TM Challenge 229
They sit around the table in the inn, all five of them, eldest to youngest, drinking quietly. It was noisy before, when Agravain was teasing the serving girls to see if he could get a kiss, and taking great liberty with his speech, as he's wont to do. A rough tongue, has Agravain. He earned himself a slap from a girl and a lecture from Gawain, and now he's sulking in the warmth of the fire, eyes half-closed. Gareth, who can't hold his drink and never could, is sleeping in his chair. Mordred, too, has his head thrown back against the wall, angled as he is in such a position to get away with it. His hair catches the light and gleams black. His face is slack with sleep, making it softer.
Gawain is still well-aware; he sits near Gaheris, with only a little space between them. Gaheris is mostly drunk, but mostly comfortably. He doesn't do it often, and when he does he relaxes a little, gets a little less awkward and a little warmer, smiles a little better. Gawain is cheerful. He likes to see them like this, all mostly well, in companionship. They haven't travelled together in a long time, a very long time.
Gawain is drumming his fingers on the table to a pleasant rhythm, the beat of an old folk song. The serving girls who edged away from Agravain came to him eager to please, smiling and quick with the ale, and he smiled back, a smile as fine as a summer. He married two years ago and has a child on the way. Gaheris and Gareth both took wives only a little while past, and both of them were reluctant to leave, but the King had a task and Gawain was pleased that they'd all go together; and they're young and in love, you learn to excuse any hesitation.
Gaheris touches his arm softly, and says, "Brother." Gawain beams at him. Gaheris doesn't usually address his brothers thusly.
"Aye?"
"It's good they're all so well." A little thick-tongued, but heartfelt. He nods at the others, in their chairs.
"True enough," Gawain answers warmly.
"Haven't been all together since we were boys."
"Oh, longer. Remember? Gareth was too young for us, and Agravain always liked striking out on his own. And you were impossible to find. You cut practise every day."
Gaheris nods and sighs. "I did."
"You're getting better," he adds, charitably. Gaheris is no better than he was a year ago, or two, or seven.
"A little," Gaheris says, smiling suddenly, proud as a boy. He looks at Gawain and smiles. "Brother--"
"Aye?" more gently.
"Am I worthy?"
"Of what?" Gawain takes these things seriously. It might be just a drunken question, or it might be something Gaheris would be too reticent to ask otherwise. Gaheris is reticent. As often as not he doesn't share what he's thinking. If he has a concern, Gawain would rather answer it. It's not every day he gets the chance, and he knows they all look up to him, even Mordred, who's eldest. He doesn't always know how to help, but he can listen. He's a good listener.
"Of thee. Of them. My name."
"Of course," Gawain says, voice growing firm.
"I'm getting better. You said so."
"So I did. You do very well. You could stand to practise more, of course."
"Mother doesn't--"
Gawain cuts him off, even firmer. It's no good talking about their mother. "Mother hasn't seen you in years. I'm proud of you," he says. It's as good as if he was their father. They all might as well think so, all the youngers, considering how small they were when Lot died. In his own way, he's a match for their mother. He says I'm proud of you with his even-voiced certainty, steadfast.
Gaheris smiles again. It's like a crinkle of paper in his narrow, awkwardly-put together face. Gawain has never understood him, but every now and then he says something that's exactly right, and Gaheris smiles. Gawain smiles back, and beckons the girl with the red hair for another drink. Then he'll get them all into bed.
Words: 700
Gawain is still well-aware; he sits near Gaheris, with only a little space between them. Gaheris is mostly drunk, but mostly comfortably. He doesn't do it often, and when he does he relaxes a little, gets a little less awkward and a little warmer, smiles a little better. Gawain is cheerful. He likes to see them like this, all mostly well, in companionship. They haven't travelled together in a long time, a very long time.
Gawain is drumming his fingers on the table to a pleasant rhythm, the beat of an old folk song. The serving girls who edged away from Agravain came to him eager to please, smiling and quick with the ale, and he smiled back, a smile as fine as a summer. He married two years ago and has a child on the way. Gaheris and Gareth both took wives only a little while past, and both of them were reluctant to leave, but the King had a task and Gawain was pleased that they'd all go together; and they're young and in love, you learn to excuse any hesitation.
Gaheris touches his arm softly, and says, "Brother." Gawain beams at him. Gaheris doesn't usually address his brothers thusly.
"Aye?"
"It's good they're all so well." A little thick-tongued, but heartfelt. He nods at the others, in their chairs.
"True enough," Gawain answers warmly.
"Haven't been all together since we were boys."
"Oh, longer. Remember? Gareth was too young for us, and Agravain always liked striking out on his own. And you were impossible to find. You cut practise every day."
Gaheris nods and sighs. "I did."
"You're getting better," he adds, charitably. Gaheris is no better than he was a year ago, or two, or seven.
"A little," Gaheris says, smiling suddenly, proud as a boy. He looks at Gawain and smiles. "Brother--"
"Aye?" more gently.
"Am I worthy?"
"Of what?" Gawain takes these things seriously. It might be just a drunken question, or it might be something Gaheris would be too reticent to ask otherwise. Gaheris is reticent. As often as not he doesn't share what he's thinking. If he has a concern, Gawain would rather answer it. It's not every day he gets the chance, and he knows they all look up to him, even Mordred, who's eldest. He doesn't always know how to help, but he can listen. He's a good listener.
"Of thee. Of them. My name."
"Of course," Gawain says, voice growing firm.
"I'm getting better. You said so."
"So I did. You do very well. You could stand to practise more, of course."
"Mother doesn't--"
Gawain cuts him off, even firmer. It's no good talking about their mother. "Mother hasn't seen you in years. I'm proud of you," he says. It's as good as if he was their father. They all might as well think so, all the youngers, considering how small they were when Lot died. In his own way, he's a match for their mother. He says I'm proud of you with his even-voiced certainty, steadfast.
Gaheris smiles again. It's like a crinkle of paper in his narrow, awkwardly-put together face. Gawain has never understood him, but every now and then he says something that's exactly right, and Gaheris smiles. Gawain smiles back, and beckons the girl with the red hair for another drink. Then he'll get them all into bed.
Words: 700