comment-fic reposts
...from the lyrics fic fest.
clearly, i haven't written in ages and am too lazy to capitalize, so yeah.
leave your things behind;
gwen+lancelot+gwaine; ~700 w; pg (mentions of violence/bodily harm)
lyrics prompt: get out of this town by carrie underwood
they were never made for kingdoms, the three of them, not made for gilded crowns or varnished woods or silken capes or the weight of the world that came with all of it. somehow they had fallen in, gotten tangled up and bound, too tight, and it became an effort to remember, to tell themselves in the quiet corners of the night: this is not who you are.
it went on for as long as it did, as long as it really could, because even when she had become queen and they had become the men at her guard, standing tall and steady at her either side, they were still the boys of the crossroads first, perpetually in motion with the winds at their backs, just as she was still the blacksmith's daughter, still the girl with calloused hands and the ore in her bones. you could not bend or shake it out of any one of them.
*
arthur is a good man and everyone knows this. lancelot lives by it, would have said it to anyone on any given day. gwaine lives by it but would never say it at all. arthur is a good man and once they would have died by it but war does terrible things to people. it hollows them out and makes them forget their mothers and brothers and lovers and dreams.
it gets worse when nightmares of men lost have chased much of lancelot's optimism away in the darkest hours of the night. he looks up at the stars and does not sleep for days, does not rest until the queen slips into his quarters, lays a head on his forehead, says his name like a spell.
and worse when gwaine's left arm isn't quite what it used to be, not anymore, knotted and burned and scarred from the fires of the north. the king had been sympathetic and promised him whatever he asked. the queen had stayed after, tended to him with her hands. when he'd tried to shake her off, she'd had none of it and held him there firm, put her arms around him and kissed him high on his brow. we were friends, she had said. friends first. friends before all of this and we will be friends long after.
the thing that becomes slowly apparent is that there is no room for friendship in their lives anymore, not here, not for a long time. there is no room for laughter or love, and maybe that is the bit she cannot live with anymore.
*
arthur is a good man.
guinevere doesn't need to say it. once, she had lived by it. she still believes it but the years have taught her that contrary to her childish ideals, being a good man is not enough to be king of a land with so much blood on its hands. good men grow old and weary early on. there comes a point in every story where they king is at his wits' end and the people can't do much else but follow blindly on. she doesn't want to wait around to see that descent. that it is inevitable, she knows, wishes so much that she didn't. she wishes she had more faith or knew how to love him better or believe like he believes all the tales that merlin spins to get him out of bed in the mornings when nothing else in the world ever can.
she assuages her conscience by telling herself that merlin always was better at her job than he was at his own and, maybe, this is how it was going to end all along.
*
it happens in the middle of an autumn night. the horses are ready and they steal enough meat and bread to last them until they make it far enough off the king's land to hunt and grow their own.
it's not quite treason, not the way she sees it. it's not betrayal even if they have no intention to return.
arthur is a good man and, for that, albion will fall.
they are just going back back back, back in time before it ever began to matter.
there's a place called north;
thor/loki; ~300 w; g (warning for pretentious second person narrative which is how you can usually tell i have no idea what i'm doing in a new fandom)
lyrics prompt: north by emmy the great
thor has been forever unnerving in how he rises to the occasion, rises to expectation.
and you?
you stay motionless, second chances thrown your way and thrown away. forgiveness is wasted on you and it seems as he has finally learned, finally moved above and beyond that, beyond you, and you feel you should be relieved for the loss of his glare at your back, his words of caution and care, his patronizing concern.
(it's not like you ever expected it to be any different.)
*
it stings and sears and hurts immeasurably at first, like having limbs torn off and no promise of recovery. all of asgard and midgard and jotunheim bled dry and it's still not enough, still can't bring it back, can't fill all the spaces he left inside you.
it takes time to erase but you can and you do. it's a slow lesson in learning but you've always been quick to learn. there's no room for homelessness when you've no need for home.
*
the ages go by and there is so little left to impress you now. you've sifted through all the lands and suns and skies and maybe you're still searching for that one thing that might.
and then:
a winter night, bright white lightning reflected in dark water and thunder in the sky, all the pieces of a place you can't and won't ever have again. it's frigga's lullaby and the all-father humming his way into battle.
and laughter, his laughter, unrepentant and contagious.
(nights like these, you remind yourself painstakingly that you never had them to begin with, that they were all in your head, figments of wishful thinking.)
you don't suppose you'll hear him again, hear any of it again.
you believe it when you tell yourself that you don't miss it.
(it helps that you always were the best liar of the lot).