the newest dress from Elden as well, which Gwynnen only half-heartedly protests, because the yellow just matches the shade of the flower sitting the table by her window.
Gwynnen looks at Francis with large eyes from across the garden, and Francis sweeps in to bow, asking her to accompany him on a short walk, even as Gary looks up at the blonde knight indignantly, spluttering.
When they are far enough away that Gary can’t overhear their conversation, Gwynnen breaks their silence, smiling up at Francis.
“You must never leave me to endure Sir Gareth on my own again,” Gwynnen informs him seriously, and Francis clasps her hand, resting on his forearm.
“Was it terrible?” he asks, eyes searching hers before she breaks his gaze and looks down briefly.
“His grasp of poetry is perfectly awful,” she states, her solemn expression lasting only moments before they are both laughing.
“He was reciting his poetry to you?” Francis manages to get out between bouts of laughter, and Gwynnen finds herself leaning on him for support as she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes.
He doesn’t quite manage to keep the upset tone from his voice, and Gwynnen giggles even harder as she realizes that Francis is being slightly possessive. “He’s practicing—“ she gasps, “—for Cythera.”
“The poor girl,” Francis hands a handkerchief to Gwynnen, who blots her face with it. “I always wondered why she looked so pained when she and Gary were sitting in the gardens together…”
Gwynnen’s smile threatens to blind him with its brilliance. “I feel bad if I don’t warn her, but then she has to sit through it again after, and he always botches it by stuttering, so he has to repeat himself and makes it ten times worse…”
Francis tugs her forward. “We should escape before he finds Cythera and starts all over again!”
Gwynnen laughs as Francis leads her down the garden path and away.
The evening softens the brilliant colors of autumn and teases rosy pink color onto Gwynnen’s face as the crisp air weaves its way through her hair. Francis loves how it falls, dark auburn, across his hand as he steers her to a balcony outside of the ballroom.
He loves—
Gwynnen turns when she reaches the balustrade, looking up at him. “Tired of dancing already?” she teases, the flush of excitement leaving him a tad breathless.
“I wanted to show you something,” he returns, moving just a step closer but hearing the hitch in her breathing as he does so anyway.
“What?” she whispers, her voice dropping.
“Look up,” he mentions softly, and she tilts her head back, giggling just a bit as she does so, before her mouth drops open in a soft “o” and she takes in the stars shining, clear against the black velvet night.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, leaning further back to see the sky better, and Francis’ hands came up to catch her as she wobbled, balancing her gently against his own body.
“It is,” he agrees, and she doesn’t notice that he’s not even looking up at all, and she misses the intense, fierce happiness in his eyes as he watches her.
Twinkling lights and whirling colors catch the Palace up in its Midwinter finery again before Gwynnen realizes it, and it delights her when Francis shows up to escort her to the Longnight celebration.
His tunic is red as winterberries, and her dress is raw silk, as green as holly leaves, and she feels as though they have stepped right out of some kind of storybook as she descends the ballroom staircase on his arm.
Francis finds himself unable to look away from her twinkling eyes as they dance; she makes a face when she catches him staring too long, and he flushes and glances anywhere but at her until her attention is drawn elsewhere.
He starts when he catches her staring at him, her face open and inquisitive, and she flushes and mutters something about being thirsty.
Gwynnen waits by one of the large windows that frame the room, perched on the cushioned seat as Francis goes to get refreshments. When he returns will two glasses of mulled wine she sips the drink and sighs happily.
“This is wonderful,” she mentions quietly over her glass, still watching the swirling dancers move about the dance floor. “Its like something out of a story, something with high adventure and daring deeds…”
Francis hands off his empty glass and hers to a passing squire, shifting and offering her his hand again. “Like a fairytale, Gwynnen? Shall I whisk you off your feet?”
Gwynnen frowned a bit, wrinkling her nose as she stated, “But fairy tales always have princesses, and I’m no princess.”
Francis laughed softly, “Good, because I’m no prince.”
Smiling, Gwynnen corrected him. “No, you’re a knight in shining armor.”
“And you’re my own true lady love,” Francis told her softly, pulling her close so she had to tilt her head up slightly to see his face.
“Does that mean the story can still end with ‘happily ever after’?” Gwynnen asked, watching through her lashes as Francis draws their entwined hands up and places a soft kiss on the back of her knuckles.
She holds her breath as he looks her in the eyes, a deep smouldering expression flickering its way across his face as he kisses her knuckles again, his lips lingering.
“Well, I don’t know about the end,” Francis teased gently, his voice husky and his cheeks as pink as Gwynnen’s, “but ever after…”
And he opens his other hand, offering her a golden band with a small diamond clasped in its setting, asking everything with his eyes while he swallows nervously.
Gwynnen’s eyes are big as she looks from his hand to his face.
She bites her lip, then nods mutely, her throat tight with emotion. She watches Francis’ eyes as he gently takes her hand and slides the ring onto her finger, suddenly shy.
He draws back, studies the ring on her finger, then kisses her fingertip.
She giggles, and he covers her mouth with his own smiling lips, cupping her face gently and drawing her in. She tastes of promises and happiness and sunlight, and his heart beats even faster.
When they break apart, they pull back just enough to catch their breath and try to calm their racing hearts. Francis leans down and presses their foreheads together, and Gwynnen’s eyes flutter shut for a moment before looking back into his again.
“Ever after,” she agreed merrily, reaching up to kiss him again.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1350
Prompt: Happily Ever After-- #14
Summary: Life goes through many seasons; a year of possibilities for Francis and Gwynnen. (Possibilities 5)
“Come, Gwynnen, you must dance with someone, if you love it so much,” Cythera wheedles, but Gwynnen tugs her hand from Cythera’s.
“I can love dancing and not want to dance with anyone at the same time,” she mutters, wishing that her friend would just leave her be; Cythera could go dance by herself.
“For goodness’ sake, Gwynnen, it’s Midwinter!” Gwynnen, hearing this particular sentiment multiple times over the evening, just keeps shaking her head.
“Hush. I don’t want to dance with any of them,” she admonishes, still glancing around the ballroom.
“Who are you looking for?” Cythera asks again, craning her neck to try and catch a glimpse. “Oh look, there’s the prince, surely you’ll dance with him!”
Gwynnen’s eyes pass right over Jonathan of Conte, even as he moves in their direction. “I told you—“
“Fine. Then I’ll dance with him myself,” Cythera sweeps off in a whirl of silk skirts, which is just as well. She’ll be back, she and her questions both. At least now Gwynnen can have a quiet moment to look…
A quiet voice catches her attention, drawing her out of her thoughts.
“Does something ail milady, that you choose not to dance?”
A knight offers his hand, and Gwynnen is about to politely refuse his offer when she notices his small, shy smile and his ears burning dark red against his fair hair.
“You—Midwinter, years ago—“ she stutters, and the blond knight’s smile grows a little more.
“So you do remember,” he remarks, his brown eyes dancing. “I believe I owe you a dance, milady Gwynnen.”
“I believe you do,” she replies, her surprise wearing off as Francis directs her out onto the dance floor, and as he spins her, Gwynnen throws back her head and laughs.
A sudden change in the weather catches Corus by surprise, and almost overnight the winter wonderland melts away into the first blushes of spring. The grass still sparkles like it’s been touched with diamond dust in the mornings, but weak, new sunshine melts it away as the first flowers spring up, dressed in fashionable pale pinks and violets like the Court blossoms that spill out onto the Palace grounds like a tumbled basket of petals.
Gwynnen wears blue, thank you very much, even though Cythera’s intent on getting her into one of the new gowns that had been shipped in recently from Elden.
“We’re of a size, Gwynnen, and you simply must try this one that I’ve picked out--”
“If it’s pink, Cythera, I shan’t.” She shakes her head, tossing her bright hair over her shoulders.
“But what if it’s yellow?”
Gwynnen jumps; it isn’t Cythera that speaks, continuing their playful banter from just a moment ago, but someone else, someone with a deeper voice—
She glimpses a spray of yellow out of the corner of her eye and turns towards the brilliant color: a daffodil, offered to her by…
Francis smiles, ducking his head down before Gwynnen’s laughter, as bright as the yellow flower, brings his eyes back up to her face.
“If it’s yellow, my dear knight, then I simply and gladly must accept!”
Cythera takes this as acceptance of the newest dress from Elden as well, which Gwynnen only half-heartedly protests, because the yellow just matches the shade of the flower sitting the table by her window.
Gwynnen looks at Francis with large eyes from across the garden, and Francis sweeps in to bow, asking her to accompany him on a short walk, even as Gary looks up at the blonde knight indignantly, spluttering.
When they are far enough away that Gary can’t overhear their conversation, Gwynnen breaks their silence, smiling up at Francis.
“You must never leave me to endure Sir Gareth on my own again,” Gwynnen informs him seriously, and Francis clasps her hand, resting on his forearm.
“Was it terrible?” he asks, eyes searching hers before she breaks his gaze and looks down briefly.
“His grasp of poetry is perfectly awful,” she states, her solemn expression lasting only moments before they are both laughing.
“He was reciting his poetry to you?” Francis manages to get out between bouts of laughter, and Gwynnen finds herself leaning on him for support as she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes.
He doesn’t quite manage to keep the upset tone from his voice, and Gwynnen giggles even harder as she realizes that Francis is being slightly possessive. “He’s practicing—“ she gasps, “—for Cythera.”
“The poor girl,” Francis hands a handkerchief to Gwynnen, who blots her face with it. “I always wondered why she looked so pained when she and Gary were sitting in the gardens together…”
Gwynnen’s smile threatens to blind him with its brilliance. “I feel bad if I don’t warn her, but then she has to sit through it again after, and he always botches it by stuttering, so he has to repeat himself and makes it ten times worse…”
Francis tugs her forward. “We should escape before he finds Cythera and starts all over again!”
Gwynnen laughs as Francis leads her down the garden path and away.
The evening softens the brilliant colors of autumn and teases rosy pink color onto Gwynnen’s face as the crisp air weaves its way through her hair. Francis loves how it falls, dark auburn, across his hand as he steers her to a balcony outside of the ballroom.
He loves—
Gwynnen turns when she reaches the balustrade, looking up at him. “Tired of dancing already?” she teases, the flush of excitement leaving him a tad breathless.
“I wanted to show you something,” he returns, moving just a step closer but hearing the hitch in her breathing as he does so anyway.
“What?” she whispers, her voice dropping.
“Look up,” he mentions softly, and she tilts her head back, giggling just a bit as she does so, before her mouth drops open in a soft “o” and she takes in the stars shining, clear against the black velvet night.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, leaning further back to see the sky better, and Francis’ hands came up to catch her as she wobbled, balancing her gently against his own body.
“It is,” he agrees, and she doesn’t notice that he’s not even looking up at all, and she misses the intense, fierce happiness in his eyes as he watches her.
Twinkling lights and whirling colors catch the Palace up in its Midwinter finery again before Gwynnen realizes it, and it delights her when Francis shows up to escort her to the Longnight celebration.
His tunic is red as winterberries, and her dress is raw silk, as green as holly leaves, and she feels as though they have stepped right out of some kind of storybook as she descends the ballroom staircase on his arm.
Francis finds himself unable to look away from her twinkling eyes as they dance; she makes a face when she catches him staring too long, and he flushes and glances anywhere but at her until her attention is drawn elsewhere.
He starts when he catches her staring at him, her face open and inquisitive, and she flushes and mutters something about being thirsty.
Gwynnen waits by one of the large windows that frame the room, perched on the cushioned seat as Francis goes to get refreshments. When he returns will two glasses of mulled wine she sips the drink and sighs happily.
“This is wonderful,” she mentions quietly over her glass, still watching the swirling dancers move about the dance floor. “Its like something out of a story, something with high adventure and daring deeds…”
Francis hands off his empty glass and hers to a passing squire, shifting and offering her his hand again. “Like a fairytale, Gwynnen? Shall I whisk you off your feet?”
Gwynnen frowned a bit, wrinkling her nose as she stated, “But fairy tales always have princesses, and I’m no princess.”
Francis laughed softly, “Good, because I’m no prince.”
Smiling, Gwynnen corrected him. “No, you’re a knight in shining armor.”
“And you’re my own true lady love,” Francis told her softly, pulling her close so she had to tilt her head up slightly to see his face.
“Does that mean the story can still end with ‘happily ever after’?” Gwynnen asked, watching through her lashes as Francis draws their entwined hands up and places a soft kiss on the back of her knuckles.
She holds her breath as he looks her in the eyes, a deep smouldering expression flickering its way across his face as he kisses her knuckles again, his lips lingering.
“Well, I don’t know about the end,” Francis teased gently, his voice husky and his cheeks as pink as Gwynnen’s, “but ever after…”
And he opens his other hand, offering her a golden band with a small diamond clasped in its setting, asking everything with his eyes while he swallows nervously.
Gwynnen’s eyes are big as she looks from his hand to his face.
She bites her lip, then nods mutely, her throat tight with emotion. She watches Francis’ eyes as he gently takes her hand and slides the ring onto her finger, suddenly shy.
He draws back, studies the ring on her finger, then kisses her fingertip.
She giggles, and he covers her mouth with his own smiling lips, cupping her face gently and drawing her in. She tastes of promises and happiness and sunlight, and his heart beats even faster.
When they break apart, they pull back just enough to catch their breath and try to calm their racing hearts. Francis leans down and presses their foreheads together, and Gwynnen’s eyes flutter shut for a moment before looking back into his again.
“Ever after,” she agreed merrily, reaching up to kiss him again.