Warm & Real & Bright | Guinevere & Alistair
Announcing Her Imperial Highness, Guinevere, the Princess Imperial of House Varmont, and Lady Foxe of Harburrow, accompanied by Lord Eoin Varmont!
Guinevere had hardly heard the announcement of her arrival to the party at large. Her face had settled into its usual serene and gentle facade, one bejeweled hand held aloft by a similarly stoic Eoin Varmont. Neither of them had spoken much beyond simple pleasantries to each other but Guinevere somewhat preferred it that way.
If she did not know much of him, there would be very little for her to dislike. After all, if she was being marched to her own doom, she would much prefer to create an image of Eoin to her own liking to make it all much more palatable. What did it matter that such an image would be suspiciously near to that of Lord Alistair Grey? No-one but Guinevere herself would be much the wiser...
The princess was covered head to toe in her father's imperial purple slashed through with whorls of gold, a haloed headpiece of gold with rays like the sun of her mother's family, and her gossamer cloak dotted with pearls and jewels as if to mimic the wine-dark sea that crashed just beyond the doors of the imperial palace. It also had been quite a joke for Guin to have requested a golden neckpiece, bracers and belt to be added to her attire.
To an unknowing eye it would seem just like another piece of Varmont frivolity. To Guinevere, it was a silent protest against the shackles her father had placed on her from the moment of her birth.
She gathered her skirts with a practiced gesture as Eoin led her down the steps and towards the table where her father sat holding court with Valentina Malconaire to pay their respects. Her eyes scoured the room looking for any sight of Alistair, but could not manage to find him amongst the crowds.
All for the best, I suppose... She thought. If I can entertain Father long enough for the wine to go to his head it shall be easier to slip away.
It did not take long for the swarm to descend upon the newly engaged couple. The night began to pass in a blur of hearty congratulations, in new glasses of wine being pressed into her hands even as she had barely gotten halfway through the last, in peals of her father's laughter and the scowl on Lady Dowager Malconaire's face.
She could hardly tell one person from another (especially as the wine began to rise to her head), but this was what all those years of lessons and practice were for, were they not? The pretty little bird in her beautiful golden cage smiling and singing for all to hear.
Guin did have to admit that Eoin was a fine enough dancer, of course. Roderick had insisted that they be allowed to open the dancing for the evening, and Eoin had moved with a pleasant grace that Guin had not accounted for. He still was not much of a conversationalist, unfortunately, instead seeming to always be glancing back towards the servant's quarters in a peculiar way.
Yet, when the dance came to an end, the princess smiled gently and nodded towards the fringes of the crowd.
"If you were looking to make an escape, now would perhaps be the best time, Lord Eoin. I will be fine alone and can make good enough excuses. Just remember to return before the evening is out. Father will want to see us together once more before we all retire."
The young lord smiled at her in something like appreciation before bowing slightly and disappearing amongst the throng.
The princess let out a soft sigh of relief. Finally something like peace.
She moved through the crowd herself, smiling and nodding, thanking and clasping the hands of those that had previously been too shy to approach her with warm words. Guin knew she was still looking for Alistair distantly in the back of her mind. He had promised her... Where in the bloody hell was he?
After what felt like another eternity of looping in and out of the many halls and public rooms of Malconaire, Alistair was still not to be found.
With a sigh, the young princess plucked another glass of wine from a nearby tray and wandered towards the last place to look - a large balcony just beyond the main hall hidden behind a set of doors covered in ivy that Guinevere had discovered it a year or two ago at Sonya's nameday party. It was unlikely that he would be there, of course, but there was nowhere left to turn, and she was not quite keen on returning to the overpowering warmth of Astaria's happiness for the Imperial Princess.
Besides, if she really had been abandoned by her protectorate wolf - not that Guin begrudged him when she had acted so foolishly towards him earlier that afternoon - at least she could look up at the stars and see the fox and the wolf chasing each other across the sky.
And yet... And yet...
"Alistair?" Guin said quietly as she stepped through the doors and immediately recognized the man leaning against the balustrade.
Her heart leapt into her throat at the picture of it. The tall, handsome, grey wolf lord surrounded by stars, and stone, and bower as gentle music wafted from out the open windows. If Guinevere closed her eyes she could almost believe they were back in Harburrow at the Foxe Ball.
"You came... I was half concerned you had been taken hostage or called away to some battle." She smiled and came to rest beside him, her forearms leaning against the railing as well, wine glass in hand. "I would regret the loss of the dance I requested of you, but I do so enjoy receiving letters from you that perhaps it would have been a fair trade."
The princess took a small drink, a flush crossing her cheeks that could have been just the wine, but the fluttering in her chest spoke otherwise.
"But I am glad for it, that you are here... Though why have you sequestered yourself this way? I am sure there are many lovely ladies who would have danced with you, or gentlemen who would have loved to have spoken of the tourney." Guin teased, nudging him slightly with her shoulder. "Or are you here, much like myself, taking your leave to have a cool breath of silence?"
"I shall endeavor to remember," Guinevere had said. "That you are mine, just as I am yours." The words played in his head, a refrain that grew and danced, weaving with tendrils of thought again and again. It was not pleasure to think; it was not sadness to think. He took hope from it. He laughed at himself. Yet he could not forget it. Every hour he heard the sound, a chorus unending.
Blessedly, he did not have long to wait until he saw her again.
Alistair had been to Malconaire before, but sparingly. He'd wanted to know the place, and he'd wanted to know the man. Until then, he could not possibly allow himself respite for thinking Guin might be happy here. Only a brief knowledge of the man had proven more than enough to disabuse him of that notion. Cassimir Malconaire could never have made Guinevere Varmont happy. He had stopped coming. It did not matter that Sebastian, too, spent much time amongst these trees: should he ever rise to be emperor, he could wed all the Malcoanaire sisters if it pleased him, after all. Alistair did not trouble himself overmuch with any such concerns.
Though he'd spent but little time in this place, it had not taken him much time at all to discern that, though he had little business there, it was a truly magical place to be. He felt that again, as he alighted from his carriage at the entrance.
Lady Valentina was there, with her son and each of her daughters, a receiving line of pretty smiles and elegant -- if understated -- clothes, but Alistair hardly noted them at all as he passed through the curtain of foliage and beheld the castle, its twin trees that framed the doorway, and he stopped. He'd known before, when he'd seen it, that he'd seen something similar before. He hadn't realized, till this moment, where.
"Sir Alistair?" inquired Lady Valentina, pressing a footman forward to assist him. "Are you well?"
He hardly heard her. He swallowed hard, tearing his eyes from the doorway, and formed a smile he did not feel for the odious woman. "Forgive me, my lady. Your home is lovely. You must forgive me. I fear I was rather lost in the verdure."
Perhaps, he thought. She would be happier here than I imagined. It would certainly feel like home.
"A most agreeable pastime, my lord," supplied the youngest girl whose name, at that moment, escaped him, and he nodded a smile.
His gaze fell to her sister, the next older one. Was she not one he was meant to consider as a bride? She was half a child! He flushed and looked quickly away again.
No doubt they were all thinking Alistair rather an absent-minded old man. Suppressing a bemused smile, he walked towards the doorway, hearing the usual announcement of his names and titles as he passed. He passed through the door into the Great Hall where the famed Malconaire oak, said by some to be the largest in all the world, spread its tendril-like arms in canopy over all the room till one did not know where building ended and tree began. Yet even its roots were engaged, just as its branches, forming something that looked for all the world like a naturally occurring seat -- like a throne. And just as spectacular as Roderick's own Astairan palace, in its own way, Alistair thought distantly. Yet, he had no opportunity to think more deeply on this, as the doors were cast open again, a throng gathering between himself and them, so that he stood inside, looking out through the gateway that was the two entwined trees at the entrance. His heart half stopped.
He hardly heard her regalia of titles, or saw the stunning gown she wore, or even saw the young lord who clenched her hand. All he saw was her. Her face.
I have seen your face before, he thought. His stomach fell away. He could not draw breath. He was frozen, rooted as the trees to the spot where he stood. Yes. Yes, he'd seen her face before, not simply looked up Guinevere Varmont, but this precise moment, this precise expression. Yes, he'd seen her face before, glimpsed it within another band of twining trees, when he'd gone to Aella's Arch and made his offering, and asked to see the face of his truest love. He'd seen those bright eyes, half-dinted; he'd seen those round cheeks flushed; her pale skin almost pallid; he'd seen the cool upsweep of her golden locks. He'd seen unhappiness, even then, cloaked beneath the armor of certainly, and even then he'd felt a fissure score the surface of its heart. He'd not known how much deeper the crack would run to see her in the flesh like this.
All at once, he turned, pushing urgently through the throng out, away. He needed air. He needed stillness. He needed to think.
Alistair could not afterwards have said how long he'd stood ensconced beneath the trees and the stars, watching wolf and fox tumble together across the firmament. It was a physical ache in him, this hurt, and he clasped the rails as if for support. Was fate so cruel? He'd never heard of Aella's lovers failing to have their devotion returned, but perhaps fate had made an exception just for. im. It was, he thought, perhaps even crueler if it had not. When he thought of his ancestor and of hers, had they not been parted? And did prophecy not warn of dire ramifications should these two Houses ever come together again? No matter how he thought it through, he could not find an ending which would bring any happiness to either, in all of this mess.
It was a warm night, but Alistair was cold, too cold, and he gazed up at the stars as if they could send him any answers, but the heavens were mute, and he looked away.
A voice. He started. Her voice. His hands tightened upon the rail and slowly, slowly, he turned, schooling his countenance into something which he hoped showed normalcy.
"Pardon me." He swallowed. His throat was too tight. "I--It is a beautiful night. I must have lost track of the time."
She took up a position beside him and Alistair pressed his eyes closed, exhaled slowly. He cursed his younger self, his youthful impetuosity and curiosity. Why had he gone to the Arch, that day? Even then, he had to have seen the signs, he had to have known he'd never know that kind of happiness. Hadn't his history already made that plain enough? This was a thing he wished he did not know.
Yet, for all of that, he was happy she was here, standing beside him. Even now, was her presence not a balm? Didn't his burdens feel a little lighter just because she was here? And he couldn't entirely prevent the unguarded smile, either, that crept over his features as she spoke.
"Ahh," he teased in kind. "Just now found and already you wish me gone, I see. How am I meant to feel, Imperial Highness, when first you require my presence and next you say you'd rather I were a whole world away?"
Oh, the god be good, was he flirting? Not quite, but...too close. He turned quickly away from her, as if suddenly possessed with a need to see the stars again. Even there, fox and wolf played amongst the stars.
But she was speaking, again, and unbidden, he met her eyes again, those limpid hues that met his utterly without guile or reserve. He looked away, again, his breath was a caged thing. Unbidden, he laughed. Caught himself. Shook his head. He glanced at her, again. "I see I have interfered, then, with your own wishes. Perhaps you truly are wishing my absence, then, little fox?"
But he knew better than that. He knew her moods. She was inviting, just now, not wishdrawing. "I suppose I...I did wish a small respite." He paused. Ought he to tell her...? Yet, no. No, of course not. Of course he could not. He glanced away again, narrowed his eyes as he gazed unseeingly into the distance. "Did you not consider, my princess, that perhaps all those lords and ladies might exhaust your friend?"
He smiled wanly, looked back at her. "But I hope your evening has proven..." he knew she had not enjoyed it. Any pleasure she might have gotten out of the event had been stripped away by her father's news earlier that day. "I understand Lord Eoin is an excellent dancer," he said, at last. "And what young lady does not wish for a skillful partner, at the very least?"
For a moment, Guin's brow furrowed as Alistair seemed to pull himself from miles away at her approach. Perhaps she had intruded upon something. Perhaps he was thinking of a similar party in the past from when he and Alys had been engaged.
And here you are, mooning over him when he still so clearly grieves. Stupid girl. You should be content with the lot you have been given. Stop wishing for the moon and the stars when you were born only to peat and stone.
"It is quite all right." She said with a small smile at his apologies, patting his arm gently and without much thought at how casually she touched him. It was like second nature to her now to do so. The comfort she took from it was nearly essential to the princess. "You are perhaps understating things somewhat by calling the night beautiful. I do not think I have found a place quite as lovely as this since I left Harburrow, so I cannot fault you for also falling prey to its charms."
Her expression turned sly and triumphant as Alistair's countenance smoothed itself and a smile crossed his lips. Good. She still was able to bring him joy with her joking and teasing, even if the specter of his wife's passing hung between them. Guin knew she could never compare to one of the greatest women to have been born to their empire but... this small gift of his smile and his laughter was enough for her.
Or at least that is what the princess kept telling herself. The flirtatious tone that creeped into her speech perhaps told a very different story.
"Ah, it seems you have caught me in quite the conundrum." She teased back, turning to face the knight before her and tilting her head ever so slightly so that her shining golden curls fell in cascades across her bare shoulder. "For I know you well, Lord Grey, and no matter how I respond, you shall find a weakness in me that is far too easy to exploit." A starlight laugh fell from her lips, fingers intertwining within themselves as she glanced away from him, a blush crossing her cheeks.
"But I suppose I cannot lie to you." A tremble in her voice, and he looked away as well. Perhaps this was too vulnerable, too close to the truth, but the words were falling from her in a torrent she could hardly stop. "I always wish you both by my side and worlds away. I am quite covetous in that way. If I could see your face every day and read your letters every night..." Guinevere shook her head slightly and pressed her hands to her cheeks in an attempt to leech the warmth that radiated from them.
"I... I apologize, Ser Grey. I have... I have been laden with perhaps far too many well-wishers this evening plying me with cups of wine. I am... I am speaking out of turn." She laughed nervously and glanced at him once more as he continued to tease, asking if he perhaps truly should leave and give her the solitude Guin professed to crave, that she should consider that all of these things would exhaust him.
A shaking fear and panic coursed through the woman with a shock, eyes widening and throat tightening. He was tired of her. She exhausted him. Of course... Of course... Even with all of his teasing, all of his concern for her... All this? It was merely a duty he was performing. He was her father's Master of War and a knight of the highest chivalry, of course he was only humoring her. And here she was flirting with him!!
How mortifying it all was in the face of his kindness, and yet still the fear swallowed her whole. Guinevere could feel the chill darkness of loneliness reaching for her across the abyss and her body moved of its own accord.
"No, Please! Don't--!"
With a swiftness that surprised even herself, Guinevere's hand shot out to grasp his wrist tightly, and she swallowed heavily, voice shaking and her tongue tripping over itself.
"Please... Please do not leave me alone, Alistair. I know... I know I should think of how I must tire you, that it is unfair of me to say these things and ask of you impossibilities. I know it is selfish and unkind and grasping. I am truly, deeply sorry. I did not think. I know better. I was taught better. But please... Please, I beg of you."
The thought of being alone, truly alone, terrified Guinevere. If Alistair had tired of her completely—despite all they had said to each other—there would be no one left she could implicitly count upon. All that remained would be a half-mad king.
If only Aella had been kind enough...
She could not help but pull a memory from her mind at that moment, where she clung desperately to the knight beside her and stared up into his face, of years ago when her soft heart still sung only for Tristan Calanion even though she had begun to see the cracks forming between them.
Guin had snuck amongst the trees of Harburrow under the cover of night with only a lantern to show the way. Her breath cooled into billowing clouds as she stared up at the intertwined trees of Aella's Arch.
They had already performed all the rites and rituals for the day. Ser Alistair Grey had been so kind in assisting her through her nerves for this first Foxe Ball. His quiet voice was comforting. His gentle hands were steadying to the tremors in her own.
Yet she had been far too nervous that day to perform the most intriguing rite of them all. The stories all said that giving an offering and peering through the trees would show you your true love. Guin had such hopes to see Tristan looking back at her--a confirmation that they were meant to be. (Of course, the stories also said it was meant to be a vision of the time they had looked back at you through the arch - and Tristan had barely ever stepped foot upon Foxe lands - but these were small petty things that Guinevere was sure the arch would overlook.)
She had taken a deep breath and stepped forward, placing her hand on the tree, breathing out her wish, and lifted the lantern-- its light bouncing merrily across her broad, open face and off of her wide star-lit blue eyes.
It had been so strange...
The first to look back at her was an incredibly handsome if harried young man, but it certainly was not Tristan.
She had been shocked by the man's gaunt appearance, with dark hair shorn close to his head and battered clothing--but still of quality she could recognize as befitting a knight. He looked grim, somehow, even a bit haunted. Yet there was a steely determination in his gaze as he stared back at her with his piercing blue eyes; an expression the young princess knew she herself often wore. Their gazes were similarly calculating. The hope in them had not died but there was wariness along its edges that in some small way made Guinevere even more intrigued.
As he held up a lantern much like her own near his face and squinted back at her, Guin noted a broad halfway healed scar that crossed his cheek, another that spidered its way up his neck from under his collar, and even more littered his forearms uncovered by his rolled-up sleeves.
A lance went through Guinevere's heart at the sight of it. What trials had her love survived? Which war of her father's had he been subject to? She took half a step towards the man in sympathy and a desire to to ease his pains even as she knew it was impossible to cross the time's divide.
But even as she did so, the vision swirled and shifted. The young man melted away in the darkness of the cave as she cried out for him to wait.
The princess had almost lifted her hand from the bark to return back to Castle Harburrow. She was eager to tell Ser Grey of her bravery in attempting this trial alone. Perhaps he would tease her, of course, but it was far more likely he would tell her that he hoped dearly that she had seen a prince through the arch. That would lower the possibility of heartbreak exponentially.
Unlike every story she had ever been told of the Arch, though, without warning a second vision appeared before her. Guinevere had only ever been told that one person would be shown -- perhaps had the first perished in battle before they had ever met? Her brow furrowed as she peered through the darkness, unsure of what to make of this anomaly.
The vision soon solidified and she was surprised to find that in fact, this was the same man, but many years had passed. The scars on his face and neck had faded, his hair was longer and swept up neatly, his clothes had become finer, but the eyes...
The eyes were still the same.
Sadder, perhaps. Some of the rugged determination had hardened. He must have been hurt or betrayed by something. He was fearsome now in a way that felt far more deadly than the younger man she had seen before.
But she could still see the spark of humor in them. He was half-laughing at himself for looking, it seemed. Her brow smoothed at this and laughed a little herself at the absurdity of it all. After all, who looks through Aella's Arch a second time?
A pause, then, as worse thoughts crossed her mind. Had he been unsure? Or even worse, had he found her lacking somehow? The thought was mortifying.
The man turned, though, looking over his shoulder as someone approached from far away. His hand lifted from the tree and the vision melted into nothingness.
Guin had been looking for the man ever since to no avail. She had always thought about asking Alistair if he had ever met the gentleman, or if he was perhaps one of House Grey's famed Wulvars. But she had seen them all at the Winter Solstice many times over by now, and none had matched the image she had seen that first year.
She also thought to ask if he himself had looked through the arch, but there was an ache in her chest at the thought of it. What if he said no and thought her silly to have done so herself? Or, perhaps even worse, what if he said yes? Surely he had seen Alys peering back at him.
But now, as fear narrowed her vision to nothing more than the sight of his face, pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. There was the ghost of a scar that mirrored the younger man's on his cheek. His hair was the same shade as the older of the two. And his eyes... the tiredness in them, even with the laughter she had demanded from him... the color was the same.
Another small gasp fell from her lips as she realized - it was him... It had to be him.
Guin took a step forward, tilting her face up to Alistair's as a thousand calculations ran through her mind and her eyes scoured his face, confirming everything she already knew to be true.
This time when the princess spoke, her voice was regal and filled with steadfast conviction.
"Eoin will never be my partner, in dancing or otherwise. I cannot marry him." It wasn't Eoin I saw through the arch. It was you.
"I think them very like," he mused. "Perhaps its the tree..."
That heavy something knocked against his breastone. He couldn't tell her, mustn't tell her, but some part of him longed to catch her in his arms, to pull her close, to put his lips to her ear to whisper of...No. He must stop this. He cleared his throat. The soft, clean scent of forget-me-knots and fresh linen filled his breath. He was half intoxicated. All sense, all reason was against them. Always. Always. He had to remember that. Be guided by it. The railing felt cold under his grip.
"For I know you well, Lord Grey, and no matter how I respond, you shall find a weakness in me that is far too easy to exploit." She laughed. She blushed. Had he been a younger man, he might have kissed her for that. Kissed her for the way her eyes danced, kissed her for the way her glimmering hair fell, kissed her for the way she seemed suddenly almost shy. If he'd been a younger man, he might almost have fancied her in love with him. But he'd walked that treacherous road often enough. He knew better now.
Still, he couldn't fight the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips or the way his own eyes brightened in response. He was not so young a man now, perhaps, but he was a man, still, and she was a very beautiful woman. He sometimes wondered if she knew just how beautiful...
He shouldn't have asked, and yet...
One hand left the rail. He turned to face her. Half-unknowing, he leaned closer. "And what weakness is that, my princess?" he brushed an errant golden lock from her face. "I should like very much to know." His hand fell away from her face in a caress. His voice was hushed. "For what man at the mercy of so magnificent a peeress, does not wish to know all her secrets?"
What was he doing?
Then her voice trembled. Words, golden words spilled from her mouth, dazzling as sun-drenched jewels and sweet as lilac candies. He could hardly believe her. He could hardly breathe, air coming in quick bursts as he took in her face: clear, limpid eyes sealed to his, rosebud lips full and soft, cheeks burning with heat he wished he might kiss away...She stood tall, for a moment resolute, then her hands came to his cheeks, and he nearly laughed a warm, molasses laugh, caught up in the endearing earnestness of the action.
"I have been laden with perhaps far too many well-wishers this evening plying me with cups of wine." His breath caught. He stiffened. He was a fool. Of course. This was no flirtation, no real sign of interest of that kind. She was simply a touch in her cups, and he was too much a fool to see that the only affection she meant to share was that of the most chaste sort. Filial, likely, he thought a touch miserably, sighing up to heaven as he once again grasped the rail with both his hands. It was his turn to feel mortification. He swallowed hard against a tight throat. His eyes stung. He did his best not to hang his head. He wished, suddenly, that she had not found him. Clearly, he was not in a mental state, yet, fit to be seen. She does not love you that way, his mind growled. She never will. You know that. He was glad, almost, that she was worse for the drink. Perhaps, if the god was good, she would not remember his unpardonable behavior.
"Please, do not apologize. There is nothing to forgive." His voice was businesslike, though not unkind. His heart hung heavy with the slap of it, but he did not wish to wound her -- would not for anything. And that she was vulnerable in what she had said could not have been more clear. And how not? His chest burned as he turned to look at her, again. He knew, already, that she was perhaps the most lonely woman in the entire empire. All she wanted was a friend. He would always be that to her, always that. "I--I, too, am a little the worse for drink, I'm afraid," he added with a soft chuckle. He did not feel particularly humorous about it, in truth.
"I could write to you, even now, if you like," he offered with a little shrug. "I write letters everyday, as it is. There need be no reason that, just because I see you, I do not share my thoughts with you on paper, as well." He smiled, a touch of his usual sardonic humor bleeding into his tone. "So long as you promise never to hold their contents against me once committed to the page." He paused. "But I fear I have exhausted Your Highness. Pray, forgive me," he bowed and turned to leave.
"Please...Please, I beg of you."
The princess caugh his wrist. She clung to him. Stared up into his face. The breath went out of him, shock overwriting all else at her desperation, even fear kindling in her eyes. For a moment, he was too stunned to act, to think. He only stared at her. Then, revelation creeping on soft feet across the hard shell of his skull and slipping into his heart, he bled inwardly. Her pain was his. And, unthinking, he crushed her to him, arms coming round her as, tenderly, yet urgently, he held her to him, leaning down to bury his face in the burnished gold of her hair, cradling her body against his, precious beyond all knowing.
"You need never beg anything of me, dearest little fox," he whispered fervently. "All that I am is yours, already." He kissed her cheek, her ear, her brow, raised one hand to brush stray hairs from her face. "Forgive me, forgive me." How could he have been so cold? He knew already the fragile state she was in with her father's implicit betrayal of her every wish and right, with her future now a crushing millstone about her neck. He knew, and he did not think.
Yet, she stiffened, suddenly, eyes widening as if with revelation as she stared at him. He did not think she had heard him, or that she had even felt his touch and, slowly, he stepped away, silently chastising himself for liberties taken in the heat of the moment. There was no saving him, it seemed. No wonder she was stiff. She had asked him not to go -- not to hold her.
Her bearing was regal now, her tone that of the princess -- the girl in her was tucked away, and he tensed. Had he pushed her to defending herself? He had drunk too much, he thought, wearily. It was unseemly to press her so. Yet he feared to leave, after what had just passed. He cheeks burned.
She spoke, then. What, precisely, he'd thought she might say he couldn't have afterwards told but -- decrying Eoin? He frowned, mortification momentarily suspended by surprise.
He didn't respond for some time, eyes growing distant in consideration. "All right," he said, softly, absently rubbing an old scar along his neck in thought. Pacing to a nearby bench, he sat down. "It won't be easy to gainsay an emperor, little fox," he warned, gaze shooting to meet hers. "But we can work out something." He paused. "The easiest way would be to discredit poor Eoin," he mused with a wince, not particularly wishing to do injury to one who was as a nephew to him. "But if possible, I would rather we not wound him. He is as much a victim in this, my princess, as yourself." He swallowed hard. He found...he'd still do it, if he had to. Now that she'd made up her mind, he meant to help her thwart this fate, whatever it took. "Perhaps if...we were to imply he was already wed?"
Guinevere had always known her temperament to lean perhaps a bit too far towards idealism. But there had been a look in Alistair's eye as he caressed her so gently, begging to know more of her weaknesses that spoke of softer feelings and gave her hope. Perhaps it was a folly but one that the princess was more than happy to grasp at with both hands.
"Ah, well, you see, I have many secrets and many weaknesses, my lord." Guin replied, leaning ever so slightly into his touch. "Which shall you hear first? The most damning of them all?" I love you with all my soul, Ser Alistair Grey. I wish only to be yours. "Or the one that shall make you laugh the most?" I look out my window for you every morning so that I make certain we reach the hall for breakfast at the same time each morning. I have secretly named all of my horses after wolves to keep you near me. "I have no fear that you will betray them to anyone else, so you may have as many of my secrets as you desire. You simply need ask of them." She smiled softly up at the knight before her, though it faded ever so slightly as his tone shifted to become more distant, as his hand fell from her face and he stepped back from her. Guinevere felt the chill of the evening descend upon her at the loss of him.
"Ah, yes, of course. Lady Valentina has been overly generous with her wine cellar." A nervous laugh bubbled over her lips. Ah, he had only touched her this way because of the drink. Guin knew she was beautiful, knew what that meant when men drank far too much and found themselves alone in her presence. Some even when they were not as much alone.
At least Alistair was noble and genteel enough of a man to have only touched her face. Others had not been, and had discovered all too terribly the extent of training Ser Grey had given Guinevere for just such a moment.
Alistair himself only served to further solidify her good opinion of his chivalry as he took her embarrassing display of groveling with nothing but compassion. He took no liberties beyond wrapping her tightly in a comforting embrace. Where others may have pushed themselves upon her after hearing Guinevere beg loneliness with no one whom could come to her rescue, Alistair only pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and whispered words that nearly sent her to tears once more.
All I am is yours already, little fox.
Bless the God, there was a warmth blossoming inside of Guinevere Varmont at the revelation of Alistair Grey being fated to hold her heart, hearing him tell her that he was hers. It pressed against her ribs, fluttering and jumping faster and faster, and Guin pressed a hand to her stomach in response. She wanted to laugh, to collapse to the floor and cry, to grab Alistair's face and kiss him soundly...
If Guinevere didn't know better, it felt like a glimmer of hope flickering to life for the first time in quite a while.
Her mind spun in a thousand different directions. She had said the words aloud but had not thought beyond them. What would she do if she were so determined not to marry Eoin? Guin knew it was impossible in any sense now to follow through after the discovery that her feelings for Alistair were far more than idle fancy.
All right. It will be hard to gainsay an emperor, little fox. But we can work out something.
Guinevere let out a gasp of breath she did not know she had been holding at these words. "So you will help me?" She whispered, hardly believing it. "You will help me find another way?"
Her hands began to tremble at her side. The muscles of her face twitched as she could not decide between grinning or sobbing with relief.
"Lord Grey... I simply--I cannot--Oh, Alistair!" The words stilted out of her mouth before Guinevere launched across the balcony to the bench Alistair currently occupied. She flung her arms around his neck as she fell into his lap, squeezing him tightly.
Guinevere found herself so wrapped up in the moment, in the excitement, in the surefire knowledge that if anyone could help her to avoid a fate of loneliness it would be Alistair, that all sense left the princess in a moment as she pressed her lips soundly to his.
Oh, Alistair's lips were as warm and gentle as she remembered, as she had dreamed of night after night. A soft sound instinctively echoed in her throat at the feeling of it and for a moment Guinevere moved to open her mouth against his, to tangle her fingers in his beautiful dark and grey speckled hair, to pull him even closer to her.
But before she could fully lose herself in the feelings that confirmation of Aella's blessing and Alistair's agreement had loosed within her, the decades of gentility lessons Guinevere had taken snapped the princess awake.
Immediately a full-body flush came over Guin as she leapt up to her feet and backed away a step or two. Oh God. Had she not just pondered on how chivalrous Alistair himself was for not pressing her further when she was in distress? And here she was, the Imperial Princess, the one woman in all the land who was meant to embody the path of propriety and morality, all but attacking the poor man!
"I-I-Oh, my-my apologies Lord Grey, I simply... I-I do not know what came over me. You must... You must forgive me. Th-This disregard for your--The lack of propriety! I..."
She swallowed heavily and dropped into a deep curtsy, purpled and gold skirts billowing out across the stone tile as she knelt and bowed her head low towards the ground.
"Please forgive me. If you can find it in your heart to forget this lapse in conduct along with my inability to maintain self-control, I will be forever in your debt."
Guin lifted her head to look up at the knight before her, a thought flickering to life in her eyes. It was a risky suggestion. She was quite certain that after such a display that Alistair would be well within his rights to deny her outright. But now that the idea had wormed its way into her heart, Guinevere could not rest until she had spoken it aloud.
"Though... If I may beg one more moment of impropriety, I may have a solution to my problem that will leave Lord Eoin totally blameless in this entire endeavor."
She rose slowly from her position on the ground to sit upon her knees, taking a deep breath and holding out a hand towards Alistair in supplication as her blue-grey eyes stared deep into his own.
"Will you marry me, Ser Alistair Grey--Wolf that has always guarded my door--and save me from a life I never desired?"
His smile turned fond, charmed by her words. His laugh was a soft thing. "As all great ladies ought, Your Grace," he replied in kind. The most damning of them all? He shook his head, "I cannot imagine even a demon so vile that he could bear to drag an angel to perdition."
Her eyes were shining, her voice was a soft breath at the hollow of his ear. He was drunk with it, drunk with the way she seemed, not only to permit his touch, but even to permit it; drunk with the way her eyes glowed; drunk with the heat of her breath misting against his face. Was it that, or the alcohol, which seemed to steam in his blood, to curdle his mind? Was it that or the way the ever-dimming light danced through the oak leaves, that seemed to make her very face a light?
"Nay, little fox, I shall hear only those secrets which it pleases you to tell me." His brow dipped towards hers, her bright eyes shining like stars as she looked up at him. One hand rose as if to cup her face but he did not touch her again, only letting it rest near her as if she shielding her, tendrils of her golden locks tickling his fingertips, soft and glossy and burning bright like lost strands of sunset caressing his skin. His princess. His desire. His love. "I will accept only what is offered willingly -- happily."
She spoke of Lady Malconaire's wine cellar. It was confirmed, then. It had been the drink, quite gone to her head, and nothing more. His smile felt forced, a rare thing in her company, but there was nothing for it. Frustration, disappointment, sorrow, they snarled in his chest, caged animals. I am an old fool, he thought, turning away from her, blindly, and seething, casting his gaze over all below.
So you will help me?
Alistair turned back towards her in surprise, hands falling away from the rails again. "If that is your wish." It hadn't occurred to him that she might doubt that. He'd failed her, indeed. Had she not just told him as much, speaking out loud her fears of fate unescapable? Yet he was unprepared for her next action.
Her arms were warm as she threw them around him, her embrace tight. She held him to her long, half-shaking. He was hollowed out. His lungs drew no breath, his heart stilled within his breast. All he knew was the tension of her arms, ringing him, her body pressed close to his, her breath warming his cheek. Hope burned in her eyes, and something else, and then she leaned forward. Her breath was hot, misting against his mouth for but a moment. Her lips were soft, sweet. Tender as forget-me-not petals. She tasted of wine -- heady and rich and dark. She tasted like herself -- clean and green, beneath. His heart was a vice. An old ache overflowed. He clasped her waist. Pulled her close. He was half desperate, half gentle. Her skin burned. His did, too. Her mouth moved. Lips parted. He followed her lead. Angled his head to deepen the kiss. One hand rose, cradled her head.
She pulled away.
His heart clenched. Alistair stepped away, half stumbled back in haste. He felt sick. What had he done?
"Your Grace, I am a scoundrel, pray forgive me, I--"
She dropped to her knees.
His eyes widened. "My princess, pray--pray get up, I--" Hearing her words, he shook his head. "There is naught to forgive. You are young and a maiden and I ought not to have--The fault was all mine. And it is as you have said -- we both have overindulged tonight. Let us...let us forget it. I would, not for anything, cause you pain, little fox. It--" he swallowed hard. The words were a slap to him -- but, he prayed, a comfort to her. "It was nothing. Only the foolishness of drink. Please--please get up, I cannot stand while you kneel, I--"
"Will you marry me, Ser Alistair Grey--Wolf that has always guarded my door--and save me from a life I never desired?"
Once more, the breath went out of him. For half a heartbeat, he was sure he had misheard her. Yet, his eyes grew wet, rimmed round the edges, and he barked a stunned laugh, glanced off towards the treetops that clustered all around him as if the waving leaves might offer him some clarity. Surely he had misheard. He could not credit it. Yet, as he eyes met hers, he saw the certainty in her gaze. Reaching out, slowly, he took both her hands in his own, squeezed them, and pulled her to her feet again.
Alistair's exhalation was long. He didn't think. He didn't need to. Gently, he took her right hand in his, for a moment he held it, then, gently, he folded her hands as in prayer, his so folded beneath hers, so she was in the attitude of a liege lord accepting the oaths of a knight. He caught her eye. He dropped to one knee.
"Before the god, I make my vow. I pledge myself to my lady's leal service, never to commit outrage or murder, always to uphold the good, always to shun treasons against her, and to give mercy to those who ask for it, upon pain of the forfeiture of my sacred honor and shameful expulsion from my status as knight in my lady's service forever more. I pledge to my lady always to aid and protect the innocent and defenseless, to guard and defend children, ladies, damsels, gentlewomen, and widows, and never to commit sinful outrage against any upon pain of death. I pledge never to take up battle in wrongful quarrel -- not for love, nor for any worldly goods -- and to shun all cowardice. I promise on my faith that I shall discharge always those duties which my lady commands, to be faithful to her always, to uphold sacred honor, and never to cause her harm nor allow any other so to do. I vow to observe my homage to her completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit. My fealty I crave most humbly my lady do accept. Let the god hear all I say and judge me against these things to which I give my oath. So I swear."
For a moment he was silent, looking up at her. Then, at last, he said, "If it is what you truly wish, little fox, then I will marry you, indeed, and guard you from a life you do not desire." With another that you do not, he thought, but only smiled. It did not do to say aloud.
The seconds ticked by in desperate agony. Each one extending longer and longer until the princess wondered if perhaps every other moment in her memory was but a dream and she had instead lived an age with her arm outstretched in half-witted desperation.
Besides, what else could it be? All Guinevere could feel was the trembling in her fingers, the sharp edges of stone digging into her knees, the shiver running down her spine that even the wine coursing through her veins could not warm.
She sat still in this way, eyes flickering across Alistair's stricken face for something, anything that could prove she was making the right choice. That she could, in fact, trust the man she loved, that she could perhaps, for once, envision a happy ending for herself.
Her heart crumpled as the first thing to break the tense silence was Alistair's laughter echoing across the empty space between them and rustling through the trees he turned his eyes towards. Oh...
Oh, Of course...
What else did she expect would happen?
Guinevere swallowed back the sob that threatened to crawl up from the depths of her pained heart as Anxiety reached out its ichor-laced fingers once more and clawed at the edges of her mind.
Idiot girl. This is a silly child's request. He is laughing at you. He is going to disabuse you of any possibility of the notion of him marrying you. How ridiculous, the two of you spending a life together. Or perhaps worse, he will be kind and tell you in his sweet, gentle voice that it could never be. He does not love you. He will never love you. He cannot marry where he does not love.
The terrible, horrible voice echoing in the chambers of her mind was right. How could she ever think he would accept her hand? To willingly chain his heart to hers when he had given it away long ago? No... No, he surely would not.
That was a punishment left only to princesses, after all.
Yet still, when Alistair returned his gaze to hers, Guinevere was shocked to find him looking at her with eyes as misty as her own. He was not laughing now. She did not know how to interpret the way he looked at her. The long breath he took. How he stepped towards her without another word, hands catching her own and raising her to stand.
The world stilled once more, but not in the same frantic way of mere moments ago. This was a silence of anticipation, a silence that brokered space for another quiet voice to whisper in her ear. One far weaker than that of Anxiety from years of lack of use, but still there somehow. Hope, with a voice almost like that of her mother's, caressing her worried mind with a touch soothing and cool against the summer air.
Or... What if all your dreams could come true? What if all it took was reaching out your hand to ask? What if this unfamiliar look is what love could be? You have gone so long without, no wonder you fear the possibility. But the world can be so kind, my love... You simply just need to believe it could be. Because, best of all, what if he says yes? The girl let out another shaky breath. It was terrifying to hope. To dream. But as Alistair caught her gaze, she knew that he was the only one who could make her believe that anything could be accomplished if only they were together.
Guinevere felt as if she was watching the tableau of it all from miles away as Alistair silently folded their hands together in the way she had seen knights do for her father, as she had watched Eoin and Tristan and her brothers do, as she had read about in all of those fairy tales she loved as a child. But the feeling of his hands in hers were all too real to have been a tapestry or a painting or even a portrait in stained glass. Guinevere knew the ridges and valleys of each scar and callous on his palms like her own. Even her most vivid dreams could not have conjured something like this so wholly.
Her breath caught in her throat as he knelt before her. She was on fire. She was chilled to the bone. She could not look away from his gaze as he began to speak and pledged himself so wholeheartedly to her cause.
She was desperate to run. She was turned into marble. It felt as if the stars themselves had buried under her skin and were sending sparks jolting back and forth between their hands.
Relieved tears rolled down Guinevere's face in waves as his words washed over her. The same words she had heard time after time spoken to her father, Alistair spoke now for her. He knew she understood better than most the solemnity of this. Such an oath was far more binding than any mere promise to a knight like Ser Grey. To go against his sworn duty, to reject this pledged fealty for any reason, was a fate nearly worse than death.
He was perhaps the most perfect man in the entire world.
"I find I lack a sword with which to properly finish this ceremony." Guin said in a voice tinged with levity, after he had finished. "I suppose that is what comes of such spontaneous plans."
She let out a small laugh and pulled one hand free but for a moment to brush at the tears still rolling down her face. Guinevere looked about for a moment for something to perform the rites with, when a thought crossed her mind that turned the young woman's cheeks pink once more. But, bolstered by Alistair's bold declaration of his loyalty, Guinevere tossed her golden tresses behind her shoulders and lifted her chin in her best attempt to appear regal.
"I hope you will not mind if I do my best with what I have available." A small smile twitched at the corners of her lips. "After all, I believe you will be my first duly sworn knight. As such, I do think it is fitting for the acceptance of your oath to be quite different than any others." Guin took in a breath, then leaned forward, closing her eyes and brushing her lips against Alistair's once more. This kiss was not as forceful or wild or manically passionate as the last, but gentle and soft. A kiss that was an oath in return for his own. A kiss that spoke in whispered promises of many more to come.
"I accept your oath, Ser Alistair Grey of House Islaun, called Grey Wolf, Leader of the Wulvar, Ever-Friend of House Foxe." Guinevere murmured as she pulled back ever so slightly from the kiss, their lips barely brushing against each other as she spoke. "I accept your fealty and your pledge until such time as we or the world have perished or I see fit to release you from my service."
She opened her eyes, their deep blue depths sparkling as she caught his lips once more before pulling away entirely. Her cheeks were flushed and Guin found herself unable to keep from smiling. She had never felt like this before, not even with Tristan when she was young. Especially as Alistair continued to speak, her smile finding its perfect match mirrored on his lips, forming the words Guinevere had heard only in her dreams night upon night. If it is what you truly wish, little fox, then I will marry you, indeed, and guard you from a life you do not desire.
To have it put so plainly, her own words given back with no hint of guile or laughter, was the final nail in the coffin of the princess' ability to maintain composure. She pulled the crown from her head, rubbing gently at her temples where the hard metal pressed into her skin and sinking down once more upon the stone, now equal in stature with Alistair, just as Guinevere had always wanted them to be.
"I do very much wish to marry you, Alistair."
It is all I have ever wanted. To be wed to someone I love so deeply. To live a life without the shackles of overbearing responsibility of thousands. To have a partner in all things!
No, no, that was perhaps too much. He had pledged to keep her safe, not to love her. Not to be anything more than a human shield.
But now that he had agreed, now that he had said his words, made his oaths-- now there was a vacuum left behind in which Guinevere's great and terrible ability to see all the ways a plan could go wrong began to grow.
How would they be able to keep their marriage a secret? When would they marry? Who would even marry them? Would a secret marriage even be enough to keep her father from forcing a marriage to Eoin? A bolt of lightning struck Guin through the heart at the thought of her father. If he were to suspect... If he were to discover their plans!
Her heart began to pound once more. Her breathing grew shallow and thin. Her hands began to tremble. Her gaze flickered about to assure herself of every exit.
Roderick's wrath if he were to learn of Guin and Alistair's deception would be unending. There was no telling what danger they would be in. Alistair even more so than herself. Guinevere was sure that no matter how much she declared the idea to have been her own, her father would never believe a woman could do such a thing. Not even his precious golden nightingale of an eldest daughter.
"I truly, truly wish nothing more than to marry you, I swear to it on my mother's grave." She swallowed heavily and took a deep breath, reaching out once more to clutch at his hands. "I would, however, be remiss to not offer you the opportunity--"
The princess let out a sigh, looking up to the stars as she searched for the right words.
"That is to say, it is dangerous, Alistair, what I am asking of you. I know this. I know my father's moods, I know his rages. If he learns of this..." Her gaze flickered across his face, brow furrowing as the fear of her father's wrath pierced her heart once more. "I do not wish to truly hold you to such a-an all-encompassing oath until I know you are certain of the potential cost."
Guin tilted her head to ensure that she caught Alistair's gaze. That he did not look away from her when she asked this of him, that he did not have the opportunity to even pretend he had not heard.
"I want you to understand that you would be welcome to leave and dissolve our union whenever you wished, especially if staying would put you in harm's way."
Guin sighed once more before leaning forward and pressing her forehead to his, intertwining their fingers and pulling their hands to press against her heart.
"Promise me. If the danger becomes too great, you will keep yourself safe. You will leave if you must. You will denounce me in front of my father, or tell him truthfully that it was all my doing, my instruction, my command. Whatever will keep you alive and well." Another tear rolled singularly down her cheek. "I could not survive having your blood on my hands, Grarvitnir."
ooc: btw i didn't feel i described it well so [ this ] is how their hands are positioned for the oath -- folded like prayer w hers over his/his between hers (tho even this painting doesn't ~quite display it...i couldn't find the one i was searching for) -- meant to include this in the last but evidently forgot so here it is now hahaha
Tears. There were tears in her eyes, running down her cheeks, as he spoke. Yet her face was solemn, sincere, certain. He felt breathless as, humbly, reverently, he spoke the words for her, her hands remaining steepled over his in symbol of acceptance.
He chuckled at her words, a soft reverberation, tinged with the deep husk of emotion. "Nor I...I did not think it good manners to bring Wulfsbane to a celebration of this kind," he confessed. Yet, even if he had, the greatsword was too heavy to manage without years of extensive training -- it was not like to have helped here. She was right. He had been entirely spontaneous: it had not been a problem he'd considered even a touch when he'd knelt. But he did not regret it, all the same. He cast his glance around their forested surrounds, thinking perhaps a branch might substitute --
She spoke. She held her chin up, proud, yet her cheeks were tinged becomingly with pink. His brows wrinkled in confusion. Then she leaned forward. It was only a brush, once, twice, thrice, but his heart hammered all the same. Her mouth was hot, breath misting across his cheek. He was suffused, mercifully, for a moment in the scent of her -- linen and forget-me-nots. His heart clenched. Too soon, too soon she pulled away. This was to be the nature of their marriage he knew -- a peck on the cheek, here and there, a clasp of the hands. It was more than he deserved, in truth, but after that previous kiss -- selfishly, he couldn't help but wish for more.
He mastered himself, rose as he ought when she intoned her response. Yet, her gleam warmed him, dispatching at once any qualms he might have had, or disappointments he might have harbored in the recesses of his heart. This, this was enough. Her smiles were enough, more than enough for him. It was her joy he craved -- more than anything else.
He took his seat beside her on the bench, gaze traveling absently towards her cast-off crown. It shone in the dimming sun, refracting crimson rays, a bloody crown in the dying light. It was the cause of her suffering, he thought, one great challenger he could not conquer on her behalf. But this, this marriage? This was one way he could protect her -- for now, at least, until she was ready for a true marriage, with a real lover.
He turned to look at her as she spoke, emphasizing her wish that they be wed. Yet, almost at once he watched her face turn from certainty to anxiety, almost to panic. Her breathing grew shallow and thin. Her hands began to tremble. Alistair swallowed hard. He could hardly fault her. Surely, after all, it was the drink which had driven her to such extremes.
"Little fox," he began gently, clasping her hand in his. His voice showed nothing of the ache sinking every moment deeper into the scar tissue of his heart. "If it distresses you, know that I release you. I will not entrap you against your will. Did I not just swear to honor and obey you?"
Her impassioned reply surprised him, till at last she came to the end. "Ahh," he smiled ruefully. "All is well, my little fox. Do not imagine I have said or done anything in ignorance of the consequences." He squeezed her hands, already clasping his. "I'll take the outcome of my own deeds, gladly, as I have always done." Gently, he raised a hand to her face, gently tucking errant golden strands behind her ear, his fingers grazing the tender skin of her cheek as he did -- perhaps more purposefully than he let on. "I sit your father's council. I know his mind well. I have made my own choices and I know the danger. Whatever comes to me, it lies not upon your head. Do not fear."
It would not be the first time he had risked everything for love -- but it would be the first time he'd done so, knowingly. He was no stranger to Roderick's temper, having many a time talked the emperor down from some malice or other -- and having failed just as many times to do so with any success. It would fall to Bar, here, to intercede -- but Bar would fail. The transgression would prove too personal for the emperor to bear. Alistair knew it good and well. If ever he fell into Roderick's power after he found out -- Alistair would lose his head.
His gaze turned thoughtful, gazing into the blue-green of her eyes, churning like wind-tossed seas. "But...my princess...It is possible he would not spare you, either, for thwarting his will." He paused. "I cannot imagine he would do you physical harm but -- he may well lock you up, or place you in a nunnery, or force you into a different, more terrible marriage -- you may well lose your right to choose, forever, I fear..." The goal, after all, was that this marriage be found out, should the inevitable wedding day with Eoin arrive. But then would come the danger. "Are you certain you wish to dare such consequences? My lord Eoin is not so very terrible a man...He would treat you well."
"I want you to understand that you would be welcome to leave and dissolve our union whenever you wished, especially if staying would put you in harm's way."
He nodded slowly. The certainty that she wished this to be a marriage only in name was not new to him, but her desire that he acknowledge this did. She still does not fully trust me not to touch her. He'd earned that, he supposed, earned it with that first kiss. His response...had been far too telling. Still, it was a kindness of hers to put it in such terms.
He exhaled slowly, nodded. "Of course, my princess," he said, softly. I'll not touch you. I'll only claim I have, if necessary, to stay any action from being taken by others to part us -- and force someone upon you whom you want not. That way you shall be free to dissolve the union, if you so choose. Our oaths, our honor, will not then bind us. And you will be free to take any lover you choose, and leave me behind, if you wish, and as you ought. "We both will be, so, free. You may depend on me, I assure you."
She pressed her brow to his, laid his hands, entwined with us, above her breast where he could feel the steady beat of her heart. Yet, his eyes flashed open at her words. He pulled back to look at her, suddenly, shaking his head. "You cannot ask that -- I will not leave you." He pulled one hand free, tenderly brushing the tear from her cheek and, pausing, resting his hand upon her face. "Say that it is a request, Guinevere --" he breathed her name, syllables he never dared pronounce. He paused, shook his head. His eyes burned his fervor. "Say that you ask me as my betrothed -- and do not command it as my sworn liege."
Guin's brow furrowed once more, confused as to why Alistair was so quick to proffer a promise that he would never entrap her. Of course he would not! She was the one entrapping him! Hadn't she just said as much? Perhaps she had not explained it quite well enough? After all, he was a gleaming star of honor and goodness. She was the one dragging him down into the sludge and grime of her deceptions. Whatever risks befell her she would take without a second thought to have even a minute of having him all to herself.
But as he continued to speak, as he brushed a hand against her face, Guinevere leaning into the touch as a small sigh fell from her lips, eyes fluttering closed, she still could not help the way frustration roiled in her chest until it boiled over.
"No!" She said quickly, jerking Alistair closer towards her with the fervor of her dismissal. "No, that is not what I meant at all. Do not--Do not mistake me, please!" Guin reached out to touch his face, fingers falling short to instead let tendrils of his dark hair tangle between them.
"I too am aware of the consequences. I know my father's love for me only goes so far. His pride will come before all things, and to be tricked so by his precious, demure daughter..." She paused. "Let me just say I do understand that death may perhaps be the kindest punishment my father could give me if he discovers our plan before the time is right." Her hand dropped slowly, fingertips brushing against Alistair's cheek and trailing down the length of his arm to fall into her lap.
"I simply--" She let out a frustrated sigh. "I am only trying to say I do not wish to entrap you either." Guinevere smiled sadly and shook her head. "You are perhaps the most gallant knight I have ever met and I cannot help but fear that I have, perhaps, ensnared you into a danger far too great for either of us to overcome simply because you could never turn away from a person in need."
Are you certain you wish to dare such consequences? My lord Eoin is not so very terrible a man...He would treat you well.
Guin ran a hand over her face and down her neck, fingers brushing against the cold golden choker that throttled her even now.
"I know, I know... Ser Eoin is a good man, a gentle man, a kind man... Or at least, so I have been told." Her gaze flickered away, staring out towards the setting sun. "I know so little of him, and I understand that my opinion of him could change over time, but... I know enough to be certain that a marriage to Eoin would hold no love for me, only politics." Her gaze flickered back towards Alistair, a long silent pause settling between them. Did she dare say? Would he believe her?
She had kept the secret of the vision she saw that stormy evening in Castle Foxe to herself. After all, even Guinevere had to admit that she had been half-mad with a summer fever. Lord Timos Foxe had passed but the month before and in a fit of grief and despair Guinevere had run to Aella's arch and back in the pouring rain. It had been reckless and Guinevere had paid a dear price for it. Alistair himself had travelled from Islaun to stay in the guest wing in case she needed someone to send for a physician.
Guinevere had awoken at the crash of thunder to a woman sitting by her bedside, stroking her damp hair and holding her hand. She remembered so little of her mother even then but there had been no mistaking her for anyone else. Guin knew the slope of that nose, the color of those eyes, the tilt of that smile. For she herself saw them in the mirror each morning.
Not wanting to waste such a grand opportunity, Guin took no time at all in telling Elaine of everything. She told her of the way she was taking care of Castle Foxe and the rest of Harburrow beyond. All she had seen in the arch, of the pain of seeing someone who she did not recognize, and worse that was not who she had hoped to see. She shared her plans for the Foxe Ball, spoke in even lower tones of her continued friendship with House Grey and the neighboring Islaun. That she hoped she was doing enough to make her mother proud. That wherever Elaine was now, that Guinevere hoped she was happy.
The ghost had said nothing in response but still listened so patiently and kindly. She held her daughter's hand until she once again drifted off to sleep. Guinevere could have sword she felt a brush of a kiss against her forehead and a whisper of I love you in her ear... And when the storm passed and the first rays of light filtered in through the window, Guinevere's fever had broken and the ghost was never seen again.
Pulling herself back from the memory, the young princess took a deep breath and unlatched the choker from around her neck, setting it beside the dulling gold of her crown. Shedding another layer of the royal shackles her father had locked her into, her mother into. "I made a promise to myself and to the ghost of my mother that I would do everything in my power to tie myself only ever to someone I loved deeply. I did not see Eoin in Aella's Arch. And even more so, I know my own heart. I could certainly grow to care for Eoin, but I will never love him. And I will not stand to live my life so half-heartedly."
She looked up at Alistair, staring deep into his eyes as he nodded solemnly back at her. As he assented. Promised her they would both be free to strive only for a life with love in their hearts. Though her brow furrowed once more at the tone of it. There was a melancholy in his words she recognized.
Ah... Alys. Of course he would think of Alys at this time.
Guinevere winced. How cruel of her to bring up something so fierce as a desire to have a world-shattering love take root in her heart when his dearest love was far gone from this plane. Yet it was a meet reminder. No crown or title or troth of loyalty would ever place Guinevere in a seat higher than that of Alys Fell in the heart of Alistair Grey.
She clutched even tighter at his hands as she clasped them to her breast. For all of his shining silvered words, Alistair's final loyalties truly lay in a watery grave. Someday he would remember. Someday he would regret his words and would indeed leave her behind.
But like a shining beam of moonlight, like the cooling hand of the ghost of her mother, like some sort of all seeing sage -- Alistair pierced through the veil of even her innermost thoughts and spoke the only words that could pull the princess from spiraling deep into despair.
I will not leave you... Guinevere...
One would be well within their rights to imagine the Imperial Princess Guinevere Varmont as a fairly sheltered young woman. Having been sequestered in Castle Foxe for most of her childhood and then placed on a marble pedestal by her father once she matured, it would be easy to imagine she knew very little of - to put it modestly - worldly matters.
And while these things were true - the castle, the pedestal - Guinevere Varmont was more than anything else, a very curious and cunning little fox. She had long ago honed her trade in listening at keyholes, peeking just around corners, and hiding in the dark shadows of castle kitchens while the maids joked and teased about their latest beaus. Without a mother to tell her much of the way of these things, Guinevere had taken up her own education.
So when Alistair placed his hand on her face and tilted her gaze upward, when he said her given name aloud for the very first time in such a tender way, as she watched the fire burning in his gaze -- Guinevere knew exactly the name for the knotted feeling that tore through her stomach.
"Say it again..." She breathed, her skin burning with a scalding heat, her pupils blowing wide with wanting. Her free hand reached out to clasp the back of Alistair's neck, her thumb pressed gently but firmly against the tender space just behind his ear, the other holding his still tight in her own. She did not trust herself to leave her hands without an occupation.
"Say to me once more that you will not leave me..." She swallowed heavily and tried her best to push away all the craven, grasping desires that spun through her mind and raced through her veins. She instead pulled herself closer to him. She could not get close enough. She knew she could never get close enough - he could never let her. She was not worthy enough, beautiful enough, smart enough, selfless enough, desirable enough, good enough... "Say my name again, just as you did..." She released his hand and pressed hers to his chest, fingers splaying widely against the fabric. Her self control was threadbare but she somehow managed to stay herself from tearing at the strings at his collar.
But still the thought, the desire, the desperation, the vision of a barred door and scattered fabrics across the moss-speckled stonework...
The God forgive her, she surely would have to pray an extra set of penances this night.
"Please, Alistair. My--" She paused, the word beloved settling on her tongue before she swallowed it down. He would not want to hear such things. "My own Alistair..."
