Wednesday - WE GOT MOVIE SIGN!

[monica_catch22]

Hi, everyone!  This is your friendly mod monica_catch22 .  Everyone having a good Hump Day? So close yet so far from the weekend... so let's give our favorite characters a bit of a break and have some fun with Hollywood.

Today's theme is Movie Night, which means it can take place pretty much anywhere you'd want to watch movies, or have the characters

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[danse_amore]

So um this is part of my series, although it takes place far in the future of where we last left our fated heroes.

Also I just re-read The Once and Future King and I think I will be writing a lot of these lonely prompts in the next bit.

The Great Hall is alive with light and voices, but Camelot has never seemed so dark. Two years it's been since the pyre was set to light the Queen aflame, and two years since Lancelot swept her from that pyre.

Two years since Gawain buried his brothers.

Mordred sits at his elbow at table now, perching like some strange dark bird on the chair gentle Gareth used to use. He has eyes that would take hours to read - whole epics there are behind them, stories of revenge and bitterness that Gawain, even Gawain, cannot yet read. He tries, sometime, because Mordred is his brother - only and remaining - and the deep-seated loyalty he has to family is close to being the only thing he can truly grasp without it shattering in his fist. Once, he had loyalty of a different sort to a scarred man, small inside his skin, and to the best knight of Arthur's court, and to the man who was both and neither. Once, he had loyalty to Arthur himself.

But the twain have turned against one another, not by choice but by Fate and Law and inevitability, and
he has no patience for reading tonight. No patience for the whispered words that Mordred keeps stored behind his teeth like poison, to drip in his ears when he's sleeping.

It is only times like this, when the wine lies full in his stomach, that he is entirely sure it is poison and not truth.

But tonight he is sure, and the bard is singing in the corner, and he turns his face to listen. It's an old song, from the times when Camelot was as bright as they're all still pretending it is, when Arthur sat upon the throne of Law rather than in the war-horse's saddle. It is a story of a knight perfect and pure, of the Quest for divinity, of that Quest's completion and the raising of that Knight to the heavens.

Gawain knows the part of the tale left unsung. He knows the story of the knight who was not perfect enough, Le Chevalier Mal Fet, begetter of perfection but never perfection itself. Something inside himself finally snaps, and he turns ponderously, deliberately, back to the table.

"I must go to war," he says to his wine goblet, "I must find Lancelot."

Beside him, Mordred draws breath up into himself, eyes sparkling. "And we will have justice for our brothers," he says. "We will cut his head from his neck."

Gawain's eyes feel heavy, like they've forgotten how to shed tears and are just keeping them, storing them up in jars and bottles and barrels piled high up into his forehead. If that is what he needs, he thinks, and drains his goblet.