Post by wordy on Dec 1, 2011 12:41:40 GMT 10
To: Rosie
Message: I was so happy when I saw that you were going to be my recipient, and I was dying to write something that you would love. Hopefully this is it. ♥ Happy Holidays!
From: Em
Title: What I’m Trying To Say
Rating: PG
Words: 1,825
Wishlist Item: #1 – Gary/Cythera
Summary: Neither of them believe in love at first sight. But that doesn’t change a thing.
“There,” Gwynnen whispers, so close that Cythera feels a soft ringlet brush her cheek. “Prince Jonathan.”
Cythera doesn’t turn to look, not right away. She takes a sip of her wine, glad that she had had the foresight to have it watered down; even so, her head is already buzzing pleasantly. Her first foray at court has been unblemished so far. But the evening is still young.
She had spent all summer looking forward to this night, deciding on the material for her dress, what fashion to wear her hair in. Now that she’s here, she feels slightly overwhelmed.
Gwynnen has turned back to her dinner partner, chatting animatedly. Cythera takes the opportunity to glance around and locate the prince, casually. The sea of jewel-coloured gowns and other fineries draw her eye, until at last she fixes upon a young, slim man with the dark hair and blue eyes of his father. A little thrill sweeps through her. Jonathan.
“Handsome, and he knows it,” says the young lady on Cythera’s other side, conspiratorially. Cythera is inclined to agree; the prince and his friends seem to enjoy the stares they are drawing with their unabashed laughter.
“Who are the other young men with him?” Cythera asks quietly, her eyes running over the group.
“The prince’s friends. The one with the curls is Raoul of Goldenlake, the other one is Gareth of Naxen’s son. And Alan is the redhead, one of the pages, I believe.”
The lady goes on, pointing out other noble families, but Cythera’s eyes alight on Duke Gareth’s son. There is a confidence about him—quite unlike the Prince’s, which almost borders on arrogance—and his eyes crinkle pleasantly at the corners when he smiles. She feels her heart flutter.
“Come on, Cythera.” Gwynnen is at her shoulder, having deserted her dinner partner. Her eyes are shining and her auburn curls bounce with every movement of her head. “I want to dance.”
Cythera has no choice but to go along with her friend in search of a dancing partner. She feels a happy rush as they walk across the floor, her dress swishing with every step.
She’s finally in Corus. This is just the beginning.
His hands are shaking, so he tucks them under his arms. Raoul and Alex have wandered off to look at some tournament lists, and he can feel Cythera’s gaze on him, darting away and back again when he turns his head.
“Are you nervous?” she asks, then bites her lip, probably realising how stupid a question it really is.
Nevertheless, he manages a smile. It’s a bad trait of his, always trying to make others comfortable and at ease, no matter his own feelings. “Is it so obvious?”
She smiles and shakes her head. They stop outside the courtyard leading to the kitchens, waiting for the others to catch up. He should have taken Jon’s advice and spent the afternoon down in the city; being around the palace all day has only made his nerves more vibrant, the constant threat of the Ordeal hanging over him.
“Can you imagine having to confront your greatest fears, your weaknesses,” he says, skin crawling at his own words, “in the dark. Anything could be waiting. There’s no guarantee that you’ll survive. Men have died trying to become knights. Even my father didn’t make it out whole.”
He worries that he has gone too far; court ladies weren’t made for such gruesome talk. But Cythera doesn’t shrink away. She places a hand on his arm, and even that makes him flinch.
“You’re not your father, Gary,” she says.
“I know.” He wants to be.
She continues to watch him, concerned, and he lets out a shaky laugh. “See, I knew I should have listened to my aunt. If I had accepted that King’s Reach girl as my betrothed, I’d have a sweetheart to calm my nerves and give me tokens. I shouldn’t be scaring you like this.”
“I’m not scared. Is that what a sweetheart would do, give you a token for luck?”
“I suppose so. Jon knows much more about that sort of thing than I do." He laughs. “And Raoul avoids serious romantic attachments like the pox.”
The afternoon light is already fading. It glints in her fair hair, and he notices the way her pale blue eyes are of a colour with the sky. Behind them, he can hear Alex and Raoul joking as they catch up. It’s all going too fast. He isn’t ready.
Cythera’s soft hand moves down his arm, and her fingers clench around his own. Before he can grasp what is happening, she's leaning closer, close enough that he could count every one of her eyelashes if he had wanted to.
“For luck,” she whispers against his ear, then he feels the soft press of her lips against his cheek.
“Come on, Gary, no time to waste,” says Raoul, coming up and clapping him on the shoulder. Gary feels a little lightheaded and knows he must look a fool, standing there alone, replaying the last few minutes over and over in his head. Cythera has already disappeared, but he can still feel the ghost of her lips on his skin.
Alex looks him over, a dark smile on his face. “Ready to become a knight?”
Gary swallows, and manages not to raise a hand to his cheek. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I think so.”
The visor makes his voice echo strangely. “Come on, Raoul. You couldn’t let me win just this once?”
Raoul smiles and leans down to accept his lance from his squire. “I like to think of it as character building.”
The small group of people gathered by the fence cheer as they take their places. Gary’s blood is pulsing in his veins. This was a bad idea. He’s seen Raoul in tournaments before, seen him demolish his opponents with a flick of his wrist.
As he nudges his horse into position and adjusts his lance, he looks out at those who have come to watch. And of course she’s among them, smiling and laughing and not looking at all concerned that she’s about to witness his untimely death by the hand of his best friend. There’s nothing to do but focus on Raoul’s shield and go on; briefly, he wonders if Raoul will relent and let him win after all, but Gary knows that that isn’t Raoul’s way.
He comes to slowly, to the pain in his head. He blinks a few times, and then realises that he’s lying on the ground and staring up into the midday sun. The blow to his shield must have knocked his helm clear off.
A strong arm is around his shoulders, helping him to sit. It’s only when he does so that he realises who the arm belongs to and he finds his face on level with a lot of white lace and a pale décolletage. His head spins a little at that, but he does manage to raise his eyes to Cythera’s face. He can feel the presence of others standing around them.
“Raoul says you were trying to impress me,” she murmurs.
Gary decides that there’s no point in incriminating himself further, so he stays silent.
There is a small crease on Cythera’s forehead, and he realises that she is concerned despite her amused expression. “You’ll be fine,” she goes on. “No broken bones. Though if you wish to impress me, I’d rather you did so without trying to kill yourself.”
Then there are a number of hands trying to help him to his feet. Briefly, he finds himself face to face with Raoul, who seems to have no difficulty in supporting most of his weight. “Success,” the big knight whispers in his ear. He can all but hear his grin. “Same time next week?”
Gary doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he does neither and lets himself be led back to his rooms.
“It’s a message for you, Cythera,” says Rosetta, her lady’s maid, leaving the door ajar.
Rising from her seat and putting aside her embroidery gratefully, Cythera walks over and is met with a familiar young man dressed in the Naxen colours. She raises an eyebrow, already intrigued despite herself. “You’re not Gary’s squire.”
“No,” says the boy, looking forlorn, “I’m afraid that’s the problem.” He bows with a Player’s flourish, his sandy hair flopping down over his eyes. “Douglass of Veldine, my lady.”
“Ah.” She’s beginning to catch on. “A shame; I was growing rather fond of Sacherell.”
“He’s a sweet boy,” Douglass says. He raises an eyebrow of his own. “May I come in?”
Cythera finds herself smiling. “Please do.”
The coronation is fast approaching. More guests are arriving with each passing day, and Thayet has her right in the middle of it.
Then Alanna returns, and Cythera finds herself trying to place Alan’s face in the young knight’s. The two seem so separate in her mind that it’s difficult to merge them.
Gary finds her sitting on a step with a lapful of decorations, watching Alanna and Jonathan rehearse. His knees crack as he sits down beside her, and she thinks again that it’s past time they had the conversation she has been avoiding for all the time they’ve known each other. Except, now, she’s no longer sure why she’s been putting it off.
“It’s strange,” she says. Alanna is scowling at Jon now, and it’s so familiar a sight. “They’re exactly the same as they used to be.”
“You thought Alanna would be different?”
“I suppose so. Alan and Alanna, I can’t quite reconcile them in my head,” she admits.
“She’s a good knight,” says Gary, and Cythera realises that she feels not even a hint of jealousy, though she can’t lift a sword and her skill with a bow is rather pitiful. It’s definitely past time.
He stands and she offers him her hand, letting the decorations slip onto the floor beside her as he pulls her to her feet. “If Thayet finds me sitting here, she’s bound to give me something equally boring to spend my time on.”
“Then we’d best not let her find you,” he says, smiling.
She can feel her body trembling with all of those people behind her, watching. Gary’s hand in hers is firm and solid. She squeezes his fingers and he squeezes back. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the way his eyes are shining. Her heart flutters, still.
The priest of Mithros steps up before them to say his blessing, but Cythera’s thoughts are elsewhere, flying back to a certain day at Midwinter, barely a year after they had been introduced for the first time.
(“Will you marry me?”
“You hardly know me.”
“No,” he admitted, taking a deep breath, “but I want to.”)
Message: I was so happy when I saw that you were going to be my recipient, and I was dying to write something that you would love. Hopefully this is it. ♥ Happy Holidays!
From: Em
Title: What I’m Trying To Say
Rating: PG
Words: 1,825
Wishlist Item: #1 – Gary/Cythera
Summary: Neither of them believe in love at first sight. But that doesn’t change a thing.
I think you’re just so pleasant; I would like you for my own
“There,” Gwynnen whispers, so close that Cythera feels a soft ringlet brush her cheek. “Prince Jonathan.”
Cythera doesn’t turn to look, not right away. She takes a sip of her wine, glad that she had had the foresight to have it watered down; even so, her head is already buzzing pleasantly. Her first foray at court has been unblemished so far. But the evening is still young.
She had spent all summer looking forward to this night, deciding on the material for her dress, what fashion to wear her hair in. Now that she’s here, she feels slightly overwhelmed.
Gwynnen has turned back to her dinner partner, chatting animatedly. Cythera takes the opportunity to glance around and locate the prince, casually. The sea of jewel-coloured gowns and other fineries draw her eye, until at last she fixes upon a young, slim man with the dark hair and blue eyes of his father. A little thrill sweeps through her. Jonathan.
“Handsome, and he knows it,” says the young lady on Cythera’s other side, conspiratorially. Cythera is inclined to agree; the prince and his friends seem to enjoy the stares they are drawing with their unabashed laughter.
“Who are the other young men with him?” Cythera asks quietly, her eyes running over the group.
“The prince’s friends. The one with the curls is Raoul of Goldenlake, the other one is Gareth of Naxen’s son. And Alan is the redhead, one of the pages, I believe.”
The lady goes on, pointing out other noble families, but Cythera’s eyes alight on Duke Gareth’s son. There is a confidence about him—quite unlike the Prince’s, which almost borders on arrogance—and his eyes crinkle pleasantly at the corners when he smiles. She feels her heart flutter.
“Come on, Cythera.” Gwynnen is at her shoulder, having deserted her dinner partner. Her eyes are shining and her auburn curls bounce with every movement of her head. “I want to dance.”
Cythera has no choice but to go along with her friend in search of a dancing partner. She feels a happy rush as they walk across the floor, her dress swishing with every step.
She’s finally in Corus. This is just the beginning.
**
His hands are shaking, so he tucks them under his arms. Raoul and Alex have wandered off to look at some tournament lists, and he can feel Cythera’s gaze on him, darting away and back again when he turns his head.
“Are you nervous?” she asks, then bites her lip, probably realising how stupid a question it really is.
Nevertheless, he manages a smile. It’s a bad trait of his, always trying to make others comfortable and at ease, no matter his own feelings. “Is it so obvious?”
She smiles and shakes her head. They stop outside the courtyard leading to the kitchens, waiting for the others to catch up. He should have taken Jon’s advice and spent the afternoon down in the city; being around the palace all day has only made his nerves more vibrant, the constant threat of the Ordeal hanging over him.
“Can you imagine having to confront your greatest fears, your weaknesses,” he says, skin crawling at his own words, “in the dark. Anything could be waiting. There’s no guarantee that you’ll survive. Men have died trying to become knights. Even my father didn’t make it out whole.”
He worries that he has gone too far; court ladies weren’t made for such gruesome talk. But Cythera doesn’t shrink away. She places a hand on his arm, and even that makes him flinch.
“You’re not your father, Gary,” she says.
“I know.” He wants to be.
She continues to watch him, concerned, and he lets out a shaky laugh. “See, I knew I should have listened to my aunt. If I had accepted that King’s Reach girl as my betrothed, I’d have a sweetheart to calm my nerves and give me tokens. I shouldn’t be scaring you like this.”
“I’m not scared. Is that what a sweetheart would do, give you a token for luck?”
“I suppose so. Jon knows much more about that sort of thing than I do." He laughs. “And Raoul avoids serious romantic attachments like the pox.”
The afternoon light is already fading. It glints in her fair hair, and he notices the way her pale blue eyes are of a colour with the sky. Behind them, he can hear Alex and Raoul joking as they catch up. It’s all going too fast. He isn’t ready.
Cythera’s soft hand moves down his arm, and her fingers clench around his own. Before he can grasp what is happening, she's leaning closer, close enough that he could count every one of her eyelashes if he had wanted to.
“For luck,” she whispers against his ear, then he feels the soft press of her lips against his cheek.
“Come on, Gary, no time to waste,” says Raoul, coming up and clapping him on the shoulder. Gary feels a little lightheaded and knows he must look a fool, standing there alone, replaying the last few minutes over and over in his head. Cythera has already disappeared, but he can still feel the ghost of her lips on his skin.
Alex looks him over, a dark smile on his face. “Ready to become a knight?”
Gary swallows, and manages not to raise a hand to his cheek. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I think so.”
**
The visor makes his voice echo strangely. “Come on, Raoul. You couldn’t let me win just this once?”
Raoul smiles and leans down to accept his lance from his squire. “I like to think of it as character building.”
The small group of people gathered by the fence cheer as they take their places. Gary’s blood is pulsing in his veins. This was a bad idea. He’s seen Raoul in tournaments before, seen him demolish his opponents with a flick of his wrist.
As he nudges his horse into position and adjusts his lance, he looks out at those who have come to watch. And of course she’s among them, smiling and laughing and not looking at all concerned that she’s about to witness his untimely death by the hand of his best friend. There’s nothing to do but focus on Raoul’s shield and go on; briefly, he wonders if Raoul will relent and let him win after all, but Gary knows that that isn’t Raoul’s way.
He comes to slowly, to the pain in his head. He blinks a few times, and then realises that he’s lying on the ground and staring up into the midday sun. The blow to his shield must have knocked his helm clear off.
A strong arm is around his shoulders, helping him to sit. It’s only when he does so that he realises who the arm belongs to and he finds his face on level with a lot of white lace and a pale décolletage. His head spins a little at that, but he does manage to raise his eyes to Cythera’s face. He can feel the presence of others standing around them.
“Raoul says you were trying to impress me,” she murmurs.
Gary decides that there’s no point in incriminating himself further, so he stays silent.
There is a small crease on Cythera’s forehead, and he realises that she is concerned despite her amused expression. “You’ll be fine,” she goes on. “No broken bones. Though if you wish to impress me, I’d rather you did so without trying to kill yourself.”
Then there are a number of hands trying to help him to his feet. Briefly, he finds himself face to face with Raoul, who seems to have no difficulty in supporting most of his weight. “Success,” the big knight whispers in his ear. He can all but hear his grin. “Same time next week?”
Gary doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he does neither and lets himself be led back to his rooms.
**
“It’s a message for you, Cythera,” says Rosetta, her lady’s maid, leaving the door ajar.
Rising from her seat and putting aside her embroidery gratefully, Cythera walks over and is met with a familiar young man dressed in the Naxen colours. She raises an eyebrow, already intrigued despite herself. “You’re not Gary’s squire.”
“No,” says the boy, looking forlorn, “I’m afraid that’s the problem.” He bows with a Player’s flourish, his sandy hair flopping down over his eyes. “Douglass of Veldine, my lady.”
“Ah.” She’s beginning to catch on. “A shame; I was growing rather fond of Sacherell.”
“He’s a sweet boy,” Douglass says. He raises an eyebrow of his own. “May I come in?”
Cythera finds herself smiling. “Please do.”
**
The coronation is fast approaching. More guests are arriving with each passing day, and Thayet has her right in the middle of it.
Then Alanna returns, and Cythera finds herself trying to place Alan’s face in the young knight’s. The two seem so separate in her mind that it’s difficult to merge them.
Gary finds her sitting on a step with a lapful of decorations, watching Alanna and Jonathan rehearse. His knees crack as he sits down beside her, and she thinks again that it’s past time they had the conversation she has been avoiding for all the time they’ve known each other. Except, now, she’s no longer sure why she’s been putting it off.
“It’s strange,” she says. Alanna is scowling at Jon now, and it’s so familiar a sight. “They’re exactly the same as they used to be.”
“You thought Alanna would be different?”
“I suppose so. Alan and Alanna, I can’t quite reconcile them in my head,” she admits.
“She’s a good knight,” says Gary, and Cythera realises that she feels not even a hint of jealousy, though she can’t lift a sword and her skill with a bow is rather pitiful. It’s definitely past time.
He stands and she offers him her hand, letting the decorations slip onto the floor beside her as he pulls her to her feet. “If Thayet finds me sitting here, she’s bound to give me something equally boring to spend my time on.”
“Then we’d best not let her find you,” he says, smiling.
**
She can feel her body trembling with all of those people behind her, watching. Gary’s hand in hers is firm and solid. She squeezes his fingers and he squeezes back. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the way his eyes are shining. Her heart flutters, still.
The priest of Mithros steps up before them to say his blessing, but Cythera’s thoughts are elsewhere, flying back to a certain day at Midwinter, barely a year after they had been introduced for the first time.
(“Will you marry me?”
“You hardly know me.”
“No,” he admitted, taking a deep breath, “but I want to.”)