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31_days2013-02-02 08:20 pm
theplastersaint.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2013-02-02 08:20 pm
[February 2] [Arthurian Legend] Passiontide
Title: Passiontide
Day/Theme: 2 At least three of my friends are completely mad
Series: Arthurian Legend
Character/Pairing: Mordred/Galahad
Rating: PG
Percival is dead, that much has been gotten out of Bors' ramblings, though it is unclear what killed him. Mordred presumes thirst, at the end, but Bors is beyond any sort of questioning.
And Galahad.
Galahad has e'er been blond, tan, and hale. Now he is sickly, sallow, little more than skin stretched too tight over brittle bones. He has yet to come out of his swoon, though he cries out of blood, of stigmatas, of all things foolish and holy. Lancelot, ne'er caring of his son while he lived, fusses over him now as he lays dying, pottering about with holy men and barbers and relics.
Mordred cannot stand it and so he commanders the sick-room, consciously aping Arthur at his most imperial. He tells the great du Lac himself to go to the devil, and Lancelot aways, presumably to the queen and the comfort of her skirts as he rages at the temerity of the king's bastard. The holy men and barbers depart thereafter, and Guinevere herself comes but once to see her lover's child and stays only as long as propriety demands.
“My lady,” Mordred says as she enters the room. He sits by Galahad's bedside, a psalter open on his lap.
"I have offered a great many masses," she says to Mordred, almost defensively, as if priests praying for Galahad's soul can somehow make up for her great, seething jealousy of the idea of Galahad.
There is a delicate pause as she waits for Mordred to say something, but he does not. The silence stretches on, too long, and so she says, “I had not known you were friends.”
She already speaks of Galahad in past tense.
“Someone must see this farce through,” Mordred says.
Day/Theme: 2 At least three of my friends are completely mad
Series: Arthurian Legend
Character/Pairing: Mordred/Galahad
Rating: PG
Percival is dead, that much has been gotten out of Bors' ramblings, though it is unclear what killed him. Mordred presumes thirst, at the end, but Bors is beyond any sort of questioning.
And Galahad.
Galahad has e'er been blond, tan, and hale. Now he is sickly, sallow, little more than skin stretched too tight over brittle bones. He has yet to come out of his swoon, though he cries out of blood, of stigmatas, of all things foolish and holy. Lancelot, ne'er caring of his son while he lived, fusses over him now as he lays dying, pottering about with holy men and barbers and relics.
Mordred cannot stand it and so he commanders the sick-room, consciously aping Arthur at his most imperial. He tells the great du Lac himself to go to the devil, and Lancelot aways, presumably to the queen and the comfort of her skirts as he rages at the temerity of the king's bastard. The holy men and barbers depart thereafter, and Guinevere herself comes but once to see her lover's child and stays only as long as propriety demands.
“My lady,” Mordred says as she enters the room. He sits by Galahad's bedside, a psalter open on his lap.
"I have offered a great many masses," she says to Mordred, almost defensively, as if priests praying for Galahad's soul can somehow make up for her great, seething jealousy of the idea of Galahad.
There is a delicate pause as she waits for Mordred to say something, but he does not. The silence stretches on, too long, and so she says, “I had not known you were friends.”
She already speaks of Galahad in past tense.
“Someone must see this farce through,” Mordred says.