Draft KA ficlet: "Loyalties"
Jan. 6th, 2006 01:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Loyalties
Warnings: None except spoilers for the movie. And, um, angst.
Notes: A snippet--I didn't start out intending it to be, but it could be viewed as a non-AU take on the theme in Deep Sworn Vow.
Guinevere had heard the loud voices, those of Arthur and his remaining knights, but not enough of the words to know what they were arguing about—although she had heard his name being shouted.
She found Arthur later, sitting in the dark and empty hall, and sat down on the chair beside him. Over the long days since their wedding, she had learned a few things, and so she only waited for him to speak. Demanding to know what had happened would not get her anywhere.
At last Arthur said, quietly, as though to himself, as though she was not sitting there right beside him, “I didn’t understand him at all.”
It was not what she had been expecting, and she blinked, staring hard at him. “Who?” But who else? “Lancelot?” Arthur did not respond, and, exasperated, she snapped, “What are you talking about? You knew him better than anyone.”
“No.” Arthur responded, still not looking at her, voice dull and flat. “I was arrogant enough to believe I did, but no.”
“Arthur, what is this? I heard you that night before the battle—you said it yourself—you knew each other best.” It galled her to say it, but whatever dark thoughts had taken hold of Arthur, apparently he needed to hear it.
But Arthur was shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I said. It was he who knew me better than anyone. It was always about me.” He made a sound in his throat, halfway between pain and bitter laughter. “He was my friend, but what kind of friend was I to him?”
Guinevere stared at him, uncomprehending. “What is it that they said to you?” she asked at last.
Arthur shrugged, an uncharacteristic gesture for him. “They’re leaving. They’re going home.”
“Then let them go,” she said harshly. “We’ve no use for those who are not loyal.”
“Loyal?” Arthur’s voice rose into a shout, and he spat out the word as though it was an obscenity. “What have they ever been but loyal? The others, a sophist could argue they died in Rome’s service, but Lancelot? Tristan? Even Dagonet? They were loyal—but what did I do but squander their lives for things that meant nothing to them?” His voice lowered again. “I never listened to him, you know, not really. Oh, on points of strategy, on dealing with the men—yes, but never on the big things. He did not believe in what I believed in—so it was easy to pretend that he did not believe in anything at all.”
But he hadn’t, Guinevere thought.
Do you believe in anything at all?
I would have left you and the boy there to die.
He had said it to her himself. She opened her mouth to tell Arthur this, but then closed it abruptly—suddenly wondering if she had understood his answer.
Arthur was continuing, again in that horrible, flat voice. “And he stayed with me, called me friend when I ignored half of the meaning behind what he said. He, who never resigned himself to a single thing in his life--he let me--”
“Arthur,” she asked again, her alarm growing at his tone, at his incoherent speech. “What exactly did they say to you?”
Arthur shook his head. “He told them—he told them, before they came back, that if—if he died in the battle they weren’t to stay.” Arthur’s voice cracked, but rose in volume. “He told them that, even if they were tempted to remain they should go home. That to stay here—stay here with me—would be to waste their lives and bring them nothing but grief. He--my Lancelot--he said that to them! ”
That explosion seemed to drain all the remaining energy out of Arthur, who buried his face in his hands. His voice was muffled when he spoke again. “When he came back—he smiled at me—I had thought, all this time, I had believed—“
“You thought he would have stayed here with you if he had lived,” Guinevere realized. That he had believed in you--in your choices. Her own heart felt like lead in her chest. That foolish belief was what had been keeping Arthur going all this time? For the briefest moment, she contemplated comforting him, telling him lies: you don’t know that he would have left. He may have told them to go home, but you don’t know what he would have chosen for himself—surely he loved you well enough to stay with you. Even if you did not love him well enough leave with him. The last thought gave her a bitter satisfaction, but her own anger and disappointment overwhelmed any desire to reassure Arthur.
Instead she stood, looming over his hunched figure, regal as the queen she was. “It doesn’t matter, Arthur,” she said coldly. “He, the Sarmatians, Rome--are the past. You chose Britain.” You chose me. Unable to stand watching him grieve, she swept out of the room. She had many others duties to perform.
Warnings: None except spoilers for the movie. And, um, angst.
Notes: A snippet--I didn't start out intending it to be, but it could be viewed as a non-AU take on the theme in Deep Sworn Vow.
Guinevere had heard the loud voices, those of Arthur and his remaining knights, but not enough of the words to know what they were arguing about—although she had heard his name being shouted.
She found Arthur later, sitting in the dark and empty hall, and sat down on the chair beside him. Over the long days since their wedding, she had learned a few things, and so she only waited for him to speak. Demanding to know what had happened would not get her anywhere.
At last Arthur said, quietly, as though to himself, as though she was not sitting there right beside him, “I didn’t understand him at all.”
It was not what she had been expecting, and she blinked, staring hard at him. “Who?” But who else? “Lancelot?” Arthur did not respond, and, exasperated, she snapped, “What are you talking about? You knew him better than anyone.”
“No.” Arthur responded, still not looking at her, voice dull and flat. “I was arrogant enough to believe I did, but no.”
“Arthur, what is this? I heard you that night before the battle—you said it yourself—you knew each other best.” It galled her to say it, but whatever dark thoughts had taken hold of Arthur, apparently he needed to hear it.
But Arthur was shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I said. It was he who knew me better than anyone. It was always about me.” He made a sound in his throat, halfway between pain and bitter laughter. “He was my friend, but what kind of friend was I to him?”
Guinevere stared at him, uncomprehending. “What is it that they said to you?” she asked at last.
Arthur shrugged, an uncharacteristic gesture for him. “They’re leaving. They’re going home.”
“Then let them go,” she said harshly. “We’ve no use for those who are not loyal.”
“Loyal?” Arthur’s voice rose into a shout, and he spat out the word as though it was an obscenity. “What have they ever been but loyal? The others, a sophist could argue they died in Rome’s service, but Lancelot? Tristan? Even Dagonet? They were loyal—but what did I do but squander their lives for things that meant nothing to them?” His voice lowered again. “I never listened to him, you know, not really. Oh, on points of strategy, on dealing with the men—yes, but never on the big things. He did not believe in what I believed in—so it was easy to pretend that he did not believe in anything at all.”
But he hadn’t, Guinevere thought.
Do you believe in anything at all?
I would have left you and the boy there to die.
He had said it to her himself. She opened her mouth to tell Arthur this, but then closed it abruptly—suddenly wondering if she had understood his answer.
Arthur was continuing, again in that horrible, flat voice. “And he stayed with me, called me friend when I ignored half of the meaning behind what he said. He, who never resigned himself to a single thing in his life--he let me--”
“Arthur,” she asked again, her alarm growing at his tone, at his incoherent speech. “What exactly did they say to you?”
Arthur shook his head. “He told them—he told them, before they came back, that if—if he died in the battle they weren’t to stay.” Arthur’s voice cracked, but rose in volume. “He told them that, even if they were tempted to remain they should go home. That to stay here—stay here with me—would be to waste their lives and bring them nothing but grief. He--my Lancelot--he said that to them! ”
That explosion seemed to drain all the remaining energy out of Arthur, who buried his face in his hands. His voice was muffled when he spoke again. “When he came back—he smiled at me—I had thought, all this time, I had believed—“
“You thought he would have stayed here with you if he had lived,” Guinevere realized. That he had believed in you--in your choices. Her own heart felt like lead in her chest. That foolish belief was what had been keeping Arthur going all this time? For the briefest moment, she contemplated comforting him, telling him lies: you don’t know that he would have left. He may have told them to go home, but you don’t know what he would have chosen for himself—surely he loved you well enough to stay with you. Even if you did not love him well enough leave with him. The last thought gave her a bitter satisfaction, but her own anger and disappointment overwhelmed any desire to reassure Arthur.
Instead she stood, looming over his hunched figure, regal as the queen she was. “It doesn’t matter, Arthur,” she said coldly. “He, the Sarmatians, Rome--are the past. You chose Britain.” You chose me. Unable to stand watching him grieve, she swept out of the room. She had many others duties to perform.
