This is a masquerade
Who : Guinevere, Mordred
Fandom : Arthuriana
Word Count : 447
Rating : PG-16
She was again, in that same seat where he had found her the first time. Her tears were dry, now.
“Well?” It was short, curt, almost demanding.
She did not answer him, looking away, still, over the landscape. Lancelot. Arthur. Her heart still burned for them both. Mordred moved, fast like a snake, a hand clasping on her wrist.
“I will have my answer,” he murmured, both a threat and a caress.
“And what will you, if I refuse you?” she said it quietly, tiredly.
“What do I know? Did my father not have his share of cares with you?” Another veiled threat, barely a whisper. She looked at him, sedately, shivering, a little.
“And if I told you that after all my sins, I do not wish to add incest to the list?” She spat out, suddenly, in an unexpected fit of character.
His hold on her wrist tightened significantly. “And if I told you that I want you?” His voice was husky, something new and odd, in his dark-haired features.
“Then I would tell you that you are mistaken,” she murmured softly, but the remainder of her protest was sealed by a kiss.
It was a demanding kiss, something powerful and raw, passionate, not gentle and respectful like Arthur, not passionate and loving like Lancelot. It was other. It was darker. Something in it was desperate, and she gave in to that, almost unknowingly, kissing him in return before she could think better of it.
He started to laugh in the kiss, a cruel, cold laughter until he pushed her away, roughly, and she stumbled back into her chair.
“So my father did marry a slut. A barren, honorless slut.” His lips took on a cruel curl, and he turned away.
“Make ready. Our wedding is come a few days.”
She slumped in the chair, dejected, and cried long into the night.
The ceremony took place, and she went through with it in a daze. One might have thought that she was absent in spirit through it all, as even at the moment of consent one had to prompt her to respond. In a daze, still, she walked to the nuptial chamber. There, she sat on the bed without removing even her veil.
“And what now, of this masquerade, my lord husband?” The irony in her voice was thick like rancid butter.
“Now, I consumate,” he murmured, his voice thick again. She shivered. It wasn't all dread, much to her shame.
“I shall not enjoy it,” she replied soberly, determinedly, perhaps more for herself than for him.
To her greatest shame, she did.
Fandom : Arthuriana
Word Count : 447
Rating : PG-16
She was again, in that same seat where he had found her the first time. Her tears were dry, now.
“Well?” It was short, curt, almost demanding.
She did not answer him, looking away, still, over the landscape. Lancelot. Arthur. Her heart still burned for them both. Mordred moved, fast like a snake, a hand clasping on her wrist.
“I will have my answer,” he murmured, both a threat and a caress.
“And what will you, if I refuse you?” she said it quietly, tiredly.
“What do I know? Did my father not have his share of cares with you?” Another veiled threat, barely a whisper. She looked at him, sedately, shivering, a little.
“And if I told you that after all my sins, I do not wish to add incest to the list?” She spat out, suddenly, in an unexpected fit of character.
His hold on her wrist tightened significantly. “And if I told you that I want you?” His voice was husky, something new and odd, in his dark-haired features.
“Then I would tell you that you are mistaken,” she murmured softly, but the remainder of her protest was sealed by a kiss.
It was a demanding kiss, something powerful and raw, passionate, not gentle and respectful like Arthur, not passionate and loving like Lancelot. It was other. It was darker. Something in it was desperate, and she gave in to that, almost unknowingly, kissing him in return before she could think better of it.
He started to laugh in the kiss, a cruel, cold laughter until he pushed her away, roughly, and she stumbled back into her chair.
“So my father did marry a slut. A barren, honorless slut.” His lips took on a cruel curl, and he turned away.
“Make ready. Our wedding is come a few days.”
She slumped in the chair, dejected, and cried long into the night.
The ceremony took place, and she went through with it in a daze. One might have thought that she was absent in spirit through it all, as even at the moment of consent one had to prompt her to respond. In a daze, still, she walked to the nuptial chamber. There, she sat on the bed without removing even her veil.
“And what now, of this masquerade, my lord husband?” The irony in her voice was thick like rancid butter.
“Now, I consumate,” he murmured, his voice thick again. She shivered. It wasn't all dread, much to her shame.
“I shall not enjoy it,” she replied soberly, determinedly, perhaps more for herself than for him.
To her greatest shame, she did.