"Tell My Boy I'm So Proud of Him..."
Apr. 21st, 2007 01:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyoneNemo, Mordred. Manon is a terrible woman.
He kept coming back to the shore, over and over again, ignoring Clarissant and her half-angry murmurs. She didn't leave the ruins of the castle much any longer. As long as Gareth was alive, even if he was a country or so away, she felt him, she somehow used him and his gentle stupidity and his reckless bravery to temper her own fury; it had always made her different from her mother. She was born angry, like all the women of her family, but she had a love to quiet it and make her even laugh.
Now that Gareth was dead, she didn't come out. She was always at her work, and only stopped sometimes to shout at Mordred, or to eat when she remembered.
And Mordred went down to the shore, where the ocean cried out for the high hills and forests it couldn't reach, where the seabirds dropped shells to split them on the rocks and get out whatever was inside. Sometimes they aimed things at him, and he would duck out of the way, the wry, weary laugh blending with the wet sand.
It was always solitary there. It always had been. That made it easier. It wasn't a place he remembered his brothers, unlike the castle, where every room once held them in some part of their lives. The shore, at least--he knew Gaheris used to go there, but always alone. Never the others. Gawain loved the village, loved the people, and even now sometimes Mordred wondered whether they remembered him there. The girls with their bright-coloured skirts, because Gawain always kept Orkney prosperous; the men who were all his friend. Did they ever notice?
Mordred didn't even notice the time pass.
One day he went down and there was a man there.
He stood in the surf with his back to Mordred, his hands stretched out along the rushing water, and the selkies, the selkies who looked at Mordred with their flat black eyes but never came anywhere near him, were coming easily to this man and letting him touch them. His hands were dark and dusky as the shadows in the castle, outlined by the smooth pale grey of selkie coats.
Mordred called out to him. It was almost stolen by the wind and the ocean.
The man turned, and Mordred could see his eyes, as dark as his hands.
For a little moment they looked at once another without trust, and then Mordred came forward, wading in until he reached the man. The selkies moved about as though they'd flee, but they stayed; the man spoke to them in a soft, strange language, and they stayed. Mordred watched their strange faces. Agravain used to talk about them. He was afraid of them; why he would never go down to the shore. He was afraid of them, but he found them beautiful, and he was too rough for words to say so. He would curse and say he hated them. Everyone would laugh at him, and he would scowl back, because he refused to be merry unless he had just done something at someone else's expense.
Sometimes Gawain would almost soothe him, but only when they were alone. Agravain wouldn't let anyone else know that he could be soothed, that someone could ease the viciousness out of him and leave him angry at everything--angry but not drawn to act on it. His secret.
The man's dark face was secret and shuttered, like Mordred's. He was no one. He soothed the selkies like Gawain with Agravain, calming their dislike of Men, until one of them touched Mordred, and Mordred shook his head.
The man said that time had passed, and Mordred didn't believe him.
Mordred said he had never seen a man his colour before, said it all bitter amusement, even though there was nothing to be amused over. The man smiled.
From the castle, he thought he heard Clarissant calling.
The man had eyes as dark as his skin, as dark as the shadow parts of the ocean. He spoke to the selkies with love, as though they were friends or children. He was somber and quiet, but there was joy beneath his dark skin which trembled through his hands. When he turned back to Mordred the joy slowed into steadiness in his hands. The taste of his dark voice was as bitter as Mordred's, bitter as the roots in Clarissant's spells, bitter as the afterthought of smoke, bitter as life alone on an island with madness and the ghosts of brothers.
The man's ghosts were children.
He said again that time had passed, and Mordred watched him go. He disappeared into the sea. The selkies scattered away from Mordred; a few followed the man, swimming into the deepening tide.
Mordred went back to the castle, followed by the sheen of pale grey fur, wet with saltwater. His clothes dripped on the stones. Time had passed. There was too little to laugh at here, too much bitter and too little amusement, nothing to soften the darkness, as dark as the man's face. He changed his clothes for time and went away: away from Agravain's anger, Gawain's beautiful grace, the castle-shadows of the brothers he never knew well enough, away from Clarissant's unbalance; away from the ocean shore.
He kept coming back to the shore, over and over again, ignoring Clarissant and her half-angry murmurs. She didn't leave the ruins of the castle much any longer. As long as Gareth was alive, even if he was a country or so away, she felt him, she somehow used him and his gentle stupidity and his reckless bravery to temper her own fury; it had always made her different from her mother. She was born angry, like all the women of her family, but she had a love to quiet it and make her even laugh.
Now that Gareth was dead, she didn't come out. She was always at her work, and only stopped sometimes to shout at Mordred, or to eat when she remembered.
And Mordred went down to the shore, where the ocean cried out for the high hills and forests it couldn't reach, where the seabirds dropped shells to split them on the rocks and get out whatever was inside. Sometimes they aimed things at him, and he would duck out of the way, the wry, weary laugh blending with the wet sand.
It was always solitary there. It always had been. That made it easier. It wasn't a place he remembered his brothers, unlike the castle, where every room once held them in some part of their lives. The shore, at least--he knew Gaheris used to go there, but always alone. Never the others. Gawain loved the village, loved the people, and even now sometimes Mordred wondered whether they remembered him there. The girls with their bright-coloured skirts, because Gawain always kept Orkney prosperous; the men who were all his friend. Did they ever notice?
Mordred didn't even notice the time pass.
One day he went down and there was a man there.
He stood in the surf with his back to Mordred, his hands stretched out along the rushing water, and the selkies, the selkies who looked at Mordred with their flat black eyes but never came anywhere near him, were coming easily to this man and letting him touch them. His hands were dark and dusky as the shadows in the castle, outlined by the smooth pale grey of selkie coats.
Mordred called out to him. It was almost stolen by the wind and the ocean.
The man turned, and Mordred could see his eyes, as dark as his hands.
For a little moment they looked at once another without trust, and then Mordred came forward, wading in until he reached the man. The selkies moved about as though they'd flee, but they stayed; the man spoke to them in a soft, strange language, and they stayed. Mordred watched their strange faces. Agravain used to talk about them. He was afraid of them; why he would never go down to the shore. He was afraid of them, but he found them beautiful, and he was too rough for words to say so. He would curse and say he hated them. Everyone would laugh at him, and he would scowl back, because he refused to be merry unless he had just done something at someone else's expense.
Sometimes Gawain would almost soothe him, but only when they were alone. Agravain wouldn't let anyone else know that he could be soothed, that someone could ease the viciousness out of him and leave him angry at everything--angry but not drawn to act on it. His secret.
The man's dark face was secret and shuttered, like Mordred's. He was no one. He soothed the selkies like Gawain with Agravain, calming their dislike of Men, until one of them touched Mordred, and Mordred shook his head.
The man said that time had passed, and Mordred didn't believe him.
Mordred said he had never seen a man his colour before, said it all bitter amusement, even though there was nothing to be amused over. The man smiled.
From the castle, he thought he heard Clarissant calling.
The man had eyes as dark as his skin, as dark as the shadow parts of the ocean. He spoke to the selkies with love, as though they were friends or children. He was somber and quiet, but there was joy beneath his dark skin which trembled through his hands. When he turned back to Mordred the joy slowed into steadiness in his hands. The taste of his dark voice was as bitter as Mordred's, bitter as the roots in Clarissant's spells, bitter as the afterthought of smoke, bitter as life alone on an island with madness and the ghosts of brothers.
The man's ghosts were children.
He said again that time had passed, and Mordred watched him go. He disappeared into the sea. The selkies scattered away from Mordred; a few followed the man, swimming into the deepening tide.
Mordred went back to the castle, followed by the sheen of pale grey fur, wet with saltwater. His clothes dripped on the stones. Time had passed. There was too little to laugh at here, too much bitter and too little amusement, nothing to soften the darkness, as dark as the man's face. He changed his clothes for time and went away: away from Agravain's anger, Gawain's beautiful grace, the castle-shadows of the brothers he never knew well enough, away from Clarissant's unbalance; away from the ocean shore.
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