"He Takes Off Her Dress, Now..."

[psalm_onethirtyone]

They hit Newport late for lunch, around the time Gaheris finally falls asleep, leaning his head against the window. The cop ticketed Mordred, who argued eloquently. Gaheris just tried to ignore them both. Argument makes his head hurt, but every moment Mordred wasn't actually driving he planned to appreciate; and when Mordred did start driving again he tried to block it out, even though it doesn't begin to work until they arrive.

Mordred murmurs, "There it is," and pulls in with a sharp crunch of gravel; Gaheris shakes himself and looks up.

Before them there's an oldish square building, painted with foot-high letters in bright colours announcing 'CARROTS. TOMATOES. BROCCOLI. APPLE CIDER. HOMEMADE PIE AND COOKIES', and a bright striped awning over its shaded cement front, where there are baskets of pumpkins and squash. Standing on the steps, between Indian corn and barrels of late peaches, is a tall, gangly young man with a shock of bright red hair, like turned maple leaves. He's waving.

"That's him?" Gaheris asks.

"Of course. At least he's happy to see us. Come on."

Peredur greets them with enormous hugs. His arms are strong with farmers' muscles, his face the sunbrowned colour of working outdoors. It surprises Gaheris. Maybe too long living in the city--too many people with pale skin or applied tans.

"Hey! How are you guys? It's been so long." He holds them at arm's length to look at them. "I missed you. I missed you."

"Like hell," Mordred says, laughing.

"No, I did! I missed everybody." The smile seems so warm that Gaheris is a little afraid of it--who would welcome them back so easily? The cursed Orkney brothers and their cursed heritage of killings that shouldn't have been--but Peredur doesn't seem to remember or mind all of that. He's so full of good will, looking at them like they're his own brothers, instead of two men not even related by country. "It's been such a long time."

"Percy, who's there?"

Instantly Gaheris turns. There's another young man in the doorway. This one is shorter, slighter, without the strong build; dressed more carefully. His face is sweet as Peredur's, his eyes as gentle, but something in it darkens when he catches sight of them.

"We got friends come to visit!" Peredur calls back. "Come on down."

The young man obeys, standing close by Peredur and looking very quietly at Mordred. "Percy."

"Yeah?" He smiles again.

"Why is he here?"

"They're stayin' a while. I asked them to dinner and all."

"I will not eat with him."

Before Peredur can speak, Gaheris, with a sudden sinking feeling, says, "With my brother?"

"That's right," says Galahad, his eyes shifting to Gaheris.

"Why not?"

"Gaheris--"

"He killed my King," Galahad says.

"No. Not the way you think. It wasn't the way anyone thinks," Gaheris begins. "I know. Believe me, I know. It was after your father--"

"Gaheris." This time Mordred's voice is so sharp it seems to still the air. When Gaheris looks at him, he realises that the closed off look is back on Mordred's face, not letting him in, not letting anyone know what he's thinking. "That's enough."

"He doesn't understand. You can tell him. Tell him it's not the way he--"

"Damn you, don't defend me!"

"Hey," Peredur says, soft enough to stop them all. Galahad clasps his hand, as though suddenly searching for guidance. "I don't want you fightin' while you're stayin' here. It's been a long time." He squeezes Galahad's hand (Gaheris tries not to notice). "Come on inside, okay? We can have pie. Everythin's better with pie."

"Sure," says Mordred, a little too carelessly.

Gaheris nods.

"Okay, good." And he leads them all into the building, past a doorframe that Gaheris suddenly notices is painted bright blue. "Don't touch," says Peredur. "Helen and me, we just finished paintin' that up to-day." Gaheris sees for the first time the blue paint on his hands and shirt.

A bright girl is working at the counter inside. She robs Gaheris of all words. Her hair is as red as Peredur's, and she smiles as though the world is worth smiling for, as though the whole future will be beautiful and she knows it, and it's a secret she can only express with her face. "Hey! It's about time you got here. We were wonderin' what kept you."

"Caught in traffic," Mordred says. His boyish good humour is suddenly showing itself, the special laughter Gaheris always wants to have caused, and he's envious that it should be Galahad's wife who wins it.

Peredur kisses her cheek and disappears into the back. The bright girl looks between Galahad and Mordred and shakes her head. "Hope we'll make it, living with you two together."

"I'll behave if he does."

Galahad doesn't seem to know what to do. He looks at the girl with the same childish expression as before. She reaches across the counter and pats his hand. "You boys, you're all so silly. You'd better behave, or Percy'll make you help him with the fields, and that's a trial, with him chattering away. Silly goose."

"Am not," Peredur says, coming back with a jug of cider in one hand and a pie plate in the other. He sets them down on the counter and fishes forks out of his back pocket. Galahad's wife takes cups from behind the counter and starts to fill them. "There! That's good."

Mordred flicks a smile at him.

~~~

That evening, after everyone else is in bed, Gaheris slips downstairs into the autumn dark. The air smells sharper, and as if it's spiced with something foreign. Somewhere off in the distance there's a shaded glow of something burning--leaves or brush in somebody's backyard. He stands quietly for a while.

"You okay?"

Gaheris turns, although he can't see the speaker, although he recognises Peredur's voice. "I'm fine. I think too much."

"Sure." A thoughtful kind of smile touches the voice. "I do that too. You wanna come in? I'm puttin' in a fire."

"All right."

Peredur snaps kindling even smaller, and fills the fireplace with it, topping a bed of newspaper and birch bark, and then stacking split logs over it. After a few moments and only one match, it begins to burn, the newsprint curling and the birch disintegrating into ash. "There we go! That's better. When it gets to turnin' here, it's always colder than you'd think."

"Is Galahad all right?" he asks abruptly.

"He's fine." Peredur puts his hands against the glass windows of the fireplaces for a moment. "He just gets muddled over things sometimes, over bein' one place and then the other. He died on the Grail quest, yeah? And the angels promised he'd be goin' to stay with God after that, only he ended up here, and it seemed all wrong. He keeps tryin' to make it make sense, and sometimes he's scared it's 'cause he didn't b'lieve that all people were good. He didn't like everybody. I mean, he was pure, that's why he got to the Grail, but he thinks maybe purity wasn't enough, maybe he shoulda liked his dad."

Gaheris watches the flame quietly. "You both think like that, don't you?"

"Sometimes. Only I'm the other way around, you know. I liked most everybody, and I still do. Like with Mordred. I always tell him that I bet they got the story mixed when they told it. It gets passed down long enough, nobody tells anything just exactly like it was. But he can't ever think of it like that."

"Do you remember it?"

"Oh, yeah." Peredur smiles at him. "I remember growin' up in the woods and then comin' to Camelot and going off with Galahad and everything."

"You weren't in the war, were you? Did you die with Galahad?"

"No, I stayed with him and Helen, then, after they died. But I didn't die for a bit. Just sort of run down after a while, got old and missed 'em and then I was out pickin' apples and I got stung by something and I died, and it was okay."

"I wish--"

"Sure, I know." His brown hand reaches out and clasps Gaheris', squeezes gently just like with Galahad. "It's okay."

"Okay." Gaheris feels himself relaxing for a moment. "I'm going to go to bed."

"Okay! Don't sleep too late. Pancakes to-morrow."

"Thanks."

"'Course."

As he goes up the stairs, he looks back and sees Peredur sitting, with his eyes closed, his hands together--he looks like one of those old silver medals they used to give the kids in Sunday school, the ones of the praying hands that were supposed to be Jesus--facing the fire. He looks quiet. He looks--peaceful. He looks the way Gaheris someday wants to feel, someday after understanding all of this. Maybe a person can. Maybe Peredur is an example of how a person is if he figures it out.

He sleeps soundly.

Comments

[cette-vie.livejournal.com]

I think we listen to almost the same kinds of music, because even though your subject line is never from the same song as your current music, I know what you're quoting! =D

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

Mr. Brightside? :D Sir Bedivere song.

Also, yes! ^__^ I try never, never to have matching subject lines with musics.

[snowyofthenight.livejournal.com]

Oooh. I think I maybe like this part best thus far.

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

^______^

[gileonnen.livejournal.com]

^_______^ I've always loved how you write Percy/Peredur ... something in him so beautiful and bountiful, a cornucopia-feeling of plenty and goodwill. I like this part best thus far, too. ^___^

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

I love Percy because he is bountiful. He's so full of good things and so ready to share them.