Prompt Ficlet the Third: Disney
May. 20th, 2008 12:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zI think I forgot to post this one last week. For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fisher_queen who asked for Disney movies.
"Arthur, tell us a story."
It was all the fault of the stupidly slow supply wagons. The damn things were late, and, since Arthur had been ordered to provide an escort for the dangerous last leg of the journey to the fort, he and his knights were now camped out with nothing to do but wait. After finally settling down, huddled against the cold and drizzling rain (and after inventively cursing the wagon crew, their ancestors, and the very dirt that had supported their first steps), the knights had begun to tell stories. Arthur had thought that this was far better than most of the alternative activies available to idle, bored knights stuck in the middle of nowhere.
Arthur had already dug out a scroll from his saddlebags, pulled his cloak over his head as a makeshift shelter, and tuned the voices out. Even when the knights stuck to Latin, he rarely understood the stories, which always seemed to start in the middle of some longer tale. And the relative peace and quiet was a rare chance for him to catch up on some reading.
But then Lancelot had made his demand in that bossy tone that Arthur had hoped the knight would grow out of with adolescence—a vain hope, it seemed, as more and more months passed.
Arthur had tried to beg off. He did not know any stories, he said, and Kay was a far better storyteller than he. But Lancelot's complaint that they had all heard Kay's stories a hundred times at least was taken up by some of the others, and then Lancelot's pronouncement that, with all the reading he did, Arthur had to know some stories had apparently cinched it, and Arthur found himself the focus of over a score of expectant gazes. His knights were as bad as children, really. Well, some of them were technically children.
So that was how Arthur found himself stumbling through what he could remember of the story of the Greek hero Heracles. Arthur was not sure how he had some to pick that particular tale, but since Arthur did not usually read stories--despite what Lancelot seemed to think—the only other things that had come to him, as he cast about, somewhat desperately, were accounts from the Bible or Roman history. Given his audience, those topics were not the best choices, since he had no desire to spend the rest of whatever time they were forced to wait out here listening to the knights complain, mock, and ask embarrassing questions. Lucky for him, he had remembered the scroll of Greek myths that he had read not too long ago.
The problem was that there were a number of things about Heracles that Arthur did not particularly want to tell. Those Greek heathens had been an immoral, unrestrained bunch, and Arthur considered parts of the story unsuitable for impressionable young knights. Or at least too embarrassing for Arthur to say out loud. But the knights would not know any better if he cut certain things out, he decided. And they would like the part about the horses of Diomedes. Or maybe just the part where the horses trampled Abderos and ate him. And he would leave out the part about the horses themselves being eaten. The knights would most definitely not like that part.
He began well enough, he thought. But he caught sight of Kay's steady gaze as he struggled to remember what the third labor had been, and realized that he might have let Kay borrow that particular scroll of myths. Well, Kay had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Arthur hoped.
He finally finished with the twelfth labor and Heracles’ capture of Cerbreus, and, heaving a relieved breath, decided that he had come to a suitable ending place. He was pretty sure that he had mixed up the Cretan bull, the Ceryneian hind and the boar from the place whose name escaped him, but he felt he had not done too bad a job with the hero's labors. The knights had sat still and listened, anyway. Or at least there had not been too much fidgeting that Arthur had noticed.
Then he caught sight of Lancelot's scowl and his self satisfaction deflated. "Why did he have to do all these labors anyway?" Lancelot demanded. "You never said."
"Er--"
"It was a punishment." It was Bedivere who spoke, but Arthur's relief--Bedivere could usually be relied upon to be sensible--was short lived, since Bedivere was not finished speaking. With no particular relish, he added, "He had murdered his wife and children. "
"Why would he do that?" Galahad asked, wide-eyed and horrified. All gazes fixed on Arthur.
"Er--"
The gazes promptly swiveled to Kay. Kay looked at Arthur and then shrugged before explaining: "He went mad. A goddess made him so. She was jealous because he was her husband’s bastard. You remember, I told you about him before."
"Wait! Is this the one where his wife kills him with a shirt?" Bors asked, guffawing. "Some hero."
"I've never heard any of this--" Galahad protested, turning to Gawain.
"You fell asleep when Kay was telling the story," Gawain said. Gaheris muttered something Arthur did not catch as a chorus of voices arose.
"I remember, he deserts his comrades on that boat trip because his bedmate goes missing."
"But he threw another lover off the city walls and killed him."
"Didn't he fuck fifty sisters in one night? Now that's a hero!"
The comments continued, and Arthur tried to keep his expression stoic and his gaze on the ground. He could feel his face heating. There was rainwater dripping down the back of his tunic.
Something nudged his foot, but ignored it. "You're right Arthur," Lancelot said. The unprecedented words were enough to shock Arthur into looking up. "You're not at all good at telling stories. You leave all the best stuff out."
fisher_queen who asked for Disney movies."Arthur, tell us a story."
It was all the fault of the stupidly slow supply wagons. The damn things were late, and, since Arthur had been ordered to provide an escort for the dangerous last leg of the journey to the fort, he and his knights were now camped out with nothing to do but wait. After finally settling down, huddled against the cold and drizzling rain (and after inventively cursing the wagon crew, their ancestors, and the very dirt that had supported their first steps), the knights had begun to tell stories. Arthur had thought that this was far better than most of the alternative activies available to idle, bored knights stuck in the middle of nowhere.
Arthur had already dug out a scroll from his saddlebags, pulled his cloak over his head as a makeshift shelter, and tuned the voices out. Even when the knights stuck to Latin, he rarely understood the stories, which always seemed to start in the middle of some longer tale. And the relative peace and quiet was a rare chance for him to catch up on some reading.
But then Lancelot had made his demand in that bossy tone that Arthur had hoped the knight would grow out of with adolescence—a vain hope, it seemed, as more and more months passed.
Arthur had tried to beg off. He did not know any stories, he said, and Kay was a far better storyteller than he. But Lancelot's complaint that they had all heard Kay's stories a hundred times at least was taken up by some of the others, and then Lancelot's pronouncement that, with all the reading he did, Arthur had to know some stories had apparently cinched it, and Arthur found himself the focus of over a score of expectant gazes. His knights were as bad as children, really. Well, some of them were technically children.
So that was how Arthur found himself stumbling through what he could remember of the story of the Greek hero Heracles. Arthur was not sure how he had some to pick that particular tale, but since Arthur did not usually read stories--despite what Lancelot seemed to think—the only other things that had come to him, as he cast about, somewhat desperately, were accounts from the Bible or Roman history. Given his audience, those topics were not the best choices, since he had no desire to spend the rest of whatever time they were forced to wait out here listening to the knights complain, mock, and ask embarrassing questions. Lucky for him, he had remembered the scroll of Greek myths that he had read not too long ago.
The problem was that there were a number of things about Heracles that Arthur did not particularly want to tell. Those Greek heathens had been an immoral, unrestrained bunch, and Arthur considered parts of the story unsuitable for impressionable young knights. Or at least too embarrassing for Arthur to say out loud. But the knights would not know any better if he cut certain things out, he decided. And they would like the part about the horses of Diomedes. Or maybe just the part where the horses trampled Abderos and ate him. And he would leave out the part about the horses themselves being eaten. The knights would most definitely not like that part.
He began well enough, he thought. But he caught sight of Kay's steady gaze as he struggled to remember what the third labor had been, and realized that he might have let Kay borrow that particular scroll of myths. Well, Kay had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Arthur hoped.
He finally finished with the twelfth labor and Heracles’ capture of Cerbreus, and, heaving a relieved breath, decided that he had come to a suitable ending place. He was pretty sure that he had mixed up the Cretan bull, the Ceryneian hind and the boar from the place whose name escaped him, but he felt he had not done too bad a job with the hero's labors. The knights had sat still and listened, anyway. Or at least there had not been too much fidgeting that Arthur had noticed.
Then he caught sight of Lancelot's scowl and his self satisfaction deflated. "Why did he have to do all these labors anyway?" Lancelot demanded. "You never said."
"Er--"
"It was a punishment." It was Bedivere who spoke, but Arthur's relief--Bedivere could usually be relied upon to be sensible--was short lived, since Bedivere was not finished speaking. With no particular relish, he added, "He had murdered his wife and children. "
"Why would he do that?" Galahad asked, wide-eyed and horrified. All gazes fixed on Arthur.
"Er--"
The gazes promptly swiveled to Kay. Kay looked at Arthur and then shrugged before explaining: "He went mad. A goddess made him so. She was jealous because he was her husband’s bastard. You remember, I told you about him before."
"Wait! Is this the one where his wife kills him with a shirt?" Bors asked, guffawing. "Some hero."
"I've never heard any of this--" Galahad protested, turning to Gawain.
"You fell asleep when Kay was telling the story," Gawain said. Gaheris muttered something Arthur did not catch as a chorus of voices arose.
"I remember, he deserts his comrades on that boat trip because his bedmate goes missing."
"But he threw another lover off the city walls and killed him."
"Didn't he fuck fifty sisters in one night? Now that's a hero!"
The comments continued, and Arthur tried to keep his expression stoic and his gaze on the ground. He could feel his face heating. There was rainwater dripping down the back of his tunic.
Something nudged his foot, but ignored it. "You're right Arthur," Lancelot said. The unprecedented words were enough to shock Arthur into looking up. "You're not at all good at telling stories. You leave all the best stuff out."
