the grace of god
title the grace of god
word count 1,238
summary perceval is a boy, and gawain must not be tempted.
rating pg
notes this generally follows a storyline set down by Cretien de Troyes, in Perceval: the Story of the Grail. perceval does, in fact, ride into arthur's court on a horse. gawain features heavily. i modified chretien's perceval into less of a bumbling fool, but tried to keep some of his basic characteristics. the gawain presented is more along the lines of the gawain poet's (sir gawain and the green night, not chretien's version) and the way i wrote him accidentally ended up being a forerunner of galahad, but i think it still works in arthurian canon. if anyone has a bone to pick regarding the characterization/"historical" accuracy, i'm always up for a good arthur discussion, feel free to friend my personal journal and we'll have some fun.
When Perceval comes to court, he rides his horse into the entry hall and Gawain can only blink his bewilderment. It’s not the boy’s audacity that shocks him -stranger things have happened, Gawain knows- but that he’s still such a boy, with pale, unmarred skin and strands of light hair catching on his eyelashes. Skinny, so that when he moves to dismount, his sleeve is pulled up and Gawain can see the delicate bones in his wrist.
Kay leans over. “God save us,” he grunted, taking a swig of mead, and although Gawain does not like Kay -he pretends, though, the Lord knows he tries- he privately thinks the seneschal is right.
--
Perceval comes back to court wearing vermillion armour, and Gawain moves forward to shake the boy’s hand, determinedly telling himself it was only a show of courtesy, only what a good knight should do -and he is a good knight, God help him, the best- and not because he wants to feel the delicate bones in Perceval’s hand move under his grip.
He’s too distracted by the brightness in Perceval’s eyes to register much about his hand until later, as he opened and closed his own fist, feeling the calluses on his palm and cataloging the smoothness of Perceval’s skin, another layer of his youth.
--
Something twists deep in Gawain’s gut as he watches his uncle make Perceval a knight. The protests sit on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out at any moment, and so Gawain keeps his lips tightly sealed, not even parting them to sooth his parched throat. Only Kay notices how tightly his hands are twisted together behind his back as they all rise.
--
Gawain makes the sign of the cross, goes down on his right knee, and closes his eyes, the prayers spilling from his lips like a second language- and they are, they are his second language, his second skin. They are what he hides behind; they are what made him the world’s greatest knight. It is, Gawain believes, his punishment, to have to bear the weight of one thousand men. It makes his heart heavy and forces lines onto his face.
As he rises, he glimpses Perceval slipping into the chapel, and Gawain straightens quickly, moving to leave. He doesn’t make it to the door.
“You’ve been here a while,” Perceval murmurs, his voice clear and high, and Gawain swallows hard, trying to figure out the sudden lightness in his chest.
“Have you?”
Perceval shrugs, the action so boyish that Gawain wants to have words with Arthur for knighting him. For ruining him, for although the boy does not know it, he will one day take up the cares Gawain himself carries. His skin will wrinkle and his voice will change and he will bear the burden of one thousand men, and it isn’t a burden Gawain would wish on anyone.
“I’ve been here long enough.”
Gawain chooses not to press, and instead clasps the boy’s hand in his own. This time he feels the bones clearly, the spindly fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist, not letting go even as Gawain moves to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead and whisper “Deus te benedictat.”
--
Perceval leaves, determined, Gawain knows, to prove himself, to find glory. It makes Gawain’s chest tighten to think of such youth -purity- being ravaged by the world of knighthood, but he knows it is not his place to say anything, and so he remains silent. He takes up his own quest, to restore purity to his own name, because it’s all he has.
--
“ Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”
The Latin rolls off of Gawain’s tongue as easily as it ever does, and the dew of the grass is cool against his knees, covered not in armour but in soft cloth. He presses his lips together in silence for a moment before rising, shaking his limbs gently to ease his sore muscles. His camp is at the side of a hill and from his vantage point he can see the sun begin to rise, glowing gold.
Perceval’s hand on his shoulder startles Gawain, but he turns to clasp the young knight’s hand as gently as ever. Perceval is not as much of a boy now, Gawain sees, and it saddens him to feel the calluses on Perceval’s palm. He ignores the heat the pools in his belly as he feels the muscles of Perceval’s forearm shift, the skin stretched over them tightly, littered with scars, darker now.
“I messed up,” Perceval says with no preamble, and his voice sounds broken, and suddenly he is a child again, more of a child than he was when Gawain first saw him. “I missed my chance, and. It’s done, there’s no going back, I’ll never find it again.”
Gawain knows it’s not a comfort at all, but that doesn’t stop the word from rolling off his tongue, just like his prayers. “The Lord has His plan for you.”
--
“Why do you spend so much time praying?”
If Gawain was Kay, he would have forced Perceval to return to court by now. Luckily for both of them, Gawain is not Kay, although he sometimes -privately- wishes otherwise. Gawain takes a minute to answer, and Perceval does not press; it is another sign of his growth.
“Because it is all I can do,” Gawain finally replies, twisting a blade of grass between his fingers. “Because I am God’s vassal, as are you, as is Arthur, and it is all I can do.”
--
But Gawain is not pure, he knows -God knows it too, he is sure- and he can’t help watching the corded muscles of Perceval’s back as he stretches, removes his tunic, jumps into the stream to cool off in the afternoon heat. It is only the boyish smile that still adorns his face that stops Gawain from jumping in after him, and while a lesser man would say he escaped Fate, Gawain knows that Fate spared him, Fate gave him that glimpse of the smile that made the tightness in his chest ease and stopped him from throwing caution to the winds. Gawain knows that, left to his own devices, he would not be God’s vassal, but Satan’s.
So Gawain leaves nothing to chance and packs up his camp the next day. He has his own quest to fulfill, his own dignity to restore. He has to serve Arthur in every way that he can, he must repay his uncle for everything that had been given to him. He must not let the way Perceval smiled at him or touched his shoulder while he knelt at prayer stop him from doing his duties.
He clasps Perceval’s hand one last time, and the young man’s calluses match his own. Gawain lets himself look at Perceval’s eyes for just a moment, and the brightness there has dimmed, quieted down, and there are the beginnings of lines around his eyes.
Gawain moves forward and presses his lips to Perceval’s forehead, tries to pretend he doesn’t leave them there for a few seconds too long, tries to pretend he didn’t shiver gently at the rush of air Perceval let out in something that sounded suspiciously like a sigh.
“Deus te benedictat,” he whispers, and takes his leave.
word count 1,238
summary perceval is a boy, and gawain must not be tempted.
rating pg
notes this generally follows a storyline set down by Cretien de Troyes, in Perceval: the Story of the Grail. perceval does, in fact, ride into arthur's court on a horse. gawain features heavily. i modified chretien's perceval into less of a bumbling fool, but tried to keep some of his basic characteristics. the gawain presented is more along the lines of the gawain poet's (sir gawain and the green night, not chretien's version) and the way i wrote him accidentally ended up being a forerunner of galahad, but i think it still works in arthurian canon. if anyone has a bone to pick regarding the characterization/"historical" accuracy, i'm always up for a good arthur discussion, feel free to friend my personal journal and we'll have some fun.
When Perceval comes to court, he rides his horse into the entry hall and Gawain can only blink his bewilderment. It’s not the boy’s audacity that shocks him -stranger things have happened, Gawain knows- but that he’s still such a boy, with pale, unmarred skin and strands of light hair catching on his eyelashes. Skinny, so that when he moves to dismount, his sleeve is pulled up and Gawain can see the delicate bones in his wrist.
Kay leans over. “God save us,” he grunted, taking a swig of mead, and although Gawain does not like Kay -he pretends, though, the Lord knows he tries- he privately thinks the seneschal is right.
--
Perceval comes back to court wearing vermillion armour, and Gawain moves forward to shake the boy’s hand, determinedly telling himself it was only a show of courtesy, only what a good knight should do -and he is a good knight, God help him, the best- and not because he wants to feel the delicate bones in Perceval’s hand move under his grip.
He’s too distracted by the brightness in Perceval’s eyes to register much about his hand until later, as he opened and closed his own fist, feeling the calluses on his palm and cataloging the smoothness of Perceval’s skin, another layer of his youth.
--
Something twists deep in Gawain’s gut as he watches his uncle make Perceval a knight. The protests sit on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out at any moment, and so Gawain keeps his lips tightly sealed, not even parting them to sooth his parched throat. Only Kay notices how tightly his hands are twisted together behind his back as they all rise.
--
Gawain makes the sign of the cross, goes down on his right knee, and closes his eyes, the prayers spilling from his lips like a second language- and they are, they are his second language, his second skin. They are what he hides behind; they are what made him the world’s greatest knight. It is, Gawain believes, his punishment, to have to bear the weight of one thousand men. It makes his heart heavy and forces lines onto his face.
As he rises, he glimpses Perceval slipping into the chapel, and Gawain straightens quickly, moving to leave. He doesn’t make it to the door.
“You’ve been here a while,” Perceval murmurs, his voice clear and high, and Gawain swallows hard, trying to figure out the sudden lightness in his chest.
“Have you?”
Perceval shrugs, the action so boyish that Gawain wants to have words with Arthur for knighting him. For ruining him, for although the boy does not know it, he will one day take up the cares Gawain himself carries. His skin will wrinkle and his voice will change and he will bear the burden of one thousand men, and it isn’t a burden Gawain would wish on anyone.
“I’ve been here long enough.”
Gawain chooses not to press, and instead clasps the boy’s hand in his own. This time he feels the bones clearly, the spindly fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist, not letting go even as Gawain moves to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead and whisper “Deus te benedictat.”
--
Perceval leaves, determined, Gawain knows, to prove himself, to find glory. It makes Gawain’s chest tighten to think of such youth -purity- being ravaged by the world of knighthood, but he knows it is not his place to say anything, and so he remains silent. He takes up his own quest, to restore purity to his own name, because it’s all he has.
--
“ Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”
The Latin rolls off of Gawain’s tongue as easily as it ever does, and the dew of the grass is cool against his knees, covered not in armour but in soft cloth. He presses his lips together in silence for a moment before rising, shaking his limbs gently to ease his sore muscles. His camp is at the side of a hill and from his vantage point he can see the sun begin to rise, glowing gold.
Perceval’s hand on his shoulder startles Gawain, but he turns to clasp the young knight’s hand as gently as ever. Perceval is not as much of a boy now, Gawain sees, and it saddens him to feel the calluses on Perceval’s palm. He ignores the heat the pools in his belly as he feels the muscles of Perceval’s forearm shift, the skin stretched over them tightly, littered with scars, darker now.
“I messed up,” Perceval says with no preamble, and his voice sounds broken, and suddenly he is a child again, more of a child than he was when Gawain first saw him. “I missed my chance, and. It’s done, there’s no going back, I’ll never find it again.”
Gawain knows it’s not a comfort at all, but that doesn’t stop the word from rolling off his tongue, just like his prayers. “The Lord has His plan for you.”
--
“Why do you spend so much time praying?”
If Gawain was Kay, he would have forced Perceval to return to court by now. Luckily for both of them, Gawain is not Kay, although he sometimes -privately- wishes otherwise. Gawain takes a minute to answer, and Perceval does not press; it is another sign of his growth.
“Because it is all I can do,” Gawain finally replies, twisting a blade of grass between his fingers. “Because I am God’s vassal, as are you, as is Arthur, and it is all I can do.”
--
But Gawain is not pure, he knows -God knows it too, he is sure- and he can’t help watching the corded muscles of Perceval’s back as he stretches, removes his tunic, jumps into the stream to cool off in the afternoon heat. It is only the boyish smile that still adorns his face that stops Gawain from jumping in after him, and while a lesser man would say he escaped Fate, Gawain knows that Fate spared him, Fate gave him that glimpse of the smile that made the tightness in his chest ease and stopped him from throwing caution to the winds. Gawain knows that, left to his own devices, he would not be God’s vassal, but Satan’s.
So Gawain leaves nothing to chance and packs up his camp the next day. He has his own quest to fulfill, his own dignity to restore. He has to serve Arthur in every way that he can, he must repay his uncle for everything that had been given to him. He must not let the way Perceval smiled at him or touched his shoulder while he knelt at prayer stop him from doing his duties.
He clasps Perceval’s hand one last time, and the young man’s calluses match his own. Gawain lets himself look at Perceval’s eyes for just a moment, and the brightness there has dimmed, quieted down, and there are the beginnings of lines around his eyes.
Gawain moves forward and presses his lips to Perceval’s forehead, tries to pretend he doesn’t leave them there for a few seconds too long, tries to pretend he didn’t shiver gently at the rush of air Perceval let out in something that sounded suspiciously like a sigh.
“Deus te benedictat,” he whispers, and takes his leave.