Post by Lancelot on Apr 24, 2013 10:23:51 GMT -6
Anger and the Difficult Path
Anger
If his speech was supposed to have made her relent... he failed, epically. The flat banal look she gave him could have well cleaved the meat from his bones. Then she was shrugging out of his touch, out of his arms and turning, almost marching across the small room, on the hearth her clothing was laid out drying, ever the pragmatist, she had washed them while bathing and put them to dry by the fire, however the leather pants were hung over the back of a chair, now they were snatched, and jerked on beneath the skirt of the dress. He would gain a bare glimpse of her backside as she wrestled the pants on and skinned the dress over her head with quick precise movements, leaving her bare back to him. She wrangled in her pack pulling out a worn tunic and pulled it hastily over her head before sitting on the bed, and donning woolen socks and boots. All this in silence as she simmered like a pot ready to boil over…
If looks could kill, he would surely be dead… her eyes went narrow, and the hairs of her eyes gave her a dark eerie appearance… then a strand of dark hair fell upon her face and enhanced the darkness. But moreso were her actions… She moved away, a coldness suddenly coming over him… and she was determined to leave… Silence had never been so loud.
Yet she was trying to put in place her the way she responded to his words... he had complimented her… and she had basked in it... as if it were something sacred between the two of them... and then he had erased all that by some failed utterances of words... that left her cold, so cold he might have well doused her with a bucket of water from the well. ~Ones~ he had said plural... ~Ones who hold a place in my heart~ more than one… more than her… she chastised herself internally had she expected less. Gods above had she lost her mind to think she was special to him?? She deserved it for what she had done for her country?? What the hell?? …and then he had wanted to escort her to dinner like some prize… a horse from the market… well she was no horse to be paraded about, no whore to be... held up for inspection.
Though intimacy had eluded them, they were belated lovers… desiring such, yet avoided the pitfalls of passion… subjugated to the brutal mockery of hope and the phantoms of disillusion. Now silence engulfed them because of misconstrued words… Silence is argument carried out by other means... a means that speaks louder than words… and is the most perfect expression of disdain… People know words can hurt one's feelings... and often can overcome that hurt. But induced silence can damage a person morseo than those spiteful words with the ability to damage the heart… Oh, it hurts to love someone and not be loved in return... But what is more painful is to love someone and never find the courage to let that person know how you feel. An infamous warrior, a dealer of death, yet to love has been his downfall… and since the affair with Guinevere, he has been reluctant to love…
The set of her jaw and her flaring of nostrils, the tightness about her mouth and the sudden coldness seemed to ice over the whole room. Once shod in her boots she took up the purple silk dress and folded it thrusting it at him... "It was worn for you, not others…" icy blue eyes bore into him for a long moment before she brushed by him, her shoulder bumping him almost insultingly... "I'm a warrior… not some whore who wails for you when you leave… or who would like to be looked upon like a piece of meat by your cronies…" near the door she picked up her knife and slide it into her belt... another into her boot… and then her cloak... and stepped out of doors into the cold night air. Perhaps that could cool her temper. Earlier, he had chanced to tease and infuriate her with his words… well now he had done it…
His knees were weak, and his heart seemed to deflate… and he faltered a bit when she shoved the dress back at him… Again his tongue was stilled… and his eyes followed her movements. And in his ears, “for you, not others” rang louder than any bell, or horn… and adding injury to insult, she bumped him as she passed. He cradled the purple silk in his arms… and as she passed out the door, he pressed the silk to his nose… and inhaled.
She was crossing the main yard toward where the glow of a hearth and candles proclaimed was the eating hall... she neared the well and stopped, calming herself... infuriated not only by him, but her strong reactions both negative and positive to him... it was like being in quicksand... the harder she fought, the deeper she was sucked in. She leaned against the stone wall of the well looking down into its inky depths... the moon was reflected there in the dark waters at the bottom... it called to her... it's pale countenance calming somehow... it had always been there a witness to her life, in all its phases, each night she stared at it, wondering why things unfolded as they did, and Mother Moon just smiled back down with her pale face... a watcher... a constant... in a world in flux...
He would not scream… nor yell… nor utter obscenities at her actions or words… nor defend himself against something he did not realize. He just closed the door. She had said enough… and if she felt he had treated her as some whore… or meat for his cronies… he could not change her feelings. He went to his bed, and slid the dress under the pillow where he would lay his head… then returned to the table, leaned down and blew out the candle. Silently, he removed his sword belt, hanging the deadly twins upon a hook for their design. Near the tub, he scooped up some water, where she had lain, and smelled it, hoping to catch even a glimpse of her scent. Then in the corner of the room, near the hearth, he pulled a chair and sat down, allowing himself to mentally fade away in the flickering of the fire.
Her belly growled. She had not eaten since the night before in such a rush to get Lancelot's men back to the fort safely; but food would be had amongst the Soldiers, and she was not ready to face the lot of them. Much less their leader... "Stupid stupid stupid…" she murmured looking down at the reflection of the moon... as she thought on her feelings for the man. She could not believe she had let the fractured dreams of passion she had over the last months, nor the time they had spent together in the cave and in the Vale to color her thoughts of him, make her crave his touch, his presence... him... in a way she had never craved or wanted a man before. Just the sight of him on the parapet had made her heart flutter and her stomach quiver… a giddy euphoria rise up and claim her... and then... she had scrubbed and preened wanting to look beautiful for him, wanting him to want her… crave her... see her!!! Instead he saw a political advantage, something to be paraded about for his friends… the She Wolf Tamed... no doubt they would think by his Cock! Just the thought was enough to make her angry all over again and her hands lifted in frustration and hit the stone seal of the well, before she turned about heading for the stables...
Oh, he wanted to parade her around, for those to see a Lady of importance... The Lady of the Vale… and yes, maybe even his companion... if she would had him as such. But it was not a political advantage that he deemed important… nor desire of her to appear tame… nor his physical endowment or prowess. Though, in the darkness of his room, he now realized it was a fine line of perception between what he thought important and what the public would view of her. He pushed back in the chair and watched the flames flicker. He would not watch her ride of his life… and he shook his head, surprised she could not take the teasing.
She moved into the stables and to the stall where Ares was corralled, slipping into his stall and running her hands down his elegant muscled neck. For long moments she leaned against him, as if the war horse could calm her, feel her turmoil. “You remember this place too..?" she whispered to him, the demons of her past closing in on her, mocking her. Had she expected to find happiness in such a place.. ? "We leave this place at dawn... and never come back." she promised the stallion, who was as restless as his mistress.
She settled in the corner of the stall, on some straw, and the stallion whickered to her, nuzzling her, then returned to munching on his oats. It was a safe place for her, for any intruder would face the wrath of the warhorse. Indeed, he was trained to protect his mistress, and those hooves were deadly. For a long moment she just sat staring at a spot on the log wall, tracing the veins of an ancient pine, wondering at the life it had lived once swaying in the summer breeze, and then sacrificed for a stable. Odd thoughts yes, but they were better than the ones who burned to be heard... How on earth was it possible to want the comfort of the same man’s arms about her who had caused her this misery..? It was preposterous that the one thing that could have made her feel better was being in his arms, when it was also the thing that would make her hurt even worse... She was a fool plain and simple… a fool for believing she could start over, make something new. When she was used, spoiled goods, and the only thing she was good at was tracking and killing... she might as well be no woman at all... and just be the wolf... the animal as Marcus had branded her.
It had been a long time since she had felt the need to feel pain to get a grip on her reality; she was spinning out of control. Control was what she needed... At the first bite of the steel blade into her arm, the endorphins rushed up, bringing clarity, physical pain numbed the emotional pain, a thin line across her forearm. She inhaled deeply, feeling the calm wash over her... then a second slice... and a third... Deep enough to cause pain, but shallow enough not to lose function. It centered her... gave her release… A single sob escaped her lips as she buried her head into her knees, her dark hair covering her face... then curled into a fetal position against the corner wall of the stall finding oblivion in the pain and darkness. She had learned well at Marcus' hand… sadist that he was... she knew how to make pain her ally.
The dinner hour would come and go, leaving Lancelot still sitting in his chair by the fire... She had left her bags, her clothing, and most of all her sword and the bronze bladed lance she carried like a trident, a deadly weapon... she would come back... for them… But there was one thing for sure that she would never leave without, and that was her Horse...
In the darkness of the room, and his mind, the flames of memories jumped and flickered against a keen mind. He had loved Guinevere… and she had loved him… long before she was Arthur’s… long before Mons Badonicus… and they would have consummated their love, but duty came before self… and their duty was to Arthur… yet, after the final battle, when Merlin became involved, Guinevere became Arthur’s… and they too loved one another… and Lancelot became the beloved friend of the new pair. And thus far, time passed, and even fate would play a hand and put him and Guinevere at Segedunum on the Wall… at the same time… while Arthur was fighting against Saxon invaders once more.
But Guinevere, who was married to Arthur, and Lancelot, who was the loyal and trusted friend, faltered… and allowed themselves emotional indulgences… and that mistake led to physical passion… and those rapidly turned into mental anguish, regretting what they had done to betray the trust that Arthur had of both… Guinevere retreated to the seclusion of the deep forest, seeking absolution… and Lancelot fought hard in each battle against Saxon and Gaul invaders, hoping to die in battle… to alleviate his sins against Arthur…
And meanwhile… the new land faltered… once again without a true leader… Men willing to offer up their lives to cleanse sins against the heart instead of, for a new realm… For over a year, the heart bled and the mind cared not… while the brunt of battle could not cleanse… neither man wanted to live, but neither would allow death to take them… And by odd circumstances, Arthur sought out the Knight and the Lady… and forgave them for what they did… but Guinevere chose to remain in the forest… and Lancelot? He took to drink and to women like a horse to saddle once more… and in this, a troubled mind and lonely heart sought refuge and became his repertoire. Until… until a she wolf saved his life… or sent him back into the darkness.
And amongst the flickers of light from the flames, something glimmered… and that caught his attention. It was the flames reflecting off her sword and trident, that caused and odd reflection… one that could be deemed magical… and between the two metal objections, and the flames, the reflection formed a brighter light that shined directly in his eyes.
Standing up, in an attempt to answer his own question of cowardice, he threw open the door to his quarters, and exited… He was unarmed, his deadly twins still hanging upon its hooks… and he walked across the fort, straight toward the livery to see if her horse was gone… And he smirked seeing the battle-hardened stallion still in his stall. “Uriell… I know you are in here…” he stepped in the doorway and started down the aisle between stalls. “Show yourself…”
His words had roused her from sleep, yet she didn't know what he had asked or said; only he was there. Sleep and time had dulled the anger, leaving it impotent… in its place sat the rock of disappointment. She sat up, confused for the moment, and then gained her feet… "What do yu want?" her stomach gave an grouching growl... twisted fingers pulling straw from her hair... her tone was a bit sullen, but tinged with despair, as her eyes found him coming toward the stall she and the white warhorse inhabited…
She had forgotten about the self-inflicted cuts on her forearm that tinged the sage green tunic with rusty splotches. They had served their purpose, to bring her back to herself, to calm her, give her control, before she spiraled out so far she could not return. When she saw him, her heart did the little flip-flopping machination that made her annoyed with it. Why did it do that whenever he was near? It needed to stop !! Icy blue eyes lifted to him, and a little frown graced her full lips at the thought... damn him to hell... Why did he look at her like that?? And why did every part of her want to respond..
The eyes focused in the dark as she stood in the shadows. “What do I want?” he paused… “I came here for you…” If not for the shadows, he would have noticed the tinges of dark shade on her tunic sleeves, which would have caused another sort of conversation. As he looked to the side and back toward her, she must have shifted her stance, as her outline disappeared deeper into the shadows. “Whatever I did, or said, to make you leave, I give my apologies. I never, ever, intended to upset you.” His breathing had increased…
Usually every word, every action, every gesture was thought out… planned, executed for her needs... but he made her crazy, and stupid, and blurting out things she would never say to anyone. Her face seemed to go thru some sort of change, from hard warrior to... inexperienced lover, naivety and frustration all in one… "I do not know how to do this... this…" her hands made and ineloquent gesture between them... meaning their relationship, whatever the hell it was between them…The ring of truth in his apology, shamed her, she had likely misunderstood his meanings if not his words… she was talented with languages, but not with the nuances of men... in a romantic situation, she dealt with men with death and warfare, not feelings and intimacy.
Lancelot stood in the aisle attempting to locate her; but when she finally spoke, his attention refocused to where she was, not where he thought she was. He listened and as she moved to the lighter portion of the shadows he could see her hands moving awkwardly. “Yu do know how… tis in our hearts what we desire… Set aside the past… I am here… now. Let us go toward the future.”
Future... into the future... us? the thought sent a panic thru her and at the same time, a warm feeling bloomed in the vicinity of her heart. "Yu want a Lady... and I am not… that… I have spent years making sure that Men respect me as a warrior... I'm good at what I do...” she was trying desperately to relay to him that she didn't want to lose the respect of men, again... she didn’t want to seem weak... someone to be victimized.
Lancelot chuckled softly. “I want you…” and he paused. “You spent your life ensuring no one would harm you again for the atrocities you endured…” He did not know of her past, nor what she endured. He could only guess what the Romans did to such a beautiful young girl. “…whatever those were.” Then he paused. “You are a good warrior, and well respected amongst friend or foe.” He could hear her frustration.
“I cannot be... that creature in the dress. She is scared and unsure, and she wants nothing more than to have you look at her with... desire and need... and to please you... she would lose herself in you..." her hands ran thru her hair flustered... "I do not even make sense to myself…"
He smiled when she allowed herself to be seen more clearly, whether she realized it or not. “You, my dear, Uriell, can be ANYTHING you desire to be…” and he smiled remembering how she looked in the dress. She was amazingly beautiful, sensual, and breathtaking. And now she was telling him how she felt, whether she realized it or not.
Dark lashes swept over her eyes... then opened fastening on the blue agate stone with the copper wire about his neck. Realization struck that he had been wearing it when he met her at the gates... surely that was some sign... "I have let the months, since I last saw you, fill with thoughts of you... of kissing you. The thought of letting anyone see me... like you saw me in the dress… I felt as if I were back on display." She paled there was so much in her past that had broken her... so much that had happened inside the walls of Banna, and dozens of forts like it up and down the wall... Marcus would humiliate her before his men, in that very eating room, making her service him while they watched and taunted... and in the room Lancelot now claimed as his own... she remembered painful, tortured nights tied to the bed... the feel of the short lash on her body... the feel of him inside her. Bile rose in her throat, she could almost smell it in memory, her eyes flickered up at Lancelot.
And at her words, he stepped forward toward her and smiled. “I too have had yu upon my mind… so much as sleep has avoided me to certain lengths of frustration.” And he smirked at some of the sleepless nights he lay upon his bed looking up at the crude ceiling thinking about her. And the word “display” smacked him back to reality. “On Display?” His hands went to her upper arms for reassurance. “Not in the sense of degradation yu feel… but in the sense that a man, proud of his beloved, to be seen by all… just as a queen consort is escorted by a king… or a lowly knight, proud of his Lady.”
When he touched her, letting his hands skin up her arms, tenderly, then holding her lightly, not in a way that would set off alarms of being held down, but in a comforting way, his thumbs rubbing over her skin and then he explained why he had wanted others to see her.. as he did... he was proud... of her..? The revelation shocked her so much her mouth opened half way, and words had lost their hold... her face softened, her arms raising to touch him at last... laying lightly on his chest... any moment she could lean into him... teetered on the balls of her booted feet... but not quite there yet...
He remembered Arthur’s teachings to his knights about an odd new trait for his knights. He would call them all a word from Latin, “caballarius”, or horseman. And being a learned man, he also taught them the word “Cheval” which meant horse in Gallic. Arthur needed something in Briton to sustain his knights in displaying bravery in war, and realizing warfare as an art… to be one as a body, or host of knights; a sort of knighthood. So using the Merovingian Frank’s word “chevalerie”, Arthur used the Briton form, chivalry, to mean traits in knighthood or nobility… rules for a knight to live by.
And so, with his hands rubbing her shoulders at the upper arm, he began to speak softly and divulge his darkest secrets… explaining what Arthur taught him… and how he broke that trait of chivalry with the affair with Guinevere… and how afterwards, he had delved into the dark depths of shame, lewdity, and drink… forsaking his friends trust… And how Arthur’s forgiveness helped him years ago, and how a young female warrioress showed him that he still had a place in his heart to fill. “I know yu trust me not…” and his dark eyes sought hers… “I want us together… to see if we can build something upon what we have…”
He laid bare his soul, with his tale of breaking the trust of his beloved friend Arthur. She knew there were bonds between men that went deep into the soul… that were just as tightly bound as that between a wife and husband, sometimes more so… when they worked as a brotherhood, toward a common goal. She had seen it in both foe and friends, in soldiers and warriors; it was a bond when broken could wreak havoc on those involved... and it had.. leaving both men injured. But somehow Arthur had felt Lancelot worthy of redemption... and offered him a second chance. What must the worth of Lancelot be... to be offered such a boon... certainly a steadfast heart, and loyalty beyond compare... for no matter his skills in battle such an offence would not lightly be forgiven. The fact that he trusted her with his tale... his past... his shame… made her soften and lean into him... her arms wrapping about his middle, her forehead planted against his chest, as she listened to his deep rumbling voice... He did not blame Guinevere for seduction, nor did he shy away from the fact that he had wronged both Arthur and Guinevere... nor did he leave out his response to his shame and guilt, delving into depravity and lewdness, loosing himself in drink and darkness. She realized as she felt his heart thrumming wildly beneath his chest, that he was offering her a part of him he never offered to anyone. He was trusting her with his darkest shame and guilt... showing her everyone had demons and ghost... everyone had things in their past that made them who they were now.
"I have never been with a man that I wanted too... I don't even know if I can…" but even with the ghost haunting her, she was still drawn to him. She wanted to run her fingers thru those dark curls... feel his body pulling her into his arms, and his lips falling over hers. She wanted to breath him in, and hold her breath until she turned blue... and yet she stayed where she was… her eyes looking downward at her boots... and then there was a wry laugh that was pure sadness coming from her lips... "The part of me you want is broken… I do not know if she ever existed."
His hands slid down to forearm, and she flinched. He looked down and saw the dark tints. Slowly, he raised the sleeve… one after the other, and his dark eyes rose to look at her. He shook his head in disappointment, but never said a word. She had issues; but so did he… “Broken possibly, but nay beyond repair.”
His fingers skimmed over her self-inflicted wounds... and he gave her a look of disappointment... "It's nothing." she deferred, but there was no shame in her eyes for the act of self-mutilation… it was just a coping mechanism... a thing she had learned long ago at the hands of Marcus... if you could focus on the pain... the sensation, then everything else faded. The body erupted with adrenaline, bringing about an high, that could mask emotions... stop the begging to be released, for the torture to stop... mask the feel of his hands on her, in her… making her body respond even though she hated him with every fiber of her being... silencing his laughter and humiliation when her body betrayed her. She shook herself mentally and her crooked fingers shifted the tunic sleeve back downward...