Las challenge 6 - voting
LAS Challenge Six Voting
VOTING RULES:
Please READ carefully before voting, thank you.
- Participants are encouraged to vote, however you may NOT vote for your own submission or ask others to vote for yours.
- Please read each entry to vote.
- Vote for your three favourite pieces, and please be sure to include feedback for each one. Please bear in mind the following point allocation while voting:
- a first place vote gets 3 pts;
- a second place vote gets 2 pts;
- a third place vote gets 1 pt.
- That said, with a view to being able to give each participant some feedback, reviews of individual stories are very much encouraged. If you liked the story, or noticed room for improvement, please let the author know!
- Use the form in the textbox below to vote. In "general comments", include any feedback for the stories you didn't vote for by indicating the number, followed by your review.
- Voting should be based around quality only: Was the prompt met? Did the author follow the Challenge-Specific Guidelines? How is the spelling, grammar and punctuation? Did the piece hold your attention?
*Guidelines from thefuturequeen's LAS Competition.
VOTING FORM
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The prompt was: I am bound to you by a chain of iron. Unbendable, unbreakable. Even death shall not free my soul from yours.
Voting closes Wednesday, March 23, 2011 @ 11:59 PM Eastern Standard Time (World Clock)
#1. Anger, Magic and the Art of Compromise (PG-13, 898 words)
“Don’t you even think about Arthur Pendragon,” she scolded him.
“I was not,” he lied with the insistence of a young child.
Gwen squinted then glanced down at her hands hanging by her side. Arthur etched them behind her skirts to her back. “And don’t you dare touch my arse either.”
“Guinevere, I touch your arse all the time,” he answered brandishing an impish grin. Gwen was not amused. She chucked his large hands onto his hips, the chains jingle-jangled with the swift moment and echoed around their bed chambers.
“It’s not the same. Those are my hands and I do not permit you to use them
in any way untoward on my person.”
Arthur balked at her rebuke. “Well, you better be careful with the way you’re swinging my arms around. You might hit something important,” he tossed pointing at his lower body.
Gwen gasped in a mixture of horror and shock. “Ah…I would never even think to do such a thing.”
“But you have no problem assuming that I would?”
“You’re a man. You can hardly keep your hands off me when you’re in your body let alone now that you’re comfortably traipsing around in mine.”
“I’m not traipsing and I don’t know why you’re angry at me. Merlin put us in these chains.”
“Yes, to give you a chance to see someone else’s point of view for just once, you stubborn…clotpole,” she yelled.
“Don’t call me that. That’s what he calls me and I’m your husband not some raper trying to take advantage of your body in any way. And I do see other people’s points of view,” he added raising his finger in the air. “It just so happens that sometimes I don’t agree with them or yours right now for that matter. I think I’m allowed that right.”
Gwen crossed Arthur’s arm across his broad chest and shrugged his massive shoulders. He was right and in truth she’d already forgotten what they’d been quarrelling about for the past week. She couldn’t find a word to defend her opinion or deflect his. It must be a side effect of having her mind transferred into his body by Merlin’s magic for this much time, she thought. It would also explain why her normally bumbling husband could now piece together his arguments in such convincing fashion.
Arthur stepped in close. He took her small hands and rubbed his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Guinevere. Please forgive me. I don’t even know why we’re arguing, but I don’t want to do it anymore. I just want us back to where we were, where we’ve always been.”
He traced his face with the tips of her fingers. It tingled - his skin and her senses. When he approached her for a kiss, she felt his arms fall away and wrap around her waist. For a moment, it didn’t feel as if she was the one in control of his movements. Arthur, while in her body, deepened their kiss, introducing a tongue and narrowing the space between them even more so. She gets the fluttering in his stomach same as she always does when she’s in her body and he kisses her this way. That was about all that felt the same because now she began experiencing new sensations, his sensations.
Arthur’s body warms around her. His skin burns underneath the growing excitement that she’s now giving him in such a new way. There’s a sudden shudder when he curls her hips against his. In that instant, she feels something entirely unique: his arousal. Wow, she thought, this was…different and damn good.
Not a moment later and he scoops her body away from his. Without a thought she, using his man hands staggered after her. “No,” she told him staring at herself. Now she really understood why he found it so hard to stop at times during their courting.
“Sorry,” he said. “It felt a little strange.”
“It did? How?” she asked, equally as intrigued with what he might have experienced as she was with what she’d felt…still feels.
“It’s hard to explain,” he said and offered nothing but a blank stare and a bit of lip chewing. She recognized the look of contemplation, even while he worked through it using her face. He sighs. “Gwen, I really don’t think this is exactly what Merlin had in mind when he came up with this idiotic idea.”
“I suppose not,” she said. Feeling a little embarrassed. She tried her
best to hide the shame with the unfamiliar muscles of his brows and eyes.
“I forgive you too and I’m sorry too, Arthur. I want us to go back to where we always are. And yes, you do not always have to end in an agreement with someone to have actually understood their point to begin with.”
He smiled with her lips and moved in close once more. She embraced her small body in his again. “I love you, Guinevere,” he said.
“I love you too, Arthur.”
They held one another for a while longer with fingers intertwined. Their slow, rhythmic breathing began to mimic the rise and fall of the others' chest. “How long do you think before we go back,” she asked him.
Arthur answered, sounding not at all certain, “Probably by morning. I can’t imagine what we’ll do until then.”
Gwen smirked inwardly. “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” she said.
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#2. And Believe (PG-13 for implied violence, 1200 words)
They had been very young still, within the second year of his reign. Everything seemed so golden back then - not without difficulty, certainly, but full of promise and potential. Burdens lessened by idealism and the knowledge that what they were doing would soon set everything right.
They went to a lake, surface flat and placid and reflecting perfectly the blue sky and the mountains and hills just beyond. They didn’t sit and talk and fret and plan about what was to come . . . or even sit and talk and ask each other they were doing, and make sure that the other was all right. They sat and walked in turns, in the warmth of the fading sun, and were silent - merely listened to the distant birds and the way the breeze rustled through the surrounding treetops, how the gentle, tiny waves lapped against the smooth pebbles of the shore. She took off her slippers and waded into the water, skirts hiked to her knees. He’d joined her a moment later, scoffing at her sudden silliness, but quieted soon, watching the sky turn by shades into the warm oranges and pinks of sunset, casting the snow-capped hills and dark trees into a bronze glow - and finally the water itself, and as its chilled calmness break and whirl against and around their legs.
How like heaven it is, she had finally whispered, wondrously, and he took her hand, still fisted around her lifted skirts, and squeezed in silent agreement.
*
Arthur jerks awake, hissing.
“Shh.”
“God.” Having no other choice but to comply, he lies back down - feels the damp wood beneath his back. He squints. It’s very hard to see in the darkness, and his head is spinning something fierce. It feels as if the entire world is rocking. But he peers up anyway, struggling. Dusk, the stars sparkling above him. “Guinevere?”
“I’m here.” Fingers grip his own, squeeze tight. He relaxes, closes his eyes.
Then his eyelids fly open, as he remembers, struggles to sit up again. “Are you - ”
“I’m fine,” she reassures. “Just bruised.”
Her face swims into view. One eyelid is swollen shut, her lip split. Blood cakes her chin.
Arthur reaches up, finds that it’s difficult and every muscle in his body screams at him to stop. But he does it anyway, touches her cheek, moves the grey curl behind her ear. She grasps his wrist and holds on.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
He swallows. His throat is sore, more than just parched. He recognizes the signs of a fever. “I am, too.”
*
They were to meet Mordred's forces at Camlann. One last, final stand, against the Saxons that were beguiled by his false promises and honeyed tactics.
Gwen had known the odds were long, near impossible. But she had always been their constant, their ever-fixed star - the one who shined brightly, but quietly, from a distance. And so she sat upon her horse, in her own mail and armor, and listened to Arthur's fine speech and told one of her own - how they would fight, and they would win, that all hope was not lost, could never be.
*
Gwen blinks, sits up. Darkness and stillness surround her and makes her shiver. She cannot see anything, save for the torchlight streaming in through the window. She lies back down onto the hard ground, tucks her head underneath Arthur's chin.
“Are you all right?” she whispers.
“Yes.” He kisses her forehead, draws his arms around her tightly, easily. “Go to sleep. I'm here.”
She shivers again. Something isn't right, she realizes, but she's so tired, and Arthur is at least here, and that's all that matters.
*
Everything was a sea of smoke and fighting bodies. Blood. Screaming and the clash of metal renting the air. No matter what they did, every trick in the book, every battle formation. It wasn’t enough. Not without Merlin, scurried away by Morgana somewhere - they’d both disappeared into a fiery ball of light midway through the battle, leaving even more chaos in their wake.
And bodies. So many bodies.
It was too much. They'd become separated. And then suddenly - suddenly, there was a terrible cry, and the horns of triumph blared in the fetid air, and it was announced, for all still living, to hear.
*
He feels her hover above him, brush his hair off his forehead, tender and sweet. He can remember the first time she did it, the way he had felt such comfort, knowing that her gesture was given from the heart, simple and sure and full of faith.
“D-d'you . . . s'ppose -”
“Arthur. Shh. You need your rest. Please, just rest.”
“Merlin. D'you s'ppose he's still alive?”
“Yes, Arthur, yes,” she croons. “Have hope.”
Arthur opens his eyes fully. His wife is sitting before him, but not of forty-some-years, with her dark hair greying and laugh lines on her face - but the young girl he used to know. “Ah,” he realizes, choking. The battle. The fight with Mordred. How that sniveling little bastard skewered him through. But here - how did he get here? His men - the Knights - oh god, Gwen -
He struggles to sit up in the skiff, but finds that he cannot.
“Don't worry,” she whispers, leaning over him. “Close your eyes. I'm here.”
He squints at her, uncomprehending. But he does so anyway - what other choice does he have? - and reaches for her hand.
*
When the guards come for her, she makes sure to dry the tears she had shed upon realizing last night had been a dream - to stand straight and tall, to not whimper and cry out when they shackle her, though the chains are very heavy. Her wounds sting but she will not give them the satisfaction.
Oh Arthur . . . She had never gotten to say goodbye, never had seen the body - although she had heard the guards whisper that it's gone missing. Perhaps, perhaps there's still hope . . . but none for her, not anymore.
Outside, Mordred's sneering voice rings through the silence. She pays no heed, not even to the black-hooded figure waiting for her on the platform, his axe sharply glinting. Mordred's guards bring her up the steps, pushes her towards the block. She stumbles a bit, but kneels down, gathers her hair, and pulls the mass of curls to the side. Her chains clink.
She lays her neck down upon the block. She can see the grain of the wooden planks of the platform, the whorls and swirls. Notes, calmly with an odd sort of quirk, that they remind her of whirling eddies - the kind that swirl around your naked feet after you’ve stepped into the cool water of a lake. Everything is quiet, except the swish of cloth, as if someone has raised something.
She can almost feel the press of a gentle hand around hers.
Softly, she smiles.
Guinevere closes her eyes.
*
How like heaven.
-End-
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#3. Stolen Away (PG, 1134 words)
He left in the dead of night, because he didn’t trust Merlin or any of the knights to allow him to go unimpeded. He wouldn’t have risked taking a horse at all if he could’ve reached the meeting place in the space of a few hours, but the spot Morgana had chosen was beyond the forest, to the streams they had swam in as children. Her instructions had been explicit. If he wanted Gwen, he was to come alone.
In spite of everything that had transpired between them, he had to trust Morgana was a woman of her word. And he had to act in the same manner, or risk losing Gwen forever.
The pound, pound, pound of the hoofbeats against the spring-softened earth echoed in the thud of his heart. If he was honest, his heart-or really anything-had not been normal since that awful night Gwen failed to come to his chambers. They’d been so careful about their assignations, primarily because he did not want Camelot or the court to see her as a courtesan rather than their future queen, and so he’d momentarily assumed she couldn’t escape unseen. But when he decided to go to her instead, he’d found an empty house and that dreadful note from Morgana, mocking his lack of guards on the woman he supposedly loved. Though they tore apart the kingdom, Gwen was nowhere to be found.
His fault. All of it. No matter what Merlin might say. He was the one who kept harboring hope Morgana would give up this needless feud. He was the one who’d left Gwen so unprotected. It was his responsibility to fix it, the consequences be damned.
A light rain started to fall as he cleared the edge of the forest, but he barely felt the cold water dripping down the back of his neck. The chill was less than nothing compared to the hollowness Gwen’s absence had carved out in his heart. Until the second note arrived, he’d charged through the days and nights in search of her, ignoring the worried looks and the concerned comments that came at him from all angles. Few understood. His advisors kept bringing up mindless business to distract him. Gaius tried getting him to take a sleeping draught. Even Merlin argued he wouldn’t do Gwen any good if he collapsed, but none of it mattered because Gwen was still gone, every minute that passed his world that much darker.
As he crested the knoll overlooking the streams, the patter of droplets hitting the water’s surface picked up the reverberations of his pulse. He reined in his horse, peering through the murky darkness, but the night was too effective a shroud. All he could make out was the black ribbons of water slicing through the ground.
“Morgana!”
His voice rasped from disuse. It had been days since he’d strung more than a few words together, longer since than they’d been anything but barked orders. Even the rain drowned him out, and he cleared his throat to try again.
This time, desperation sharpened his tone to cut it through the rising wind. But if she was there to hear him, she gave no response.
Sliding from his perch, he looped the reins around a nearby stump, all the while scanning the vicinity for any sign of her. His stomach churned. The few bites of dinner he’d managed to get down burned a path back into his gullet, ready to be expelled. He gritted his teeth against the sourness and crept toward the edge of the nearest stream, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, just in case.
“I’ve come alone. I’ve done exactly as you asked. So face me, Morgana. Tell me where Gwen is.”
A woman’s laughter drifted from over his shoulder. Arthur whipped around, drawing his sword at the same time, only to be met by the yawning darkness.
“You think this is a game?” His gaze never stopped moving, seeking out every shadow in hopes of ferreting her location. “What more could you possibly want from me? You already have Gwen. She is everything.”
He feared he knew the answer to that particular question already, but still, Morgana didn’t appear. Frustration chipped away at his patience, and his steps grew agitated, shortening and quickening as he prowled along the bank. What if this was another ruse? What if he’d been wrong all along and Merlin and the others had been right? What if-
And then he saw it, a flutter of movement closer to the line of trees. Keeping his sword drawn, he headed for it, his heart lodging in his throat when more flickers revealed a dress caught in the wind, flapping wetly around the form of a bound woman against a tree.
“Gwen!”
He raced toward her. At last, at last, and she filled his vision, all he wanted to see even though it tore him up to notice how tight the ropes were, how much the gag she wore cut into her cheeks. Her eyes went wide at the sight of him, but rather than joy, fear filled her gaze, and she began shaking her head violently, unformed cries emanating from her throat.
“It’s all right,” he soothed as he came before her. “I’ve come to take you home.” He reached for the gag, frowning at the way she tried to twist her head out of his reach. “Is it Morgana? Do you-”
“Don’t, it’s a-”
The rest of her words disappeared at the graze of his fingertips over her wet cheeks. As he stood there, helpless, the familiar tawny glow of her skin turned to a mottled gray, the softness replaced by unyielding stone. Even her dress solidified, the folds of her skirt forever trapped in their dance.
He forgot the rain, and the wind, and the cold seeping into his bones. It was a trick, it had to be, magic meant to torment him. She was a part of him and always would be. Morgana’s magic had never been capable of destroying his love. No matter how many times she tried.
His fingers worked of their own accord, first to pull the gag free, then to slice through the ropes binding Gwen’s motionless form to the trunk. Sightless eyes stared at the heavens when he caught her from crashing, while a piece of parchment fluttered from her stone hands.
He pocketed it without reading it. This was not the time for another of Morgana’s notes. He had a long journey ahead of him if he hoped to get Gwen back to Camelot.
Magic had stolen her away from him the moment he touched her. If it took until his dying breath to do so, he would find the magic to bring her back.
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#4. 'Till Death (PG-13, 1199 words)
Warning: Reference to an injury from an attack.
Note: The creature is a peluda.
Arthur shut the door to his chambers-- their chambers-- afraid to let himself hope as he eyed the small bottle Merlin had just given him. It was not the first potion Gaius had concocted, and none of the others had changed her condition in the slightest. The flecks shimmering throughout the purple liquid rendered redundant Merlin's warning that this potion was different and his hesitant explanation as to why; the particles almost looked like tiny lights, the way they reflected the candle flames. Perhaps they were tiny lights. Still, Arthur's attention was not on the contents of the vial or what they implied. It was all directed to the woman laying in the bed, terrifyingly still, as she had been since he placed her there four days ago. His wife.
Guinevere.
He returned to the chair by her side, which he had occupied almost ceaselessly, leaving it only to sleep next to her when he could no longer remain awake. Dropping into it, he took her hand once more. In a moment, he would administer the potion; but, after so many disappointments with the others, he was reluctant to get his expectations up again.
Of all days for them to have been attacked, why did it have to be that one?
Prior to the wedding, Arthur had not felt any of the nervousness that apparently was common amongst grooms. He was too pleased to be calm, but he felt not a hint of doubt or anxiety. Standing at the front of the Great Hall, he was a bit jittery, only because he wanted to get on with it. He wanted Guinevere to be standing with him, the vows exchanged, and them to be man and wife. Now.
Then, the doors at the end of the hall opened for her, their eyes met across the space, and a satisfaction unlike anything he had ever known settled over him. It deepened throughout the brief ceremony, and as he kissed her, he felt their oaths settle into his soul. Most royal marriages were little more than a contract, but this was a true bond. He had occasionally wondered why his father never remarried, yet since falling in love with Guinevere, he had understood it better. Now that she was his wife, he understood completely. It was not merely words or a gesture, nor simply a legal action. He was hers forever, for all time, in this life and the next.
When the windows exploded into the room and a large beast swept in, breathing fire, it was difficult to immediately redirect his attention from her. Pandemonium ensued as he unsheathed his sword and rushed at the creature. It was large, the size of an enormous ox, and was covered in a shaggy fur the color of old moss. Attacks seemed to bounce off of it without effect, except for one: it became agitated, its fur stiffening into quills. By then, the hall was deserted by any who were not trained to fight, who knew when danger was imminent and how to take cover. Except, there was no cover at the front of the room, the thrones having been removed to accommodate the wedding.
Time slowed to a crawl as Arthur tried to reach Guinevere, to act as her shield; he could not move fast enough. The quills that shot in his direction did not make it through the multiple layers of clothing and armor he was wearing; yet, she had no such defenses, her light confection of a gown offering no resistance against the onslaught. He caught her as she collapsed, staring in horror at the half-dozen arrowlike protrusions dotting her dress.
He had never felt so helpless in his life. A roar behind him brought his attention back to the malefactor, and he quickly, yet gently laid Guinevere down before swinging around, sword at the ready. The thing's tail was swinging at him, and their opposite movements resulted in a clean slice, severing the appendage and bringing the beast down.
While Arthur was glad to have dispatched it, he would more gladly trade his well-being for Guinevere's. He was later told that they were fortunate that the monster had not unleashed the quills at full force, which would have killed her on impact; beyond the poison they carried, they had only caused surface damage. The marks had already begun to heal, and would soon be gone altogether. However, while Gaius had managed to stop the spread of the venom within her body, he had not yet been able to extract it. Thus, she hovered in this limbo, the gown which Arthur had previously anticipated removing instead cut away to treat her wounds, the bridal bed become a sickbed.
She could not die. The world would not be complete without Guinevere in it, without her goodness. More selfishly, he would not be complete without her, without her love, her companionship, or her abiding support. He would not live if she did not. He might continue to breathe, eat, speak... but he would not truly survive losing her.
If this potion worked, he would ignore everything it meant. He would not care that his servant and friend had been using magic underneath his nose the entire time they had been associated. He would forgive the countless lies that had resulted, the sense of betrayal that would normally come of having been so thoroughly deceived. If this worked, he would reward what would otherwise have been severely punished.
If it did not work, he would not care enough to deal with it, anyway.
His heart pounding madly in apprehension, Arthur removed the cork from the vial. Elevating her head, he carefully tipped the contents of the small bottle between her lips, and then laid her back down. He watched tensely for any sign that it was working, desperately willing it to do so.
However, nothing happened. After so many other failures, he did not know why he felt this disappointment more keenly; yet, rationalization did not assuage his pain. Slumping back into his chair, he dropped his head on the coverlet beside her hand.
It took him a moment to notice the pale, blue light. His head shot up, but he could not see clearly through his tears. Impatiently wiping the moisture from his eyes, he was stunned to see Guinevere engulfed in a a pulsing glow. It began to ebb, leaving her fingers and toes first, then her arms and legs, finally moving up her throat; suddenly, she let out an extended sigh, a sparkling, purple cloud drifting from her mouth and dissipating before reaching the canopy.
In disbelief, he looked back down, just in time to see her blink and focus on him. "Arthur?" she asked, her voice a little hoarse from lack of use. Shifting, she winced. "What happened?"
"Lay still," he instructed, laying a hand gently on her shoulder as pure joy enveloped him, tempered only by the knowledge that she was aching from where the quills had pierced her skin. "You were wounded."
"The creature." Her worried gaze taking him in, she asked, "Are you harmed?"
He smiled warmly at her as his world became right again. "I'm fine."
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Skips exercised: dfriendly; wickedvampirate
* Thank you SO MUCH to those who submitted their entry for this sixth challenge.
* I hope I didn't mess up any of your fonts ie. italic fonts. I tried my best to keep your fonts. :D
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