Ficlet: girl!Mordred for Twitchy
The girl looked so discontent, standing a little apart from the rest of Morgause's train, that Guinevere felt badly for her. She made a point of speaking to her kindly, and was rewarded with a flash of dark eyes, a little smile. Her whole face changed with that smile, became pretty, became nearly good-natured. Her name was Anna, she said, in the same queer soft accent that Morgause's sons had learnt to temper, and seemed touchingly pleased by the attention.
She was not cowed, as most of her companions were; more than once Guinevere caught the end of a soft answer, with downcast eyes, that made the Queen of Orkney's mouth go thin. Nonetheless she was prepared for a struggle; but Morgause said only, with her cat's smile, that she would not dream of standing in the girl's way.
So Anna stayed, when the rest had gone. The sulky look never entirely left her, but she seemed contented enough. She was deft, well-mannered, light-footed; she was capable, with a few words, of sending the whole bower into gales of giggles, or of nipping a threatened quarrel sharply in the bud. She made herself liked, in a quiet way, and played the coquette not at all.
"No young man at all?"
"No, my lady."
"Why not?"
A little pause. "I am hardly marriageable."
"Of course you are. Who says you are not?"
"Propriety." The girl's slim fingers laid aside the comb, began to weave a braid. "My /mother's/ marriage vows. Or lack of them."
Guinevere bit her lip, caught off guard. She had never inquired into the girl's background, as she should have done; had acted entirely on impulse. Would she never learn better? "Even so--"
Anna stopped, meeting her eyes in the mirror with a look half resentful, half pleading. "Do I serve you so ill, my lady?"
"Of course not, child." She would have turned her head, but the fingers in her hair held her. "I am very glad of you, you know that."
"Then I have no need of young men," the girl said lightly, "or old ones, for that matter," and went back to braiding, though her hands trembled a little.
It was no more than a fortnight later, in the last of the thick autumn dusk, that Guinevere rounded the last turn of the stairs and saw, in the alcove of the window, a couple embracing. It took her a heartbeat to recognize the young man; another to take in the slight frame and dark hair of the girl who clung to him. A sudden chill caught her like the onset of sickness.
"Anna!" she said, more sharply than she intended.
They broke apart, startled. "My lady Queen--"
She was surprised at her own anger. She took a step forward, clenching her hands in her skirts to steady herself. Her heart pounded painfully. "For shame, Sir Gawain. And you so lately wed."
"What?" Gawain's boyish face reflected only bewilderment. "I-- but-- my lady, this is my sister." Tentatively, into her silence, he said, "My mother's daughter. Did you not know?"
"I did not," Guinevere said slowly. She was still looking at Anna. The girl stood silent, watching from under downcast lashes, her hand clasping her brother's; and Guinevere, waiting for the cold to leave her, felt it settle, instead, around her heart.
* * *
I meant to polish this, but maybe I'll do that later. Meanwhile, I fancy it is still bizarrely amusing.
Also, it's a perfectly good name.
She was not cowed, as most of her companions were; more than once Guinevere caught the end of a soft answer, with downcast eyes, that made the Queen of Orkney's mouth go thin. Nonetheless she was prepared for a struggle; but Morgause said only, with her cat's smile, that she would not dream of standing in the girl's way.
So Anna stayed, when the rest had gone. The sulky look never entirely left her, but she seemed contented enough. She was deft, well-mannered, light-footed; she was capable, with a few words, of sending the whole bower into gales of giggles, or of nipping a threatened quarrel sharply in the bud. She made herself liked, in a quiet way, and played the coquette not at all.
"No young man at all?"
"No, my lady."
"Why not?"
A little pause. "I am hardly marriageable."
"Of course you are. Who says you are not?"
"Propriety." The girl's slim fingers laid aside the comb, began to weave a braid. "My /mother's/ marriage vows. Or lack of them."
Guinevere bit her lip, caught off guard. She had never inquired into the girl's background, as she should have done; had acted entirely on impulse. Would she never learn better? "Even so--"
Anna stopped, meeting her eyes in the mirror with a look half resentful, half pleading. "Do I serve you so ill, my lady?"
"Of course not, child." She would have turned her head, but the fingers in her hair held her. "I am very glad of you, you know that."
"Then I have no need of young men," the girl said lightly, "or old ones, for that matter," and went back to braiding, though her hands trembled a little.
It was no more than a fortnight later, in the last of the thick autumn dusk, that Guinevere rounded the last turn of the stairs and saw, in the alcove of the window, a couple embracing. It took her a heartbeat to recognize the young man; another to take in the slight frame and dark hair of the girl who clung to him. A sudden chill caught her like the onset of sickness.
"Anna!" she said, more sharply than she intended.
They broke apart, startled. "My lady Queen--"
She was surprised at her own anger. She took a step forward, clenching her hands in her skirts to steady herself. Her heart pounded painfully. "For shame, Sir Gawain. And you so lately wed."
"What?" Gawain's boyish face reflected only bewilderment. "I-- but-- my lady, this is my sister." Tentatively, into her silence, he said, "My mother's daughter. Did you not know?"
"I did not," Guinevere said slowly. She was still looking at Anna. The girl stood silent, watching from under downcast lashes, her hand clasping her brother's; and Guinevere, waiting for the cold to leave her, felt it settle, instead, around her heart.
* * *
I meant to polish this, but maybe I'll do that later. Meanwhile, I fancy it is still bizarrely amusing.
Also, it's a perfectly good name.