Indecent proposals?
Who: Mordred, Guinevere
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Word count: 389
Rating: PG-13
Dedicated to mhari , with love.
Arthur was gone. Guinevere stood at the window, daydreaming - what to do now? Her lord accross the Channel and her nephew now as her warden. She sat on the chaise, thougthful, unhappy and distraught.
She did not wish for her husband to die. She did not wish for Lancelot to die. For moments of weakness, the country was torn in fire and blood.
Tears. Silent and dignified, even for her, stray on her cheeks, and she does not wipe them as she blames herself endlessly for the unfolding events.
There is a knock at the door - she does not stir, and it is the lady in waiting who opens it, only a crack.
“I would see Her Majesty, please.”
Mordred. There is a mix of fear and glee, a sort of strange hopefulness mixed with dread. Mordred. She looks back at the lady in waiting, nods silently.
“My Lady. Will you not eat?” His tone is remarkably pleasant, despite the underlying annoyance.
“I will not, please you, Sir Mordred.” She replies quietly, she does not look back at him.
“It will not be said that the Queen of Britain perished of starvation on my watch, my Lady.” She does not reply for a time, only cries.
What does it matter, when she has caused already so much strife?
“Would you instead prefer I be burned at the stake, Sir Knight?” She murmurs it with underlying hatred. If only he and Agravaine had let sleeping dragons lie.
I would prefer to be King, is what, she almost expects him to reply.
“I would not,” he snaps. “But I would you ended your theatrical effects, and behaved like the Queen you are.”
She turns at last, shows him her tears. “There is little of a Queen for me to remain, Mordred.”
“Perhaps with another King....” the tone is almost a suggestion.
She shakes her head in response. “I would not, my nephew.”
He bristles at the reminder, becomes a bit harsher in tone. “It was not a request.”
She looks at him with wide eyes, is bewildered by this. “Then what was it, Mordred?”
“It was a fact, Guinevere.”
She sighs, says nothing for a bit.
“Leave me to think on it, if you please,” she says at long last. “I am weary and unable to decide.”
He bows, stiffly, and goes.
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Word count: 389
Rating: PG-13
Dedicated to mhari , with love.
Arthur was gone. Guinevere stood at the window, daydreaming - what to do now? Her lord accross the Channel and her nephew now as her warden. She sat on the chaise, thougthful, unhappy and distraught.
She did not wish for her husband to die. She did not wish for Lancelot to die. For moments of weakness, the country was torn in fire and blood.
Tears. Silent and dignified, even for her, stray on her cheeks, and she does not wipe them as she blames herself endlessly for the unfolding events.
There is a knock at the door - she does not stir, and it is the lady in waiting who opens it, only a crack.
“I would see Her Majesty, please.”
Mordred. There is a mix of fear and glee, a sort of strange hopefulness mixed with dread. Mordred. She looks back at the lady in waiting, nods silently.
“My Lady. Will you not eat?” His tone is remarkably pleasant, despite the underlying annoyance.
“I will not, please you, Sir Mordred.” She replies quietly, she does not look back at him.
“It will not be said that the Queen of Britain perished of starvation on my watch, my Lady.” She does not reply for a time, only cries.
What does it matter, when she has caused already so much strife?
“Would you instead prefer I be burned at the stake, Sir Knight?” She murmurs it with underlying hatred. If only he and Agravaine had let sleeping dragons lie.
I would prefer to be King, is what, she almost expects him to reply.
“I would not,” he snaps. “But I would you ended your theatrical effects, and behaved like the Queen you are.”
She turns at last, shows him her tears. “There is little of a Queen for me to remain, Mordred.”
“Perhaps with another King....” the tone is almost a suggestion.
She shakes her head in response. “I would not, my nephew.”
He bristles at the reminder, becomes a bit harsher in tone. “It was not a request.”
She looks at him with wide eyes, is bewildered by this. “Then what was it, Mordred?”
“It was a fact, Guinevere.”
She sighs, says nothing for a bit.
“Leave me to think on it, if you please,” she says at long last. “I am weary and unable to decide.”
He bows, stiffly, and goes.