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psalm_onethirtyoneGaheris/Lynet/Mordred, takes one and two.
One day Gaheris comes back and instead of hearing Mordred and Lynet shouting at once another, there's a strange quiet; he finds them silhouetted by the fire in the grate as they kiss. Lynet's hair is gilded with flame. Mordred's thin, taut body is shadowed.
For a moment an old ache surfaces in his chest, an old pain he's put aside for many years--and then he carefully unclenches his hand from his sword hilt, unstraps his swordbelt, and puts everything aside. Then he joins them. He tangles his fingers in Lynet's gilded hair, and lets Mordred slip an arm around him and pull him close. His skin seems to shine in the flickering light.
It's easier for being wordless.
~~~
"My lord."
He smiles at her, at her rough grace as she lies in the bed and looks at him, her hair in disarray around her face. Mordred's arms are wrapt around her waist from behind. He still sleeps. Gaheris only smiles at her, his smile that crinkles like crumpled paper, like thin steel curling in fire. She reaches for him.
"Is it well with thee?"
"Is it not always?" he says.
"Thou knowst as well as I--"
"Ay," he says. "It is well."
She pulls her hair down over her breasts, a tangle of mousy brown that's almost curls but not quite, that snarls now after the night. He's always loved it. She's never so fair as her sister, never so gentle and graceful, but her sister sleeps alone and cold now while Gareth proves his bravery far away. Lynet is warmed.
They speak in low voices so as not to wake Mordred, who so rarely sleeps at all. He has darkness under his eyes and wry lines of old hurt in the set of his mouth, even now, even sleeping, even when Gaheris thinks every night that this night he'll take off his bitterness along with his tunic and hose, and leave them all on the floor as he climbs into bed with his brother and his brother's wife. They both need Mordred. They both clasp at his hands and kiss his set mouth and ruffle their fingers through his blackest hair, and he kisses their shoulders and throats, presses his lean body to their warmth. Mordred needs them.
Lynet takes Gaheris' hand. One of his fingers is crushed and the nail doesn't grow; in his last battle his hand came between shield and armour. Grown crooked now, it sometimes hurts him, though it's healed. She holds it to her lips.
"Last night thou didst cry out again in thy sleep."
"Don't tell me." He looks away.
"He heard it too."
"The world hears it. Thou needst not tell me."
"The world may hear it, but thou givest no sign," she says, her words clipped, her tongue as wry as Mordred's.
"I swear it is not for this." He draws away and lifts himself from the bed, goes to stand naked by the window. Lynet scoffs, disturbing Mordred.
"Then why is it thou art silent when thy brother is away?"
"Peace."
"Thou knowst me ill if thou thinkst I will keep peace for thee."
"What's happened now?" Mordred lifts his head, wiping sleep out of his eyes, and Lynet turns over to face him.
"Naught but your brother's a fool."
"I already knew that."
He never stays with them when morning comes. At once he sits up and begins to dress himself, and Gaheris watches from the window. Pulling the tunic over his head tousles Mordred's hair further.
"Where will you go to-day?" Lynet still lies; the blankets are twisted around her. Her imperfect body is the most beautiful thing Gaheris has ever seen, except perhaps the smooth skin of his brother. She twists her hair around her fingers, spreads it across herself; it's long down to her knees, and when she unbinds it like this, as she always does before bed, it can cover her like a strange blanket. Gaheris comes back to the bed and sits by her for a moment.
"I don't know." Mordred's smile twists where Gaheris' crinkles.
"If it suits you, come back in one piece. I'll lay out the table for three to-night."
"Thank you, my lady."
Lynet laughs, quick and sharp as a sword. "Thank yourself. If you weren't so good in bed I wouldn't do you any favours."
"I should've known your motives weren't pure."
"What part of me is pure?"
Another twist of a smile, and he pulls on his boots and is gone. Lynet immediately turns to Gaheris.
"And when he returns to-night, wilt thou be pleased or sorrowed?"
"He is my brother."
"What answer is that? Don't play thy game with me, my lord. I know how thou wilt move thy piece."
"I know thou art glad of him," he says softly.
"Dost think I should be glad of him if thou wast not?"
He takes her hand then and kisses the knuckles, pressing them to his lips. "I am glad of thee."
"Thou'rt a fool, Gaheris."
"No worse a one than any other fool."
She shakes her head and pulls away from him, finally rising and taking her rough gown from the chair where she drapes it every night. Gaheris is a prince of Orkney, and still his wife wears what any merchant's wife might, here in his father's castle where they all come to hide from the noise and colour of Camelot. Lynet finds nothing in it wonderful, and Gaheris fears it with the fear that is always upon him now unless he is with her or Mordred, the fear that has never left him since his mother died. Mordred escapes from it because it condemns him. They all have their reasons to leave it behind in Britain and seek the quiet here. It's an uneasy quiet, but at least they're alone.
"If thou criest again, I will send him off."
"No."
Lynet's eyes spark dangerously. "Knowst thou what I hear? I wake every night he is with us and hear thee weep and cry for thy mother. I will not have it."
"He needs this."
"He is not to me what thou art, though God above knows why thou art."
"I will not turn my brother out."
"Thou needst not. I will do it gladly."
"Nor wilt thou."
"Lord thou may be, and lord of me, but I shall not do thy will unless it is my will also."
"He is my brother!"
"A goodly brother! He hurts thee," angrily. "What wilt thou think when a child is born, and thou knowst not whether 'tis his or thine?"
"I love him," Gaheris says, sharper for once than she is. It doesn't pause her.
"Dost thou? What good is that love? Thou breakst the laws of heaven and nature and, what is far worse, hath no pleasure from it. Perhaps it is generous for thy brother, but it is poor for thee."
He's never raised a hand to her, and he doesn't now. He only looks away. "My mother hurt me. Thou and he have never caused me pain as she did. Have never meant to hurt me, even when thou didst."
"I cannot wake to this each night, my lord," suddenly soft.
"I have a sleeping draught Clarissant gave me."
"Foul choice."
"We will not lose Mordred."
She throws his tunic at him. "Get up. Foul choices all. Get thee gone."
Gaheris dresses and kisses her, but she stands stiff until he goes.
In the evening they all eat quietly. Lynet holds her back too straight and snaps at every word spoken to her, and Mordred answers back with strange mildness, as if for once he wants to quiet her, deaden her, gentle the anger out of her. Gaheris looks only at his plate and hears neither of them (only inside his head the crying out that he never hears at night, his own voice that never wakes him). Finally they finish and everything is cleared away. Lynet takes down her hair and puts on her nightdress, and climbs into bed without waiting for them.
Mordred pauses stripping off his tunic and kisses Gaheris, with old familiarity, as though they were married and kissed each other every night before they went to bed. There's no heat or desire, despite his bare chest against Gaheris', his hand at Gaheris' back. Gaheris sighs and smiles at him.
They lie with Lynet in the middle, and Gaheris wraps one arm around her waist. She grumbles into her pillow. Mordred presses close to her and kisses her cheek.
In the middle of the night Gaheris suddenly awakens with the taste of his cry in his throat, and untangles himself from the sleepers, goes to the door and breathes in the night. This time he caught it. He can do it. The only reason things are wrong is because of him, and he can catch them and make them right again, chase away all the foul choices and leave only the three of them in their shared bed, safe because of one another, without bad dreams or evil memories, without dead mothers to haunt them or the fear of each other's sorrow. There'll be no reason for Mordred to go.
At morning Lynet shakes him gently, and smiles truly for the first time this long week.
"Thou didst not cry last night, my lord."
He takes her hand and holds it tightly, and hears Mordred stir the blankets beside her. Mordred needs them, and they need Mordred. He smiles back his crinkled smile.
One day Gaheris comes back and instead of hearing Mordred and Lynet shouting at once another, there's a strange quiet; he finds them silhouetted by the fire in the grate as they kiss. Lynet's hair is gilded with flame. Mordred's thin, taut body is shadowed.
For a moment an old ache surfaces in his chest, an old pain he's put aside for many years--and then he carefully unclenches his hand from his sword hilt, unstraps his swordbelt, and puts everything aside. Then he joins them. He tangles his fingers in Lynet's gilded hair, and lets Mordred slip an arm around him and pull him close. His skin seems to shine in the flickering light.
It's easier for being wordless.
~~~
"My lord."
He smiles at her, at her rough grace as she lies in the bed and looks at him, her hair in disarray around her face. Mordred's arms are wrapt around her waist from behind. He still sleeps. Gaheris only smiles at her, his smile that crinkles like crumpled paper, like thin steel curling in fire. She reaches for him.
"Is it well with thee?"
"Is it not always?" he says.
"Thou knowst as well as I--"
"Ay," he says. "It is well."
She pulls her hair down over her breasts, a tangle of mousy brown that's almost curls but not quite, that snarls now after the night. He's always loved it. She's never so fair as her sister, never so gentle and graceful, but her sister sleeps alone and cold now while Gareth proves his bravery far away. Lynet is warmed.
They speak in low voices so as not to wake Mordred, who so rarely sleeps at all. He has darkness under his eyes and wry lines of old hurt in the set of his mouth, even now, even sleeping, even when Gaheris thinks every night that this night he'll take off his bitterness along with his tunic and hose, and leave them all on the floor as he climbs into bed with his brother and his brother's wife. They both need Mordred. They both clasp at his hands and kiss his set mouth and ruffle their fingers through his blackest hair, and he kisses their shoulders and throats, presses his lean body to their warmth. Mordred needs them.
Lynet takes Gaheris' hand. One of his fingers is crushed and the nail doesn't grow; in his last battle his hand came between shield and armour. Grown crooked now, it sometimes hurts him, though it's healed. She holds it to her lips.
"Last night thou didst cry out again in thy sleep."
"Don't tell me." He looks away.
"He heard it too."
"The world hears it. Thou needst not tell me."
"The world may hear it, but thou givest no sign," she says, her words clipped, her tongue as wry as Mordred's.
"I swear it is not for this." He draws away and lifts himself from the bed, goes to stand naked by the window. Lynet scoffs, disturbing Mordred.
"Then why is it thou art silent when thy brother is away?"
"Peace."
"Thou knowst me ill if thou thinkst I will keep peace for thee."
"What's happened now?" Mordred lifts his head, wiping sleep out of his eyes, and Lynet turns over to face him.
"Naught but your brother's a fool."
"I already knew that."
He never stays with them when morning comes. At once he sits up and begins to dress himself, and Gaheris watches from the window. Pulling the tunic over his head tousles Mordred's hair further.
"Where will you go to-day?" Lynet still lies; the blankets are twisted around her. Her imperfect body is the most beautiful thing Gaheris has ever seen, except perhaps the smooth skin of his brother. She twists her hair around her fingers, spreads it across herself; it's long down to her knees, and when she unbinds it like this, as she always does before bed, it can cover her like a strange blanket. Gaheris comes back to the bed and sits by her for a moment.
"I don't know." Mordred's smile twists where Gaheris' crinkles.
"If it suits you, come back in one piece. I'll lay out the table for three to-night."
"Thank you, my lady."
Lynet laughs, quick and sharp as a sword. "Thank yourself. If you weren't so good in bed I wouldn't do you any favours."
"I should've known your motives weren't pure."
"What part of me is pure?"
Another twist of a smile, and he pulls on his boots and is gone. Lynet immediately turns to Gaheris.
"And when he returns to-night, wilt thou be pleased or sorrowed?"
"He is my brother."
"What answer is that? Don't play thy game with me, my lord. I know how thou wilt move thy piece."
"I know thou art glad of him," he says softly.
"Dost think I should be glad of him if thou wast not?"
He takes her hand then and kisses the knuckles, pressing them to his lips. "I am glad of thee."
"Thou'rt a fool, Gaheris."
"No worse a one than any other fool."
She shakes her head and pulls away from him, finally rising and taking her rough gown from the chair where she drapes it every night. Gaheris is a prince of Orkney, and still his wife wears what any merchant's wife might, here in his father's castle where they all come to hide from the noise and colour of Camelot. Lynet finds nothing in it wonderful, and Gaheris fears it with the fear that is always upon him now unless he is with her or Mordred, the fear that has never left him since his mother died. Mordred escapes from it because it condemns him. They all have their reasons to leave it behind in Britain and seek the quiet here. It's an uneasy quiet, but at least they're alone.
"If thou criest again, I will send him off."
"No."
Lynet's eyes spark dangerously. "Knowst thou what I hear? I wake every night he is with us and hear thee weep and cry for thy mother. I will not have it."
"He needs this."
"He is not to me what thou art, though God above knows why thou art."
"I will not turn my brother out."
"Thou needst not. I will do it gladly."
"Nor wilt thou."
"Lord thou may be, and lord of me, but I shall not do thy will unless it is my will also."
"He is my brother!"
"A goodly brother! He hurts thee," angrily. "What wilt thou think when a child is born, and thou knowst not whether 'tis his or thine?"
"I love him," Gaheris says, sharper for once than she is. It doesn't pause her.
"Dost thou? What good is that love? Thou breakst the laws of heaven and nature and, what is far worse, hath no pleasure from it. Perhaps it is generous for thy brother, but it is poor for thee."
He's never raised a hand to her, and he doesn't now. He only looks away. "My mother hurt me. Thou and he have never caused me pain as she did. Have never meant to hurt me, even when thou didst."
"I cannot wake to this each night, my lord," suddenly soft.
"I have a sleeping draught Clarissant gave me."
"Foul choice."
"We will not lose Mordred."
She throws his tunic at him. "Get up. Foul choices all. Get thee gone."
Gaheris dresses and kisses her, but she stands stiff until he goes.
In the evening they all eat quietly. Lynet holds her back too straight and snaps at every word spoken to her, and Mordred answers back with strange mildness, as if for once he wants to quiet her, deaden her, gentle the anger out of her. Gaheris looks only at his plate and hears neither of them (only inside his head the crying out that he never hears at night, his own voice that never wakes him). Finally they finish and everything is cleared away. Lynet takes down her hair and puts on her nightdress, and climbs into bed without waiting for them.
Mordred pauses stripping off his tunic and kisses Gaheris, with old familiarity, as though they were married and kissed each other every night before they went to bed. There's no heat or desire, despite his bare chest against Gaheris', his hand at Gaheris' back. Gaheris sighs and smiles at him.
They lie with Lynet in the middle, and Gaheris wraps one arm around her waist. She grumbles into her pillow. Mordred presses close to her and kisses her cheek.
In the middle of the night Gaheris suddenly awakens with the taste of his cry in his throat, and untangles himself from the sleepers, goes to the door and breathes in the night. This time he caught it. He can do it. The only reason things are wrong is because of him, and he can catch them and make them right again, chase away all the foul choices and leave only the three of them in their shared bed, safe because of one another, without bad dreams or evil memories, without dead mothers to haunt them or the fear of each other's sorrow. There'll be no reason for Mordred to go.
At morning Lynet shakes him gently, and smiles truly for the first time this long week.
"Thou didst not cry last night, my lord."
He takes her hand and holds it tightly, and hears Mordred stir the blankets beside her. Mordred needs them, and they need Mordred. He smiles back his crinkled smile.
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Date: 2007-04-22 04:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-22 04:44 am (UTC)