Fic: Everything Had Changed
Title: Everything Had Changed
Author: Soujin
Characters/Pairings: Gaheris/Mordred
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Yes.
Disclaimer: Copyright has presumably expired.
Summary: Gaheris and his brother do not understand each other.
Once, when they were young--too young, incredibly stupid, Gaheris always says--when they were wrestling together, Mordred got a handful of Gaheris' hair and pulled, and Gaheris cried out in a way that made him sound like an animal, like something wounded. The next thing he knew Mordred kissed him. It was long and hard and hot. At that time, Gaheris was fifteen; Mordred was almost seventeen. They'd all grown up together. After that, Mordred hardly ever touched him for any purpose, and after that, Gaheris always wanted it again.
Of course, it all slid to the side when they went off, one by one, to Camelot. Gawain first, and he did the best. Then it was Gaheris, then Agravain, and finally little Gareth. Mordred was last of all. Gaheris knew why. He was ashamed. At least Gaheris and his brothers had been got honestly. Mordred was Arthur's son and Arthur's nephew, caught up in the middle of four people who couldn't help him. Their mother was a witch (Gaheris often thought of killing her) who didn't love any of her sons. Their aunt Morgan said,--
"Well, she can't, darlings. Love makes a witch weaker." Morgan only loves Arthur, and maybe Gawain, so she's weaker than their mother, but she doesn't seem to mind.
Then there was Arthur, who didn't know what to do, whether to welcome Mordred as his son, or maybe as his nephew, or maybe to banish him, or maybe to be coolly polite, or maybe... and so on. Lot, Gaheris' father, didn't like Mordred, because he knew he wasn't his son; and of course Arthur's wife Guenevere had no reason to welcome her husband's bastard.
So Mordred came last to Camelot, and by then Gaheris was off questing, or fighting--there were still rebellions and small skirmishes, for all Arthur's peace in Briton. Sometimes he came back, but he never said much to Mordred. They fought with words, cleverer than Gawain, although Gawain was cleverer than they were. He spoke mildly to them, as though he didn't care about their fighting. Gareth went off to restore Lancelot's honour when he was unhorsed in a tournament; Agravain went off God-knew-where, and Gaheris didn't see him for years. Everything was run about, touch and go, here for a moment and there for a month.
Finally Gaheris married. Lady Lynet had a tongue as sharp as Mordred's, but her hair was long and golden, and she uncoiled it at night to let it come tumbling down. He could wrap it through his hands and sometimes halfway around his waist, even though she complained, and sometimes he slept that way. They kissed, they lay together, but he wasn't happy. They talked for hours and he thought he'd never met a woman cleverer or more fascinating, but he wasn't happy. He began to leave her in Camelot for quests that got longer and longer. It just wasn't any good going home.
Especially since Camelot isn't home.
Now he's back in Orkney, lost. He knows every part of the islands better by far than he knows himself. On the beach he finds flat rocks to throw into the sea, and lies in the wet sand making soft noises to call the selkies to him. They watch him with eyes the colour of stone.
Sometimes he thinks he's dreaming. One day while he's almost in the surf, leaning forward on his knees, a hand's breadth away from the stone-coloured eyes, he hears a voice behind him.
"What are you doing now, idiot?"
"What does it look like?" he answers, as the selkie--or maybe it's just a seal--disappears back into the water with a push of its flippers.
"It looks like you've finally lost the few wits you had. You're going to get soaked."
"I already am." He shifts, straightens his back, stands. "What are you doing?"
"Visiting."
"Mother?"
"What does Mother want to see me for? Home. This," with a quiet hand gesture.
Gaheris sighs. "It would be. I think I hate it."
"How long have you been here?"
"I don't know. A week, a month. Somewhere in between. How's Camelot?"
"Seething with activity, naturally. How's Gaheris?"
"--Missed you." It's rough, there's an edge to it, and suddenly Mordred's caught, before he can move, caught in a kiss and wet cold hands that smell of the sea, caught next to a body that's lean and rough and edgy as the voice that belongs to it. Gaheris has been waiting too long.
When it's over, Mordred just smirks. "Imagine. My guileless baby brother."
"Oh, yes, the innocent of the family," panting. "Because Gareth was pillaging and raping the moment he was old enough to walk."
"That's right, and you were attracting unicorns and angels."
"It certainly wouldn't have been you. There are still girls here who remember their first time with you. You're a legend."
"Always a legend."
It's too much. Mordred has always been too much. A kiss isn't enough; he wants more than that, he wants Mordred, he wants to make Mordred cry out. They're still close together. He moves closer.
Mordred laughs, and it's softer, almost sympathetic. "Oh, all right. You won't be happy, will you? I never understood you, not once." He puts a hand to the hem of his tunic, and then pauses. "There's a barn over the hill. We'll get frostbitten out here."
Finally Gaheris has him. When they're lying half-naked in the straw, and Mordred gets hold of Gaheris' hair, he gasps, chokes, moans drawn out, and wrenches away to kiss him--kiss him. Mordred. Mordred's biting wit, his angry sarcasm. Mordred learning to fight under Gawain's instruction. Mordred on the solstice, lit by firelight--at Christmas, with snow in his black hair, with red woollen mittens that they all tease him about. Mordred always. Mordred's eyes, Lynet's, the selkie's.
And then it's all over.
Mordred draws away, and Gaheris tries to follow, on his belly, with a whimper.
"Stop it. I've done enough. Aren't you satisfied?" Then he begins to weep.
"What is it? What's wrong?" helplessly.
"I don't want to go back to Britain. Not Uncle, not his court," and, raising his eyes and looking at Gaheris with something between hatred and pity and love and confusion, "not you. Not any of my brothers. I hate all of you. I hate Camelot."
"Not me," says Gaheris. "Not me."
"Look at me. It might as well be over. Don't you see that? I'm tired. I don't know how to talk to you. I don't know how to talk to any of you. Something will happen, and you won't understand."
Mordred is right. Gaheris will not understand. But he will not be confused for long; Lancelot's sword passes through him so quickly it doesn't hurt.
He thinks of Lynet, and then he dies.
Author: Soujin
Characters/Pairings: Gaheris/Mordred
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Yes.
Disclaimer: Copyright has presumably expired.
Summary: Gaheris and his brother do not understand each other.
Once, when they were young--too young, incredibly stupid, Gaheris always says--when they were wrestling together, Mordred got a handful of Gaheris' hair and pulled, and Gaheris cried out in a way that made him sound like an animal, like something wounded. The next thing he knew Mordred kissed him. It was long and hard and hot. At that time, Gaheris was fifteen; Mordred was almost seventeen. They'd all grown up together. After that, Mordred hardly ever touched him for any purpose, and after that, Gaheris always wanted it again.
Of course, it all slid to the side when they went off, one by one, to Camelot. Gawain first, and he did the best. Then it was Gaheris, then Agravain, and finally little Gareth. Mordred was last of all. Gaheris knew why. He was ashamed. At least Gaheris and his brothers had been got honestly. Mordred was Arthur's son and Arthur's nephew, caught up in the middle of four people who couldn't help him. Their mother was a witch (Gaheris often thought of killing her) who didn't love any of her sons. Their aunt Morgan said,--
"Well, she can't, darlings. Love makes a witch weaker." Morgan only loves Arthur, and maybe Gawain, so she's weaker than their mother, but she doesn't seem to mind.
Then there was Arthur, who didn't know what to do, whether to welcome Mordred as his son, or maybe as his nephew, or maybe to banish him, or maybe to be coolly polite, or maybe... and so on. Lot, Gaheris' father, didn't like Mordred, because he knew he wasn't his son; and of course Arthur's wife Guenevere had no reason to welcome her husband's bastard.
So Mordred came last to Camelot, and by then Gaheris was off questing, or fighting--there were still rebellions and small skirmishes, for all Arthur's peace in Briton. Sometimes he came back, but he never said much to Mordred. They fought with words, cleverer than Gawain, although Gawain was cleverer than they were. He spoke mildly to them, as though he didn't care about their fighting. Gareth went off to restore Lancelot's honour when he was unhorsed in a tournament; Agravain went off God-knew-where, and Gaheris didn't see him for years. Everything was run about, touch and go, here for a moment and there for a month.
Finally Gaheris married. Lady Lynet had a tongue as sharp as Mordred's, but her hair was long and golden, and she uncoiled it at night to let it come tumbling down. He could wrap it through his hands and sometimes halfway around his waist, even though she complained, and sometimes he slept that way. They kissed, they lay together, but he wasn't happy. They talked for hours and he thought he'd never met a woman cleverer or more fascinating, but he wasn't happy. He began to leave her in Camelot for quests that got longer and longer. It just wasn't any good going home.
Especially since Camelot isn't home.
Now he's back in Orkney, lost. He knows every part of the islands better by far than he knows himself. On the beach he finds flat rocks to throw into the sea, and lies in the wet sand making soft noises to call the selkies to him. They watch him with eyes the colour of stone.
Sometimes he thinks he's dreaming. One day while he's almost in the surf, leaning forward on his knees, a hand's breadth away from the stone-coloured eyes, he hears a voice behind him.
"What are you doing now, idiot?"
"What does it look like?" he answers, as the selkie--or maybe it's just a seal--disappears back into the water with a push of its flippers.
"It looks like you've finally lost the few wits you had. You're going to get soaked."
"I already am." He shifts, straightens his back, stands. "What are you doing?"
"Visiting."
"Mother?"
"What does Mother want to see me for? Home. This," with a quiet hand gesture.
Gaheris sighs. "It would be. I think I hate it."
"How long have you been here?"
"I don't know. A week, a month. Somewhere in between. How's Camelot?"
"Seething with activity, naturally. How's Gaheris?"
"--Missed you." It's rough, there's an edge to it, and suddenly Mordred's caught, before he can move, caught in a kiss and wet cold hands that smell of the sea, caught next to a body that's lean and rough and edgy as the voice that belongs to it. Gaheris has been waiting too long.
When it's over, Mordred just smirks. "Imagine. My guileless baby brother."
"Oh, yes, the innocent of the family," panting. "Because Gareth was pillaging and raping the moment he was old enough to walk."
"That's right, and you were attracting unicorns and angels."
"It certainly wouldn't have been you. There are still girls here who remember their first time with you. You're a legend."
"Always a legend."
It's too much. Mordred has always been too much. A kiss isn't enough; he wants more than that, he wants Mordred, he wants to make Mordred cry out. They're still close together. He moves closer.
Mordred laughs, and it's softer, almost sympathetic. "Oh, all right. You won't be happy, will you? I never understood you, not once." He puts a hand to the hem of his tunic, and then pauses. "There's a barn over the hill. We'll get frostbitten out here."
Finally Gaheris has him. When they're lying half-naked in the straw, and Mordred gets hold of Gaheris' hair, he gasps, chokes, moans drawn out, and wrenches away to kiss him--kiss him. Mordred. Mordred's biting wit, his angry sarcasm. Mordred learning to fight under Gawain's instruction. Mordred on the solstice, lit by firelight--at Christmas, with snow in his black hair, with red woollen mittens that they all tease him about. Mordred always. Mordred's eyes, Lynet's, the selkie's.
And then it's all over.
Mordred draws away, and Gaheris tries to follow, on his belly, with a whimper.
"Stop it. I've done enough. Aren't you satisfied?" Then he begins to weep.
"What is it? What's wrong?" helplessly.
"I don't want to go back to Britain. Not Uncle, not his court," and, raising his eyes and looking at Gaheris with something between hatred and pity and love and confusion, "not you. Not any of my brothers. I hate all of you. I hate Camelot."
"Not me," says Gaheris. "Not me."
"Look at me. It might as well be over. Don't you see that? I'm tired. I don't know how to talk to you. I don't know how to talk to any of you. Something will happen, and you won't understand."
Mordred is right. Gaheris will not understand. But he will not be confused for long; Lancelot's sword passes through him so quickly it doesn't hurt.
He thinks of Lynet, and then he dies.