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psalm_onethirtyoneAlso, a brief breathing period for the Arthurians. Next up: Vivienne or Gareth. Reader vote? :P
Edit: Is Manon not insanely awesome? For handy reference...!
1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6
Clar brushes into the room and throws a thick stack of envelopes on the table. "Mail call," she says, flicking her hair back with her fingertips.
Mostly it's bills, but Gaheris pauses over one in a square blue envelope. "Who's Mike Wilkinson?"
"That's mine!" Mordred shouts from the bathroom, over the sound of running water. "Don't touch it! It's mine!"
"I'm not going anywhere near it, all right?"
"Idiots." Clar sorts through the bills that he's put aside, takes two of them, and disappears. A moment later Mordred hurries in, fighting with his tie. Gaheris holds the blue envelope out.
"Who's it from?"
"It's personal," uncomfortably, as he slits it.
"Yeah? Who's it from?"
"Go away." He shifts away from the table, pulling out a card adorned with several large bunnies holding balloons shaped like hearts. "It's none of your business."
"Aren't you late for work?"
"No. I'm not going to tell you, all right? Go out and schmooze with your girl."
"She's not--"
Mordred brings his head up. "Listen, kiddo. Piss off."
"All right, all right. I'll ask Clar. --Later." Gaheris slips out.
Outside it's warmer than it has been this autumn. He ties his jacket around his waist and heads down the street. The November sun is shielded by leafless branches, and the sidewalk's covered with dirt and dead grass and old scuff marks. They're out of the city enough that things are almost quiet, but not quite; a bus goes by at that moment, taking kids to school inner-city. Some of them are looking out the window with their faces against the glass, as if it's all that's between them and freedom from some kind of silent prison.
Which of course it is, he thinks to himself, kicking at a stick. Lynet--Amy--is in school until four, so he's got eight hours before she's back. He always waits at her bus stop, and she takes the steps all at once, in one leap. Sometimes they go out and do something, and sometimes they just talk. It doesn't make any sense, he thinks, but it's almost perfect.
Until then he's got to find something to do. He's tried looking for jobs at some of the stores--there's a block of stores not too far away--but no one's hiring, and he's not sure he would take the jobs if they were. It's easier to stay in his room, come out for walks and spending time with Amy and not much else.
He wonders where Gareth and Agrivain are now, where Gawain is. Somewhere in California, Clar said. That's where Gawain's living. But who is he? What does he do? Will he be as easy to know as Peredur or Lynet? Will he remember, or will he not even want to? --Why would Gawain mind remembering? he thinks. Agrivain, Agrivain would have cause to desire forgetting. Not Gareth or Gawain. He jumps over a skateboard left on the sidewalk, and sticks his hands in his jeans pockets.
What would it mean to them? There's a question. Do they wonder why it happened? Does it make them fear themselves, as Galahad does? Gaheris--isn't afraid of himself. It can't have happened because of him. He's not significant enough, not for all of them to be here in this place, living out different lives. Maybe it's a second chance. Maybe they did badly--because they all did, Lancelot and Guinevere and Arthur and Mordred; who did well?--and they're meant to try and do it again, and they remember as a caution. You can learn from your mistakes--something like that. Because they made their mistakes, and they didn't get a chance to learn anything. Most of them died before they knew they'd done something wrong. Is that what this is? Try again and see if you can't do better this time. Don't love your King's wife, don't kill your mother, don't hate your father no matter what he does to you--just for God's sake do these things right and maybe this time we'll let you go on through.
But he doesn't know. He plays with the ideas the way he always does, tosses them around but never gets an answer from them. It sounds good, but it's just as likely not the reason for everything, so there's no reason to believe it. Guessing games, that's all.
~~~
He's waiting at the bus stop when Amy gets back.
"Hi." She swings her jacket over her shoulder, and jumps down. "You okay?"
"Yeah, fine. How was school?"
"It sucked," simply. "Don't talk like my dad."
Gaheris takes her backpack and puts it on his own shoulders. "Jesus Christ, weighs a metric tonne."
"And you're just carrying it. You don't have to study anything in there."
"It's nice being out of school."
"And unemployed."
"Since I know it matters so much to you, I'll start keeping you updated. To-day I filled out an application at the Panera's."
"Who said I cared?"
"My mistake. Where do you want to go?"
"To the movies."
"What're we seeing?"
"But where I'm actually going is straight home."
"Nice. I'm getting ditched before the date even starts."
"Shut up. My cousins are visiting."
"Yeah? Older or younger?"
"Younger." She tosses her head. Her hair is pulled back with a hideous aqua scrunchie, and Gaheris tries not to look at it. "They're pains."
"I'm not arguing. I have siblings, remember?"
"You don't have to change their diapers. I have no mothering instinct," shortly. "People think that girls like babies. I hate them."
"I know." Clar had mentioned it. Gaheris pressed her; she at least remembered his wife and his daughter without prompting from books and old stories. She told him Lynet gave the baby to a nurse and saw it only when she needed to, and that wasn't often. She told him he had fussed over the girl. He doesn't remember, but he knows it isn't Lynet's fault. Clar's the same way, can't stand them when they're little or even when they get older, and he can't really blame them. Children cry and throw tantrums. He doesn't like them, either; he supposes he only loved the girl because she was his. "I'm not going to throw any stones."
"It's not like it would matter. Your aim's lousy."
"You're telling me." Suddenly he reaches out and ruffles her hair, tousling it up and leaving it half-pulled out of the scrunchie. She scowls at him.
"Cut it out."
"Sorry. You used to be too tall for me to do that."
"What?"
"Never mind." He laughs. "Maybe we could do something before you go home, anyway."
"Yeah, right. Mom thinks I have a boyfriend. She yelled at me."
"Why?"
"I'm not old enough to have a boyfriend." She raises her eyebrows.
"Please. Where I come from you'd be married and have kids by now."
"Medieval Street, Misogynist, PA?"
"How the hell do you know those words, anyway? You're fourteen, for crying out loud."
"I read a lot. You could try it."
"I wouldn't have time for a job."
"Which you don't have anyway. Loser."
"Hey, now. At least I'm old enough to have a boyfriend."
"Shut up," but this time she laughs and tries to hit him.
"At least let me walk you home."
"Okay."
"Can we go to the movies to-morrow?"
"Maybe."
They walk the rest of the way almost quietly, and when they get there he swings off her backpack and hands it to her. "Be good, don't eat any babies, and I'll see you to-morrow."
"You sound like my dad again."
"At least that means you won't punch me."
"You wish."
"See you to-morrow," he says, trying to sound firm. She just gives him a pitying look and goes into the house.
~~~
When he gets back, Mordred is on the telephone at the kitchen table. Gaheris pauses in the doorway and listens.
"--Yeah, I know. How are you two doing with the house? Yeah? Really? That's great. No, I'm really glad to hear it. Hey! That's not true. No, no. Yeah. Sometime. Mom, no. We're not married. No, we're not together. No, seriously. I know. About time. I know. Yeah. No. No, you--no, see, we're not interested in each other. She's a good friend. We're not--Mom. We're not sleeping together. I'm serious. Okay. Okay. Yeah, I know. Okay. Thanks. Hey, really? Great, I can't wait. Yeah. No, he's in the--"
Across the kitchen, Clar is frowning at him and beckoning him, and Gaheris hurries through, saying "I'm home!" as loud as he can and tosses his jacket on the chair. Clar drags him into her living room. The smoke is so thick it makes his eyes water.
"It's--" he starts, wincing and closing them, trying to think of what to say. Clar always leaves him lost and speechless.
"Leave him alone." She pokes him, hard.
"Who was he talking to?"
"The mother."
Deep breath. "Who?"
"His mother. His birth mother." Her hands clench and unclench, as if she's struggling with something he can't see. After a moment she finds her voice. "His now mother. She calls once a month."
"Did she send the letter?"
"Sister. We're not the only ones." She stops and starts, snatches up a cigarette and lights it. "See? Shares blood now. She's little, like a cat."
"Why can't I ask about it?"
"First you stand on the line," her voice suddenly disdainful. "It's drawn out. It's not your turn. Leave him alone." As suddenly, "She's gone."
"What?"
"No head left. Not for you. Talk as long as you want, won't come back, you lost her."
Gaheris hesitates. "I don't mind."
"Good."
She pushes him out of her room, along with a faceful of smoke. He stands in the hallway quietly, until Mordred hangs up the phone and comes out of the kitchen.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, I've just been talking to Clar."
"I've seen that do worse to better men than you. Want to watch a movie?"
"Sure."
Edit: Is Manon not insanely awesome? For handy reference...!
1 ~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 4 ~ 5 ~ 6
Clar brushes into the room and throws a thick stack of envelopes on the table. "Mail call," she says, flicking her hair back with her fingertips.
Mostly it's bills, but Gaheris pauses over one in a square blue envelope. "Who's Mike Wilkinson?"
"That's mine!" Mordred shouts from the bathroom, over the sound of running water. "Don't touch it! It's mine!"
"I'm not going anywhere near it, all right?"
"Idiots." Clar sorts through the bills that he's put aside, takes two of them, and disappears. A moment later Mordred hurries in, fighting with his tie. Gaheris holds the blue envelope out.
"Who's it from?"
"It's personal," uncomfortably, as he slits it.
"Yeah? Who's it from?"
"Go away." He shifts away from the table, pulling out a card adorned with several large bunnies holding balloons shaped like hearts. "It's none of your business."
"Aren't you late for work?"
"No. I'm not going to tell you, all right? Go out and schmooze with your girl."
"She's not--"
Mordred brings his head up. "Listen, kiddo. Piss off."
"All right, all right. I'll ask Clar. --Later." Gaheris slips out.
Outside it's warmer than it has been this autumn. He ties his jacket around his waist and heads down the street. The November sun is shielded by leafless branches, and the sidewalk's covered with dirt and dead grass and old scuff marks. They're out of the city enough that things are almost quiet, but not quite; a bus goes by at that moment, taking kids to school inner-city. Some of them are looking out the window with their faces against the glass, as if it's all that's between them and freedom from some kind of silent prison.
Which of course it is, he thinks to himself, kicking at a stick. Lynet--Amy--is in school until four, so he's got eight hours before she's back. He always waits at her bus stop, and she takes the steps all at once, in one leap. Sometimes they go out and do something, and sometimes they just talk. It doesn't make any sense, he thinks, but it's almost perfect.
Until then he's got to find something to do. He's tried looking for jobs at some of the stores--there's a block of stores not too far away--but no one's hiring, and he's not sure he would take the jobs if they were. It's easier to stay in his room, come out for walks and spending time with Amy and not much else.
He wonders where Gareth and Agrivain are now, where Gawain is. Somewhere in California, Clar said. That's where Gawain's living. But who is he? What does he do? Will he be as easy to know as Peredur or Lynet? Will he remember, or will he not even want to? --Why would Gawain mind remembering? he thinks. Agrivain, Agrivain would have cause to desire forgetting. Not Gareth or Gawain. He jumps over a skateboard left on the sidewalk, and sticks his hands in his jeans pockets.
What would it mean to them? There's a question. Do they wonder why it happened? Does it make them fear themselves, as Galahad does? Gaheris--isn't afraid of himself. It can't have happened because of him. He's not significant enough, not for all of them to be here in this place, living out different lives. Maybe it's a second chance. Maybe they did badly--because they all did, Lancelot and Guinevere and Arthur and Mordred; who did well?--and they're meant to try and do it again, and they remember as a caution. You can learn from your mistakes--something like that. Because they made their mistakes, and they didn't get a chance to learn anything. Most of them died before they knew they'd done something wrong. Is that what this is? Try again and see if you can't do better this time. Don't love your King's wife, don't kill your mother, don't hate your father no matter what he does to you--just for God's sake do these things right and maybe this time we'll let you go on through.
But he doesn't know. He plays with the ideas the way he always does, tosses them around but never gets an answer from them. It sounds good, but it's just as likely not the reason for everything, so there's no reason to believe it. Guessing games, that's all.
He's waiting at the bus stop when Amy gets back.
"Hi." She swings her jacket over her shoulder, and jumps down. "You okay?"
"Yeah, fine. How was school?"
"It sucked," simply. "Don't talk like my dad."
Gaheris takes her backpack and puts it on his own shoulders. "Jesus Christ, weighs a metric tonne."
"And you're just carrying it. You don't have to study anything in there."
"It's nice being out of school."
"And unemployed."
"Since I know it matters so much to you, I'll start keeping you updated. To-day I filled out an application at the Panera's."
"Who said I cared?"
"My mistake. Where do you want to go?"
"To the movies."
"What're we seeing?"
"But where I'm actually going is straight home."
"Nice. I'm getting ditched before the date even starts."
"Shut up. My cousins are visiting."
"Yeah? Older or younger?"
"Younger." She tosses her head. Her hair is pulled back with a hideous aqua scrunchie, and Gaheris tries not to look at it. "They're pains."
"I'm not arguing. I have siblings, remember?"
"You don't have to change their diapers. I have no mothering instinct," shortly. "People think that girls like babies. I hate them."
"I know." Clar had mentioned it. Gaheris pressed her; she at least remembered his wife and his daughter without prompting from books and old stories. She told him Lynet gave the baby to a nurse and saw it only when she needed to, and that wasn't often. She told him he had fussed over the girl. He doesn't remember, but he knows it isn't Lynet's fault. Clar's the same way, can't stand them when they're little or even when they get older, and he can't really blame them. Children cry and throw tantrums. He doesn't like them, either; he supposes he only loved the girl because she was his. "I'm not going to throw any stones."
"It's not like it would matter. Your aim's lousy."
"You're telling me." Suddenly he reaches out and ruffles her hair, tousling it up and leaving it half-pulled out of the scrunchie. She scowls at him.
"Cut it out."
"Sorry. You used to be too tall for me to do that."
"What?"
"Never mind." He laughs. "Maybe we could do something before you go home, anyway."
"Yeah, right. Mom thinks I have a boyfriend. She yelled at me."
"Why?"
"I'm not old enough to have a boyfriend." She raises her eyebrows.
"Please. Where I come from you'd be married and have kids by now."
"Medieval Street, Misogynist, PA?"
"How the hell do you know those words, anyway? You're fourteen, for crying out loud."
"I read a lot. You could try it."
"I wouldn't have time for a job."
"Which you don't have anyway. Loser."
"Hey, now. At least I'm old enough to have a boyfriend."
"Shut up," but this time she laughs and tries to hit him.
"At least let me walk you home."
"Okay."
"Can we go to the movies to-morrow?"
"Maybe."
They walk the rest of the way almost quietly, and when they get there he swings off her backpack and hands it to her. "Be good, don't eat any babies, and I'll see you to-morrow."
"You sound like my dad again."
"At least that means you won't punch me."
"You wish."
"See you to-morrow," he says, trying to sound firm. She just gives him a pitying look and goes into the house.
When he gets back, Mordred is on the telephone at the kitchen table. Gaheris pauses in the doorway and listens.
"--Yeah, I know. How are you two doing with the house? Yeah? Really? That's great. No, I'm really glad to hear it. Hey! That's not true. No, no. Yeah. Sometime. Mom, no. We're not married. No, we're not together. No, seriously. I know. About time. I know. Yeah. No. No, you--no, see, we're not interested in each other. She's a good friend. We're not--Mom. We're not sleeping together. I'm serious. Okay. Okay. Yeah, I know. Okay. Thanks. Hey, really? Great, I can't wait. Yeah. No, he's in the--"
Across the kitchen, Clar is frowning at him and beckoning him, and Gaheris hurries through, saying "I'm home!" as loud as he can and tosses his jacket on the chair. Clar drags him into her living room. The smoke is so thick it makes his eyes water.
"It's--" he starts, wincing and closing them, trying to think of what to say. Clar always leaves him lost and speechless.
"Leave him alone." She pokes him, hard.
"Who was he talking to?"
"The mother."
Deep breath. "Who?"
"His mother. His birth mother." Her hands clench and unclench, as if she's struggling with something he can't see. After a moment she finds her voice. "His now mother. She calls once a month."
"Did she send the letter?"
"Sister. We're not the only ones." She stops and starts, snatches up a cigarette and lights it. "See? Shares blood now. She's little, like a cat."
"Why can't I ask about it?"
"First you stand on the line," her voice suddenly disdainful. "It's drawn out. It's not your turn. Leave him alone." As suddenly, "She's gone."
"What?"
"No head left. Not for you. Talk as long as you want, won't come back, you lost her."
Gaheris hesitates. "I don't mind."
"Good."
She pushes him out of her room, along with a faceful of smoke. He stands in the hallway quietly, until Mordred hangs up the phone and comes out of the kitchen.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, I've just been talking to Clar."
"I've seen that do worse to better men than you. Want to watch a movie?"
"Sure."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 03:52 am (UTC)...I think you can guess who my vote is for. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 03:57 am (UTC)Vivienne it is!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 03:58 am (UTC):P --XD
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:01 am (UTC)His is surprise!twist chapter, though. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:03 am (UTC)Oooh, exciting. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 03:52 am (UTC)Oh, kids. Crazy kids. Kids with inconvenient life conflicts. *hugs them*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 03:58 am (UTC)Insanity is rampant. ^_^
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 03:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 03:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:04 am (UTC)Gaheris: Come with me to a movie!
Lynet/Amy: ZOMG no, sorry.
Gaheris: Come with me to a movie later!
Lynet/Amy: Er, maybe.
Clar: *is confusing, and probably talking about that beheading incident*
Gaheris: O_____o Mordred? Wanna see a movie?
Mordred:
I am also old enough to have a boyfriend!Sure.Right there. ^_~
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:12 am (UTC)It's only going to get worse, for the record. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:18 am (UTC)...also, it is a sign of how tired I may be that I had to think for a minute who Vivienne was. >.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:21 am (UTC)Hee. Well, I did use the silly spelling.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:22 am (UTC)Actually, that's how I usually spell it myself.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-09 04:26 am (UTC)I never saw it spelled that way until I read the Heather Dale CD booklet, and I was so taken with it that I adopted it. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-10 02:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-10 03:36 am (UTC)