"Meaning All My Charms..."
Mar. 25th, 2007 02:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyonePart thirteen is enjoying that most arduous of processes, the Edit. In the meantime, (NOTICE HOW I AM SPELLING A.'S NAME THE WAY MANON LIKES IT XD)
The drive is longer than he thinks it was on the way there. Sometime over the weekend it must have rained; the streams are all frothy and brown. He passes through quiet places, where there aren't any houses, just the woods winding through roads, and sometimes through pasture places, where he can see far-off barns and houses. It makes him think of something that's gone, something from a long time ago.
He thinks of his mother.
He thinks of her beauty, ever her beauty, more eternal than the world, and of her eyes and lips, the way she used to speak to him. He remembers a time when he was so small that he needed a nurse, and once in a while he was allowed to see his mother, for short little visits. Only Mordred was allowed to see her often. Gaheris remembers that he used to beg Mordred to tell him of her, because he remembered her so poorly from visit to visit. She wore jewels on her white hands.
And he thinks of Mordred, Mordred who fills his head. Mordred his brother who he is and has always been most afraid of, and most afraid he would not be loved by. Mother told him that none of them loved him, but Agravain and Gareth never mattered, and Gawain's love it was conceivable that he might earn, but Mordred was unattainable. There was no way for him to gain that promise.
Suddenly he pulls over to breathe. Why did she tell him he was unloved? Why, why-- although he knows why. She turned everyone like little keys in little locks, used what she could of everyone she met, and if she could find nothing to use disregarded. Her children were little coins that could be used to buy different services. Agravain bought her violence for her sake. Gareth loved her. Gawain was honour, bravery and honour. Mordred was revenge. What was he? What did he buy her, what did he unlock for her, what did she gain by making him believe he was hated?
His sense of never belonging did nothing for her, did it? Why did she let him kill her? She could see, damn her, she could see ahead, she had that power, she must have known--why did she let it come to pass?
He drives back onto the road and keeps going, trying to push it out of his mind; turns on the radio as high as it goes and runs down the window, and pretends that the noise and the political debates and the never-resolved conflicts are all that matter. They can be so loud that they overpower any of the thoughts. People always fight, always fight, says the radio. No one moves an inch for anyone else, and no one seeks for peace: they only insult in insinuations, whispering accusations, dredging up pasts that have been forgotten. They don't want a truce.
Gaheris thinks it is true.
When he gets home, he pulls up and parks by the sidewalk, but before anyone can come to the door (if they've even heard him; perhaps they haven't), he goes, walks as quickly as he can towards the bus stop, stepping on every crack as if the old rhyme could make a difference now. It's Thursday afternoon. Amy will be out of school any minute.
And she is. She swings out of the bus like always, and stops when she sees him. He's struck by how old she seems, suddenly--he wonders whether anyone ever notices or says anything. Her eyes are like the eyes of someone who's lived for a long time, though tucked into a clear face, free from any marks of sorrow or otherwise; her long hair spills down over her shoulders to-day, with tiny flower clips to hold it back. He can't see how it can be that she'll never remember, but he knows Clar is right.
"Why are you here?" she asks, her voice touched with something angry.
"Why am I always here?"
"Well, you can't walk me home." She starts off. Gaheris hurries after her.
"Why not?"
She ignores him.
"Lady, what meanst thou?" The old familiar, the intimate thou, comes easily to him, as if he had only spoken it to her the other day, instead of hundreds of years ago. He speaks it now, in this new time, as though she'd understand what it meant or why he trusts himself to trust her and give it to her--it seems as though this language is his past, their past, an out-of-place secret, and he doesn't have time to question it or think. The words just come. "Wherefore? Canst thou be set against me for my absence? I swear to thee, I have been sore afflicted--"
"What?" This time she stops and looks at him, frowning. "What are you doing? Why are you talking like that?"
"--with that which my mind cannot fathom, but know that I thought of thee so oft. I have only journeyed home this day, and first of all I sought thee, as foremost in my heart, my dear Lady."
"Are you proposing? Because I'm underage."
"Na, na," he says, clucking it softly with his tongue. "I know as well as thee thou art no longer so. The age is fourteen summers, ist not? Thou hast surpast it, and with thy father's goodwill thou couldst be my bride." For some reason a laugh is pressing at his chest from inside, strange. How can he be wanting to laugh? "A goodly bride, 'sblood, an thou wouldst."
"Okay, no. My dad would kill you."
"Ah, to die for love!"
"And seriously? So would I. I only hang out with you because you're not trying to get into my pants."
"Thou dost wound me sore."
"Yeah, you watch out or I really will wound you sore. I can't believe you didn't come--"
"I was away."
"--and didn't even tell me you were going, you jerk." There's something in her eyes that surprises him. It always surprised him when he saw some weakness in her, something that made her sorry. "I waited for an hour last week."
"I'm sorry. My brother--we found out he was in Boston, and I went up to get him. I didn't wait to tell anybody. Not that there was anybody to tell but you." He offered his hand. "Which makes it worse, doesn't it? I should have thought. But you know I'm not a good one for thinking."
"I know that." Slowly she takes it.
"And then I brought him back. But I stayed with him for a while."
"Liar. You came back and got the car and went somewhere else."
"What are you, anyway, my stalker? I went to visit a friend."
"Why didn't you tell me then?"
"Because--I was in a hurry. I was mad at my other brother--the one I'm still not paying rent to--and I ran away."
"You know what? I stopped doing that when I was ten."
"Hey, we can't all get mature as quickly as you."
"So why was your brother in Boston?"
"God, more questions? He's--he ran away from home when he was a kid."
"It took you a long time to find him."
"So he did a good job running away. Okay, here, I'll tell you, we were all in separate homes when we were little. I was living in New York, and Gareth was in Boston, and Mor--Mike, Mike was here in Philadelphia. So last year Mike decided to start trying to get us all back together, like finding us all again, and he found me first, and then I found Gareth."
"So he was in a foster home."
"Yeah."
"So why'd you say he ran away?"
"You're too sharp by half, and I'm an idiot. Is that an answer?"
"No."
"He ran away from his foster home."
"If you were trying to heighten the suspense, it's not working. And I'm still mad at you for not telling me you were going."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, right."
"Lady." He squeezes her hand, and they both seem to remember he still holds it. "I do truly give thee my repentance."
"Fine, just start talking like a normal person again."
"Deal. So what do you want to do?"
"I have homework."
"Then I'll just see my princess home."
They go without speaking for a while, and then, halfway there, he adds quietly, "I missed you."
Amy rolls her eyes. "I didn't miss you at all."
Gaheris suddenly supposes his heart will break with love for her, for Lynet, for the self she used to be and still is. She's young now, in this world, she's too young to be his wife, and he knows it and he accepts it, and he doesn't want her in that way; the love he feels for her is almost innocent, even if it is overwhelming. He looks at her and smiles, and for a moment feels brave enough to be home.
~~~
He gets back to the house an hour later; after he left her he walked around the town, in the familiar places. It didn't seem to mean anything, but some small part of him was glad to see something he recognised. The car is exactly where it was before. He opens the door as silently as he can, looking around to be sure no one is in the kitchen or the path to the stairs, and before there's the chance that anyone will see or hear him, he dashes upstairs and into his room.
There are papers all over his table, half-finished charcoals of dragons and ladies, the half-remembered pictures of things that used to be. He catches sight of Lynet holding a child that's meant to be his daughter. He sees his few clothes in the open closet, and an empty beer bottle on the table next to his bowl of pencils. Gareth clearly hasn't moved in.
Gaheris takes off his shoes only, and then gets into bed. A few minutes later he falls asleep.
He's awoken by someone he knows. Everything seems hazed and darkish, slow with something he doesn't understand, scented like old places--everything to-day seems to do with old places, he thinks, head fuzzy. The person he knows lays a hand upon him.
"Home now."
Oh, it's Clar. That's why he recognised her. He nods.
"Brought me back my twin. That's good. You and Mordred, you have to go. There's something--looking for you. Looking for them. You are. Leaves on the roof."
"What?" he murmurs thickly.
"Leaves. And reeds, things growing. That's where. And it's far away."
"How far away? 'M tired, Clar, let me sleep."
"Not now!" She shakes him. "Wales, that's where. Caer--can't get it. It's not--coming. Damn. Have to go, you have to go, it's time. Find them. Him. Her."
"But if I don't know where to look--"
"On Anglesey! Go, go, go. Stupid. Boys are always stupid. Have to go. Soon. Now."
"Fine! Just let me sleep--"
Clar pushes him; he burrows into the covers and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm telling Mordred, too," she says, and leaves him. Her cigarette smoke smells like--his head's still hazy, and he turns over, trying to answer something, but he's not sure what the question is. Wales--someone in Wales they have to find--but he doesn't care, doesn't care, Caerleon, Caer Siddi, Caer Tintagel, hasn't even been half these places doesn't know where they are doesn't want to go just wants to forget who's in Wales... the half-things fade out and he sleeps again.
~~~
"Brother. Are you sleeping?"
Gaheris stirs and rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. There's a hand on his shoulder, just like before, and he first thinks, God, no, Clar's back-- but he opens his eyes and it's Mordred, sitting on the side of his bed.
"Brother," he says again.
"I'm awake."
"Gareth's been worried sick."
Not what he wants to hear, not. "He'll survive," callously.
"So have I."
"Haven't."
"I have. I kept wondering where my car was."
"Oh, go away." Gaheris closes his eyes again and rolls over so his face is in the pillow. Mordred strokes between his shoulders, a gesture so wholly unexpected that Gaheris tenses all over and rolls back. "Mordred?"
"Don't run off again. All right?"
Gaheris just looks.
"All right. That'll be yes for now. Come on, get up, it's breakfast time. You've been sleeping since yesterday afternoon. What was Peredur doing to you?" Silence. "--All right. You don't want to talk. It's still time to get up." When Gaheris still doesn't answer, he throws up his hands, arches his eyebrows. "All right, have it your way. Damned drama queen." He stands and makes for the door.
Abruptly Gaheris pulls himself out of bed. "Don't--"
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. --Hey, it's okay," as Gaheris stumbles forward to him, and holds close to him, putting his face in Mordred's shoulder. "Come on. You need food."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do."
"Running away wasn't it. It's like you're five." But Mordred holds him firmly. "Expect this out of Gareth, not you."
"Gareth did it better."
"Yeah, well, I'd rather you both gave it a rest. Coming downstairs?"
"Yeah. Hey--did Clar talk to you?"
Even though he can't see Mordred's face, he can hear the disgust in his voice. "Naturally. Wales."
"That's close to home."
"Like that's an endorsement." Mordred snorts.
"Peredur lived there. Is that an endorsement?"
"Moderately. I'll face it."
"Thanks for bearing up."
"I was born to it," sardonically. Gaheris manages a smile.
"What's for breakfast?"
"In this house? Issues with a side of drama and some idiocy sprinkled on top."
"Sounds delicious."
"Doesn't it just."
As they go down the stairs, Gaheris hears Gareth in the kitchen, brightly:
"They're coming!"
and Clar answering, "Stupids. Took long enough."
Gareth comes to the door to meet them, beaming anxiously. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not going to leave again, are you?"
Behind him, Clar laughs.
"Not without warning, at least," Mordred says.
"Oh. When?"
"As soon as I find a substitute teacher and whine at the board for my vacation time."
"But I'm not coming?"
"I want you here," Clar says. They're back by the table, and she puts a hand on his arm in a proprietorial way.
"Okay," Gareth answers, smiling at her.
"Great. Something settled without trouble. Fetch my smelling salts, Gaheris," deadpan. Gaheris ignores him. There's bacon on a plate in the middle of the table, the grease making the paper towel beneath it look wet; and scrambled eggs on plates, and breakfast ham, and even biscuits.
"Who made breakfast?"
"Clar did!"
He looks aslant at her, and she just shows her teeth. He supposes it's meant to be a smile.
The drive is longer than he thinks it was on the way there. Sometime over the weekend it must have rained; the streams are all frothy and brown. He passes through quiet places, where there aren't any houses, just the woods winding through roads, and sometimes through pasture places, where he can see far-off barns and houses. It makes him think of something that's gone, something from a long time ago.
He thinks of his mother.
He thinks of her beauty, ever her beauty, more eternal than the world, and of her eyes and lips, the way she used to speak to him. He remembers a time when he was so small that he needed a nurse, and once in a while he was allowed to see his mother, for short little visits. Only Mordred was allowed to see her often. Gaheris remembers that he used to beg Mordred to tell him of her, because he remembered her so poorly from visit to visit. She wore jewels on her white hands.
And he thinks of Mordred, Mordred who fills his head. Mordred his brother who he is and has always been most afraid of, and most afraid he would not be loved by. Mother told him that none of them loved him, but Agravain and Gareth never mattered, and Gawain's love it was conceivable that he might earn, but Mordred was unattainable. There was no way for him to gain that promise.
Suddenly he pulls over to breathe. Why did she tell him he was unloved? Why, why-- although he knows why. She turned everyone like little keys in little locks, used what she could of everyone she met, and if she could find nothing to use disregarded. Her children were little coins that could be used to buy different services. Agravain bought her violence for her sake. Gareth loved her. Gawain was honour, bravery and honour. Mordred was revenge. What was he? What did he buy her, what did he unlock for her, what did she gain by making him believe he was hated?
His sense of never belonging did nothing for her, did it? Why did she let him kill her? She could see, damn her, she could see ahead, she had that power, she must have known--why did she let it come to pass?
He drives back onto the road and keeps going, trying to push it out of his mind; turns on the radio as high as it goes and runs down the window, and pretends that the noise and the political debates and the never-resolved conflicts are all that matter. They can be so loud that they overpower any of the thoughts. People always fight, always fight, says the radio. No one moves an inch for anyone else, and no one seeks for peace: they only insult in insinuations, whispering accusations, dredging up pasts that have been forgotten. They don't want a truce.
Gaheris thinks it is true.
When he gets home, he pulls up and parks by the sidewalk, but before anyone can come to the door (if they've even heard him; perhaps they haven't), he goes, walks as quickly as he can towards the bus stop, stepping on every crack as if the old rhyme could make a difference now. It's Thursday afternoon. Amy will be out of school any minute.
And she is. She swings out of the bus like always, and stops when she sees him. He's struck by how old she seems, suddenly--he wonders whether anyone ever notices or says anything. Her eyes are like the eyes of someone who's lived for a long time, though tucked into a clear face, free from any marks of sorrow or otherwise; her long hair spills down over her shoulders to-day, with tiny flower clips to hold it back. He can't see how it can be that she'll never remember, but he knows Clar is right.
"Why are you here?" she asks, her voice touched with something angry.
"Why am I always here?"
"Well, you can't walk me home." She starts off. Gaheris hurries after her.
"Why not?"
She ignores him.
"Lady, what meanst thou?" The old familiar, the intimate thou, comes easily to him, as if he had only spoken it to her the other day, instead of hundreds of years ago. He speaks it now, in this new time, as though she'd understand what it meant or why he trusts himself to trust her and give it to her--it seems as though this language is his past, their past, an out-of-place secret, and he doesn't have time to question it or think. The words just come. "Wherefore? Canst thou be set against me for my absence? I swear to thee, I have been sore afflicted--"
"What?" This time she stops and looks at him, frowning. "What are you doing? Why are you talking like that?"
"--with that which my mind cannot fathom, but know that I thought of thee so oft. I have only journeyed home this day, and first of all I sought thee, as foremost in my heart, my dear Lady."
"Are you proposing? Because I'm underage."
"Na, na," he says, clucking it softly with his tongue. "I know as well as thee thou art no longer so. The age is fourteen summers, ist not? Thou hast surpast it, and with thy father's goodwill thou couldst be my bride." For some reason a laugh is pressing at his chest from inside, strange. How can he be wanting to laugh? "A goodly bride, 'sblood, an thou wouldst."
"Okay, no. My dad would kill you."
"Ah, to die for love!"
"And seriously? So would I. I only hang out with you because you're not trying to get into my pants."
"Thou dost wound me sore."
"Yeah, you watch out or I really will wound you sore. I can't believe you didn't come--"
"I was away."
"--and didn't even tell me you were going, you jerk." There's something in her eyes that surprises him. It always surprised him when he saw some weakness in her, something that made her sorry. "I waited for an hour last week."
"I'm sorry. My brother--we found out he was in Boston, and I went up to get him. I didn't wait to tell anybody. Not that there was anybody to tell but you." He offered his hand. "Which makes it worse, doesn't it? I should have thought. But you know I'm not a good one for thinking."
"I know that." Slowly she takes it.
"And then I brought him back. But I stayed with him for a while."
"Liar. You came back and got the car and went somewhere else."
"What are you, anyway, my stalker? I went to visit a friend."
"Why didn't you tell me then?"
"Because--I was in a hurry. I was mad at my other brother--the one I'm still not paying rent to--and I ran away."
"You know what? I stopped doing that when I was ten."
"Hey, we can't all get mature as quickly as you."
"So why was your brother in Boston?"
"God, more questions? He's--he ran away from home when he was a kid."
"It took you a long time to find him."
"So he did a good job running away. Okay, here, I'll tell you, we were all in separate homes when we were little. I was living in New York, and Gareth was in Boston, and Mor--Mike, Mike was here in Philadelphia. So last year Mike decided to start trying to get us all back together, like finding us all again, and he found me first, and then I found Gareth."
"So he was in a foster home."
"Yeah."
"So why'd you say he ran away?"
"You're too sharp by half, and I'm an idiot. Is that an answer?"
"No."
"He ran away from his foster home."
"If you were trying to heighten the suspense, it's not working. And I'm still mad at you for not telling me you were going."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, right."
"Lady." He squeezes her hand, and they both seem to remember he still holds it. "I do truly give thee my repentance."
"Fine, just start talking like a normal person again."
"Deal. So what do you want to do?"
"I have homework."
"Then I'll just see my princess home."
They go without speaking for a while, and then, halfway there, he adds quietly, "I missed you."
Amy rolls her eyes. "I didn't miss you at all."
Gaheris suddenly supposes his heart will break with love for her, for Lynet, for the self she used to be and still is. She's young now, in this world, she's too young to be his wife, and he knows it and he accepts it, and he doesn't want her in that way; the love he feels for her is almost innocent, even if it is overwhelming. He looks at her and smiles, and for a moment feels brave enough to be home.
He gets back to the house an hour later; after he left her he walked around the town, in the familiar places. It didn't seem to mean anything, but some small part of him was glad to see something he recognised. The car is exactly where it was before. He opens the door as silently as he can, looking around to be sure no one is in the kitchen or the path to the stairs, and before there's the chance that anyone will see or hear him, he dashes upstairs and into his room.
There are papers all over his table, half-finished charcoals of dragons and ladies, the half-remembered pictures of things that used to be. He catches sight of Lynet holding a child that's meant to be his daughter. He sees his few clothes in the open closet, and an empty beer bottle on the table next to his bowl of pencils. Gareth clearly hasn't moved in.
Gaheris takes off his shoes only, and then gets into bed. A few minutes later he falls asleep.
He's awoken by someone he knows. Everything seems hazed and darkish, slow with something he doesn't understand, scented like old places--everything to-day seems to do with old places, he thinks, head fuzzy. The person he knows lays a hand upon him.
"Home now."
Oh, it's Clar. That's why he recognised her. He nods.
"Brought me back my twin. That's good. You and Mordred, you have to go. There's something--looking for you. Looking for them. You are. Leaves on the roof."
"What?" he murmurs thickly.
"Leaves. And reeds, things growing. That's where. And it's far away."
"How far away? 'M tired, Clar, let me sleep."
"Not now!" She shakes him. "Wales, that's where. Caer--can't get it. It's not--coming. Damn. Have to go, you have to go, it's time. Find them. Him. Her."
"But if I don't know where to look--"
"On Anglesey! Go, go, go. Stupid. Boys are always stupid. Have to go. Soon. Now."
"Fine! Just let me sleep--"
Clar pushes him; he burrows into the covers and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm telling Mordred, too," she says, and leaves him. Her cigarette smoke smells like--his head's still hazy, and he turns over, trying to answer something, but he's not sure what the question is. Wales--someone in Wales they have to find--but he doesn't care, doesn't care, Caerleon, Caer Siddi, Caer Tintagel, hasn't even been half these places doesn't know where they are doesn't want to go just wants to forget who's in Wales... the half-things fade out and he sleeps again.
"Brother. Are you sleeping?"
Gaheris stirs and rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. There's a hand on his shoulder, just like before, and he first thinks, God, no, Clar's back-- but he opens his eyes and it's Mordred, sitting on the side of his bed.
"Brother," he says again.
"I'm awake."
"Gareth's been worried sick."
Not what he wants to hear, not. "He'll survive," callously.
"So have I."
"Haven't."
"I have. I kept wondering where my car was."
"Oh, go away." Gaheris closes his eyes again and rolls over so his face is in the pillow. Mordred strokes between his shoulders, a gesture so wholly unexpected that Gaheris tenses all over and rolls back. "Mordred?"
"Don't run off again. All right?"
Gaheris just looks.
"All right. That'll be yes for now. Come on, get up, it's breakfast time. You've been sleeping since yesterday afternoon. What was Peredur doing to you?" Silence. "--All right. You don't want to talk. It's still time to get up." When Gaheris still doesn't answer, he throws up his hands, arches his eyebrows. "All right, have it your way. Damned drama queen." He stands and makes for the door.
Abruptly Gaheris pulls himself out of bed. "Don't--"
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. --Hey, it's okay," as Gaheris stumbles forward to him, and holds close to him, putting his face in Mordred's shoulder. "Come on. You need food."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do."
"Running away wasn't it. It's like you're five." But Mordred holds him firmly. "Expect this out of Gareth, not you."
"Gareth did it better."
"Yeah, well, I'd rather you both gave it a rest. Coming downstairs?"
"Yeah. Hey--did Clar talk to you?"
Even though he can't see Mordred's face, he can hear the disgust in his voice. "Naturally. Wales."
"That's close to home."
"Like that's an endorsement." Mordred snorts.
"Peredur lived there. Is that an endorsement?"
"Moderately. I'll face it."
"Thanks for bearing up."
"I was born to it," sardonically. Gaheris manages a smile.
"What's for breakfast?"
"In this house? Issues with a side of drama and some idiocy sprinkled on top."
"Sounds delicious."
"Doesn't it just."
As they go down the stairs, Gaheris hears Gareth in the kitchen, brightly:
"They're coming!"
and Clar answering, "Stupids. Took long enough."
Gareth comes to the door to meet them, beaming anxiously. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not going to leave again, are you?"
Behind him, Clar laughs.
"Not without warning, at least," Mordred says.
"Oh. When?"
"As soon as I find a substitute teacher and whine at the board for my vacation time."
"But I'm not coming?"
"I want you here," Clar says. They're back by the table, and she puts a hand on his arm in a proprietorial way.
"Okay," Gareth answers, smiling at her.
"Great. Something settled without trouble. Fetch my smelling salts, Gaheris," deadpan. Gaheris ignores him. There's bacon on a plate in the middle of the table, the grease making the paper towel beneath it look wet; and scrambled eggs on plates, and breakfast ham, and even biscuits.
"Who made breakfast?"
"Clar did!"
He looks aslant at her, and she just shows her teeth. He supposes it's meant to be a smile.
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Date: 2007-03-26 03:35 am (UTC)afternoonmorning and this was here! And it made my day! <3!(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-26 03:39 am (UTC)