TM Challenge 219
Nobody knew sooner than we did that they were dead. I swear, it was a matter of moments before the entire country knew Agravain had been killed, and for treachery--treachery, everyone said, as if it wasn't treachery he'd gotten pulled out into the open, stupidly, of course, because Agravain did things that way, loud and stupid, but treachery still.
But nobody knew the names of the rest of the men who'd been killed, not for a day or two, and that was when we found out we'd lost Florence and Lovel, too. That broke Gawain, because we'd always known, I think, all of us, that Agravain would lose his life someday in the middle of some idiotic quarrel, and we knew, and we expected, and, God, it hurt us like I can't tell you, but we'd always known--
We never expected Gawain to outlive his boys.
Florence was the quiet elder one, eyes as dark as his mother's, and Lovel was laughing and noisy and as bad as Gareth, when Gareth was a child. You couldn't pry them apart for love or money, and Lovel was always listening to his uncle Agravain--following him around fascinated, I suppose, by Agravain's rough ways and his strong arm. And Florence went with him because he couldn't bear to leave him, the way Mordred would never be apart from Gawain for very long without starting to look as though he was half-alive.
They were only half-grown, God knows. Florence was fifteen, sixteen, Lovel was younger. Just knighted, for some piece of work I can't even remember that they did together because that was the way they did everything. Florence had gotten his device, even, though Lovel still had the Virgescue. Gawain was so proud of them. Of course he was proud of Guinglain, too, but Guinglain isn't dead.
I think he might have managed, if Ragnelle had been there. He truly might. But Ragnelle was gone, God knows where, and it was only us to comfort him, and we were clumsy. Mordred wasn't even that, he was so angry; he kept away from Gawain, I suppose because he knew he couldn't help when he was so far gone with fury. So it was me, me and Gareth, trying our best somehow to help our brother, and no good in it.
And still he made nothing against Lancelot. Understand, it was Lancelot, who had killed his brother and his sons, but Gawain said nothing and made nothing against him, and I think that was like to make Mordred mad. Mordred's own boys were scarcely younger than Gawain's, and he must have thought--as I thought, remembering my own girl, back in Orkney with her mother, thought, what would I do if she were killed? What would I do to the man who killed her?
But Gawain did nothing.
It was all over the country in a week. Everyone knew, and most of them had known already, about the Queen and Lancelot, and most of them would have forgiven her--most of them were not like Agravain, but like Gawain, who remembered the good she'd done and her pretty way of smiling, and how happy she made Arthur. Most, but enough condemned her.
So we're to see the Queen burn. To-morrow, the Queen burn. Gawain would not go--Arthur bade him, but Gawain refused, he being always the best of us. Arthur asked us instead, little Gareth and me, and we didn't know what to do but say yes, he being the King and our uncle. We've agreed, we'll go, but I don't know for whose sake, and all I can think of is the girl, who's farther away than I can half imagine; and the first few hours, when no one in the world except us knew how much we'd lost.
Because they were our boys, too. They always are.
Words: 650
But nobody knew the names of the rest of the men who'd been killed, not for a day or two, and that was when we found out we'd lost Florence and Lovel, too. That broke Gawain, because we'd always known, I think, all of us, that Agravain would lose his life someday in the middle of some idiotic quarrel, and we knew, and we expected, and, God, it hurt us like I can't tell you, but we'd always known--
We never expected Gawain to outlive his boys.
Florence was the quiet elder one, eyes as dark as his mother's, and Lovel was laughing and noisy and as bad as Gareth, when Gareth was a child. You couldn't pry them apart for love or money, and Lovel was always listening to his uncle Agravain--following him around fascinated, I suppose, by Agravain's rough ways and his strong arm. And Florence went with him because he couldn't bear to leave him, the way Mordred would never be apart from Gawain for very long without starting to look as though he was half-alive.
They were only half-grown, God knows. Florence was fifteen, sixteen, Lovel was younger. Just knighted, for some piece of work I can't even remember that they did together because that was the way they did everything. Florence had gotten his device, even, though Lovel still had the Virgescue. Gawain was so proud of them. Of course he was proud of Guinglain, too, but Guinglain isn't dead.
I think he might have managed, if Ragnelle had been there. He truly might. But Ragnelle was gone, God knows where, and it was only us to comfort him, and we were clumsy. Mordred wasn't even that, he was so angry; he kept away from Gawain, I suppose because he knew he couldn't help when he was so far gone with fury. So it was me, me and Gareth, trying our best somehow to help our brother, and no good in it.
And still he made nothing against Lancelot. Understand, it was Lancelot, who had killed his brother and his sons, but Gawain said nothing and made nothing against him, and I think that was like to make Mordred mad. Mordred's own boys were scarcely younger than Gawain's, and he must have thought--as I thought, remembering my own girl, back in Orkney with her mother, thought, what would I do if she were killed? What would I do to the man who killed her?
But Gawain did nothing.
It was all over the country in a week. Everyone knew, and most of them had known already, about the Queen and Lancelot, and most of them would have forgiven her--most of them were not like Agravain, but like Gawain, who remembered the good she'd done and her pretty way of smiling, and how happy she made Arthur. Most, but enough condemned her.
So we're to see the Queen burn. To-morrow, the Queen burn. Gawain would not go--Arthur bade him, but Gawain refused, he being always the best of us. Arthur asked us instead, little Gareth and me, and we didn't know what to do but say yes, he being the King and our uncle. We've agreed, we'll go, but I don't know for whose sake, and all I can think of is the girl, who's farther away than I can half imagine; and the first few hours, when no one in the world except us knew how much we'd lost.
Because they were our boys, too. They always are.
Words: 650