TM #158: Talk about a memorable (or unexpected) kiss at a holiday party.
The boys were home that winter. They were the boys still, though Mordred was all of five and twenty, and even Gaheris had grown finally into his arms and legs. None of them minded very much. They had been Arthur's men for long enough that it was a welcome change to be Mother's boys awhile.
She was there at the gate to meet them, with Clarissant at her elbow, wrapped alike in heavy dark shawls against the freezing rain. They did not ask how she had known when they would arrive, though they hadn't known themselves: delays, foul weather and rough seas. Mother always knew. They kissed her in greeting, wet as they were; but Clarissant evaded them. "Gareth's inside," she said. "Go and see him," and went off across the courtyard, her skirts blowing like stormclouds.
She was fifteen, a stormy age in itself. There were just ten years between her and Mordred: left hand and right, mirror images, both fey and fatherless. King Lot had died when his daughter was still unsteady on her feet, and doubtless she did not miss him.
You're none of his, Mordred remembered his mother telling him when he was a child, in the time before Clarissant. He had not wanted to be. He was hers, that was all; her first, her treasure, different from his brothers.
And then Clarissant was born, late and longed for. Morgause's daughter, her heir, her image. It had taken Mordred, at ten, a little time to understand that he had been supplanted. He was not hers after all. But he was not Lot's either, and his father was only a name, spoken in bitterness.
His sister was fifteen now, and he did not hate her any longer. She had grown strange in the years he had been away: a tiny girl with a cloud of dark hair and eyes like a forest creature's, wary, unreadable. She was beautiful, as Mother must have been when she was young. They were very much alike.
"Come in," Morgause said over the noise of the rain, "come in, all of you." She was motherly, now that they were grown. Courting them, Mordred thought; she was no longer sure of them. They were men, and might prove faithless.
* * *
Gareth was overflowing with questions, avid for their stories, and as envious as his good nature would allow. He was sixteen, and should have joined them that year. Morgause had thought otherwise.
"I don't know why," he said, as they clustered around the hearth one night. Tucked up beside Gaheris, with his arms clasping his knees, he looked a child still. "She's got Clar, hasn't she?"
Mordred glanced over. "Who has Clar got?"
Gareth frowned, looking into the fire. "I'm not sure Clar wants anyone, sometimes. She doesn't talk to me the way she did. I don't know..."
"Who ever knows with Clar?" Agravain prodded him amiably with one foot. "Anyway, she can't keep you mewed up here forever. Mother, I mean."
"Who ever knows with Mother?"
"Gawain'll talk to her. She can't argue with him."
"Can't she?" Gawain said wryly. "You watch."
"She can't, though," insisted Agravain. "At least she has to listen to you."
Gawain shook his head. "I'll talk to her. I don't promise anything."
"That's all I ask," Gareth said, peaceable. And then sighed, leaning against Gaheris' shoulder. "I just wish somebody could talk to Clar."
* * *
Mordred found her down by the little harbor, days later. She was talking with one of the village wives, a smiling woman with the round face and soft eyes of the seal-folk. She spoke too softly for him to hear, standing with her shoulders hunched around the basket she carried. When she caught sight of him she took leave of the woman at once, and turned away, striding up the path to meet him.
"Good," she said as she drew level with him. "I thought I'd never get away."
"What've you got against Maeva?"
"Nothing!" Clarissant said, indignant.
"Well, what's this running off, then?"
She threw a dark glare upward. "Don't ask questions. Everyone asks me questions. Not you too."
He was quiet for a minute or two, till they came to the top of the slope. Then, "Is that why you're not speaking to Gareth?"
"Gareth doesn't hear me."
"Oh, come. He'd listen if you talked."
"Doesn't hear," she said, walking faster. "Could, but he won't. Would but he can't. Like you."
Mordred caught up to her, taking her arm. "What have I got to do with it? Listen, Clar--"
"You don't." She stopped, looking up at him. A tress had come loose from her long braid, and blew across her face like a streamer of smoke. She was frowning, not in temper now, but in concentration. "You've all gone away, you boys. He just hasn't left yet. Can't hear. Too far. But you keep talking anyway."
"You're not making sense, sister."
"Half-sister," she said.
He let her go, stung. They did not make that distinction. Had never made it, in their bitterest quarrels; bastard he might be, but no less than their brother, never. He felt the air suddenly cold against his face, and knew he had gone pale. Clarissant put up a hand to brush her hair back, and added, thoughtfully, "On the mother's side."
The cold went to his gut. He stood there, silent, and watched her turn and walk away as though she had forgotten he was there.
* * *
They kept Christmas there, in the dark of the winter, as they had done when they were children. They saw the fire lit on the hill, blessed the palace and everything in it, were drawn into the games and the dances as if they had never been away. On the night itself, Clarissant emerged from her room, looking like a child swallowing medicine.
Morgause presided over the festivities, splendid in her green gown, decked with silver at her neck and wrists, wearing the gray in her hair like another set of jewels. After a quarter of an hour, Clarissant went and sat at her feet, her hands clenched in her lap, staring at the floor.
The evening grew noisier, and less restrained. One of the women caught Mordred by the sleeve: "When are you getting married?" It was arch; they had been lovers, several summers before. He laughed, pulling away. "When Gawain does."
"Ah, there's the question!" The crowd took it up, in a swirl of raillery. They were fond of their Young King, and knew he was fond of them; he took their teasing in good humor, as penance for his long absences. "What's taking you so long, you're not getting any younger!"
Gawain held up his hands, laughing, his cheeks red. "I know, I know. Give me time, I've got to think about it."
"You said that last year!"
"It's true! You don't know, I might look about me in a hurry and come home with some horrible hag, some termagant--"
"Hag be damned," someone said, and someone else, very drunk: "Time we had a queen."
"The old one being worn out," said Morgause, with a broad smile.
There was a pause, an uncertain ripple of laughter. The whole room looked toward her, and toward Clarissant, small and white-faced beside her. Mordred, nearest the dais, saw their dark eyes flash, identical.
Behind him someone called out, "And there's another!" It was one of the young men from the village, quicker than most. He came forward and reached for Clarissant's hands. "Here's our princess, going on sixteen and never been kissed--"
She shook him off, rising to her feet as he backed away. She wore deep crimson, vivid as heart's blood, close-fitting her thin body. "You're right," she said, before anyone else could speak, and strode forward, her head high and a little tilted, challenging them all.
She set a hand on Mordred's shoulder. His arm went around her, caught her against him as if to lift her; and, leaning up, she kissed his mouth.
He had time to think, Not never. He had time to wonder at himself, as he tightened his hold and kissed her back: lightly, gently, as befitted a child of fifteen. He had time to think, vaguely, that he should have expected it, that he had in a way been expecting it for days, or perhaps for years.
By the time he was able to be horrified, Clarissant had slipped free.
"Now I have," she said clearly, and walked past him, heading for the door, as the hall went up in mirth, raucous, unnerved, relieved. Dimly, amid the tumult, he heard his mother laughing with the rest.
Mordred
Arthurian legend
1446 words
Warning: incestuous implications (although really, given the source...)
She was there at the gate to meet them, with Clarissant at her elbow, wrapped alike in heavy dark shawls against the freezing rain. They did not ask how she had known when they would arrive, though they hadn't known themselves: delays, foul weather and rough seas. Mother always knew. They kissed her in greeting, wet as they were; but Clarissant evaded them. "Gareth's inside," she said. "Go and see him," and went off across the courtyard, her skirts blowing like stormclouds.
She was fifteen, a stormy age in itself. There were just ten years between her and Mordred: left hand and right, mirror images, both fey and fatherless. King Lot had died when his daughter was still unsteady on her feet, and doubtless she did not miss him.
You're none of his, Mordred remembered his mother telling him when he was a child, in the time before Clarissant. He had not wanted to be. He was hers, that was all; her first, her treasure, different from his brothers.
And then Clarissant was born, late and longed for. Morgause's daughter, her heir, her image. It had taken Mordred, at ten, a little time to understand that he had been supplanted. He was not hers after all. But he was not Lot's either, and his father was only a name, spoken in bitterness.
His sister was fifteen now, and he did not hate her any longer. She had grown strange in the years he had been away: a tiny girl with a cloud of dark hair and eyes like a forest creature's, wary, unreadable. She was beautiful, as Mother must have been when she was young. They were very much alike.
"Come in," Morgause said over the noise of the rain, "come in, all of you." She was motherly, now that they were grown. Courting them, Mordred thought; she was no longer sure of them. They were men, and might prove faithless.
* * *
Gareth was overflowing with questions, avid for their stories, and as envious as his good nature would allow. He was sixteen, and should have joined them that year. Morgause had thought otherwise.
"I don't know why," he said, as they clustered around the hearth one night. Tucked up beside Gaheris, with his arms clasping his knees, he looked a child still. "She's got Clar, hasn't she?"
Mordred glanced over. "Who has Clar got?"
Gareth frowned, looking into the fire. "I'm not sure Clar wants anyone, sometimes. She doesn't talk to me the way she did. I don't know..."
"Who ever knows with Clar?" Agravain prodded him amiably with one foot. "Anyway, she can't keep you mewed up here forever. Mother, I mean."
"Who ever knows with Mother?"
"Gawain'll talk to her. She can't argue with him."
"Can't she?" Gawain said wryly. "You watch."
"She can't, though," insisted Agravain. "At least she has to listen to you."
Gawain shook his head. "I'll talk to her. I don't promise anything."
"That's all I ask," Gareth said, peaceable. And then sighed, leaning against Gaheris' shoulder. "I just wish somebody could talk to Clar."
* * *
Mordred found her down by the little harbor, days later. She was talking with one of the village wives, a smiling woman with the round face and soft eyes of the seal-folk. She spoke too softly for him to hear, standing with her shoulders hunched around the basket she carried. When she caught sight of him she took leave of the woman at once, and turned away, striding up the path to meet him.
"Good," she said as she drew level with him. "I thought I'd never get away."
"What've you got against Maeva?"
"Nothing!" Clarissant said, indignant.
"Well, what's this running off, then?"
She threw a dark glare upward. "Don't ask questions. Everyone asks me questions. Not you too."
He was quiet for a minute or two, till they came to the top of the slope. Then, "Is that why you're not speaking to Gareth?"
"Gareth doesn't hear me."
"Oh, come. He'd listen if you talked."
"Doesn't hear," she said, walking faster. "Could, but he won't. Would but he can't. Like you."
Mordred caught up to her, taking her arm. "What have I got to do with it? Listen, Clar--"
"You don't." She stopped, looking up at him. A tress had come loose from her long braid, and blew across her face like a streamer of smoke. She was frowning, not in temper now, but in concentration. "You've all gone away, you boys. He just hasn't left yet. Can't hear. Too far. But you keep talking anyway."
"You're not making sense, sister."
"Half-sister," she said.
He let her go, stung. They did not make that distinction. Had never made it, in their bitterest quarrels; bastard he might be, but no less than their brother, never. He felt the air suddenly cold against his face, and knew he had gone pale. Clarissant put up a hand to brush her hair back, and added, thoughtfully, "On the mother's side."
The cold went to his gut. He stood there, silent, and watched her turn and walk away as though she had forgotten he was there.
* * *
They kept Christmas there, in the dark of the winter, as they had done when they were children. They saw the fire lit on the hill, blessed the palace and everything in it, were drawn into the games and the dances as if they had never been away. On the night itself, Clarissant emerged from her room, looking like a child swallowing medicine.
Morgause presided over the festivities, splendid in her green gown, decked with silver at her neck and wrists, wearing the gray in her hair like another set of jewels. After a quarter of an hour, Clarissant went and sat at her feet, her hands clenched in her lap, staring at the floor.
The evening grew noisier, and less restrained. One of the women caught Mordred by the sleeve: "When are you getting married?" It was arch; they had been lovers, several summers before. He laughed, pulling away. "When Gawain does."
"Ah, there's the question!" The crowd took it up, in a swirl of raillery. They were fond of their Young King, and knew he was fond of them; he took their teasing in good humor, as penance for his long absences. "What's taking you so long, you're not getting any younger!"
Gawain held up his hands, laughing, his cheeks red. "I know, I know. Give me time, I've got to think about it."
"You said that last year!"
"It's true! You don't know, I might look about me in a hurry and come home with some horrible hag, some termagant--"
"Hag be damned," someone said, and someone else, very drunk: "Time we had a queen."
"The old one being worn out," said Morgause, with a broad smile.
There was a pause, an uncertain ripple of laughter. The whole room looked toward her, and toward Clarissant, small and white-faced beside her. Mordred, nearest the dais, saw their dark eyes flash, identical.
Behind him someone called out, "And there's another!" It was one of the young men from the village, quicker than most. He came forward and reached for Clarissant's hands. "Here's our princess, going on sixteen and never been kissed--"
She shook him off, rising to her feet as he backed away. She wore deep crimson, vivid as heart's blood, close-fitting her thin body. "You're right," she said, before anyone else could speak, and strode forward, her head high and a little tilted, challenging them all.
She set a hand on Mordred's shoulder. His arm went around her, caught her against him as if to lift her; and, leaning up, she kissed his mouth.
He had time to think, Not never. He had time to wonder at himself, as he tightened his hold and kissed her back: lightly, gently, as befitted a child of fifteen. He had time to think, vaguely, that he should have expected it, that he had in a way been expecting it for days, or perhaps for years.
By the time he was able to be horrified, Clarissant had slipped free.
"Now I have," she said clearly, and walked past him, heading for the door, as the hall went up in mirth, raucous, unnerved, relieved. Dimly, amid the tumult, he heard his mother laughing with the rest.
Mordred
Arthurian legend
1446 words
Warning: incestuous implications (although really, given the source...)