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@gorloisofcornwall-blog
This is your world. Shape it, or someone else will.
Gary Lew (via ampleure)
ELAINE
@gorloisofcornwall
It is a common practice to remove oneself from the traveler’s road when a procession means to travel by means of it. But desperation and the fading light providing small clouds from thawing lips only make her move a little ways off.
Her steps hasten enough to keep in stride with the mammoth of the nearest rider, “ How far now to Cornwall?” She called, her eyes darting back and forth with the rider and the ground beneath her feet.
It was always a dangerous game, these treks.
But if it meant a means to keep Galahad within the care of virtuous people, then that was what she would do.
The Grail knew she had lost any virtue she possessed.
He scarcely noticed her at first, lost in thought & near blind to the immediate world as he guided his palfrey skillfully along the familiar path. It had been a simple journey, nothing more & the Duke was eager to return home. There were a few small matters to discuss with his more close allies ; these all but absorbed his attention for the time being. Gorlois would likely had remained locked away in such a fashion had it not been for the stranger’s speaking up. The Duke blinked, shook his mussed mane for a moment, before he glanced toward her with an arched brow. His gloved hand rose idly, soothing the nerves of the questioning guard at his back. This woman hardly seemed a threat at the very least, certainly not one he couldn’t handle if a situation arose. His steed’s gait slowed ever so slightly, giving the lord a moment more to examine the fair oddity before he spoke. ❝ To Cornwall ? Little more than a short tread. The gate to Dimilioc is ahead toward the end of this ; it will come to a proper road soon enough at the edge. ❞ As Gorlois answered, his risen hand gestured forward before falling back with his other at the palfrey’s reins.
HEADCANON :
Gorlois’s main war - horse of many a year was a destrier stallion by the name of Archippus ( Latin - styled word from the Greek title meaning ‘ master of horses ’ ). He was a dark bay in color & stood between 15 - 16 hands or slightly larger than the average at the time that was nearer to 14. The steed’s nature fit the Duke quite well : they were equally as stubborn & bad - tempered at times, though Archippus never left Gorlois’s side unless forced.
IGRAINE
There was finally silence in the carriage. Her eldest daughter ( the bride to be) had worn herself out with her ranting and raving about the King of Orkney, while the younger two had simply been happy to b outside of Uther’s castle. The littlest had barely touched her first decade, and foolishly loved her father more so than her mother. She had more to her name than either of her half siblings.
Cador rode somewhere towards the rear of the traveling party. He’d have been cast out by now ( having been knighted ) had Igraine not been so caring for her firstborn.
Jordyn rode beside them, vigilant and protective as always, despite the world’s view of him. He was older now, but still the best at his trade. Like a lap dog he always came back, though his loyalties were split. Igraine couldn’t blame Uther for his distrust of her champion, he was still loyal to his Duke first and foremost.
Igraine still wore her timeless beauty, though grief had settled in her bones. She was thinner now, hairs becoming grey. She was simply tired, and such fatigue was her finest accessory.
Her head raised off her hand, which had been propped so bordely there, at a site time betrayed to her. She moved to better look at him, her head sticking itself out he carriage window, such beauty returning to her fair face.
“Gorlois!” She called, spying the mountain of a man, looking for some confirmation that it was him.
That he wasn’t dead.
She could already see Jordyn drawing nearer to her, to silence this fit of insanity before Uther would turn his horse to silence it himself.
“Gorlois!’ She called again, this time opening the carriage door, waking her children- and jumping out.
it was Jordyn who tried to stop his steed first to get to her, but she didn’t mind the mud because she saw him clearer now.
Time had betrayed her because she saw him. And she ran. It was as if years fell from her face and the curtain of sadness was pulled back.
it had to be him, “ beloved,” She called as she stumbled.
Jordyn had dismounted, seeing Uther kick his steed to reclaim his bride.
It was obvious who would get to her first.
To those that had known him ( whether in fear, hate, or love ) it was clear : it was a ghost who stood there with eyes that grew uncharacteristically large & a mouth that became briefly agape. Alric, what have you done ? he wondered. He ought to have stood, stood & faced the King as any honorable man should however, there was something more here. The Queen appeared to have come running for HIM, speaking the traitor - Duke’s name & behaving as though this mere field - worker were the buried Aurelius’s hand. &, surprisingly, it didn’t startle Alric as much as it ought to ; in fact, it merely chilled him, as if there were a spirit brushing into his thoughts & making an alien life seem suddenly so comforting. Fancifully, he thought of himself with HER, riding in processions, smiling at the bewildered faces that were becoming vaguely familiar. It fit. Wholly, truly, imaginings of that existence made more sense than the dirt smudged onto his skin. Gorlois ? Gorlois was dead, gone, lost to the same battle Alric had sacrificed his mind to. Some had said this was the Lord’s trial for him or a form of penance for a deed he was perhaps regretful for in another life but, maybe . . he was simply living the wrong life. Instinct bade him step toward her, lower the curved blade, before he realized what he was doing. A glance toward the King stopped his feet, stuttered his gait & all at once made the elder turn. There was a wrath there that spooked him entirely, sent him running in a frenzy toward the near wood ; he leap’t what obstacles he could & careened through the rest in a single - minded panic. No, that man who had come barreling forth from the line would have no mercy on this specter. As he ran, Alric wondered, pumping his legs until he reached the comfort of the thick foliage & stumbled with a heaving chest. He wondered, he wondered this poor harvester had never seen royalty, knew not the difference between the crests or houses . . how had he known that was the King ? & why did he immediately hate him so ?
& @igraineofcornwall.
The sun beat down upon them all harshly, warmth seeping into the tired bones of the masses at their tedious work. Among their ranks stood a tall, broad man with gray in his flaxen, tied hair & weariness in his ocean eyes. A great strength sung from his form as he swept his arm down, ripping cleanly into the bloomed crop at his feet. Instinctively, his other rose as if it too bore a burden ; there was, of course, nothing there ( though the weight of a shield might perhaps have seemed right ). His hand splayed toward the sun, revealing its open disfigurement a good deal of flesh had been carved from his palm & the last finger & most of the ring beside it lost. However, no one seemed to mind it. In this life, injuries were plentiful & scars easily obtained. The scope of this long - healed wound may cause a murmur or two on occasion, but, for the most part, the folk here had accepted the man’s near - halved appendage. His arm was further angled strange, as well, & shoulder clearly pained. They called him Alric, simply, the son of none & confused old soldier from a bitter battle who had wandered into their midst with no inclination of his name nor home. He was willing to work, at least & many almost ignored his presence these days in the face of his determination to settle back into the masses. Today was no different than any other, save for the bustle of a procession on the road. Alric cast his eyes down, mindlessly moving about the row with practiced repetition that had become practically muscle memory. There had been rumor of royalty traveling the path mere yards away, but the thought of such a spectacle only made the toiling man’s stomach churn & teeth clench. It wasn’t important to him, here & now this harvest was. & so he shuffled along, content to remain to this small DUTY & leave this flock of lord & ladies to whatever destination lay ahead. After all, if he ( or any present, truly ) didn’t trouble them, they surely wouldn’t see any reason to interfere with a field of sweat - laced, tired subjects.
Sean Bean as Ulrich ( Black Death)
Water is a thing of beauty that has formed this planet.
Cornwall, UK 2014
I discovered that star gazing was my favorite hobby, then I realized I’d been looking into your eyes the entire time.
Kylee Taylor (via mxchfab)
IGRAINE.
“He has other features that aren’t mine.” She murmured, lest the walls speak of her words, “ I see your face in his, but I see another face as well. Why did you return to Tintagel so soon as you had ridden to Dimalloc?” she questioned, hoping he had some answer that would silence any doubt.
Gorlois let her statements sink through him, mulled over them for a moment until he was sure he had thought over them from every potential view. There were situations in this, even the beginning of this conversation, that he would rather not consider ( & those that he was in some fashion afraid to believe ). ❝ You & I have differing views on the meaning of ‘ soon ’, then, Igraine. I rode to Dimilioc & remained there until the battle began. I left only to return at the end. ❞ His voice is equally as soft, tone stern & sure in what he knew to be right. That much he was certain of.
Christina Baker Kline, Orphan Train
❛ NOW BESHREW MY FATHER’S AMBITION ! HE WAS THINKING OF CIVIL WARS WHEN HE GOT ME ; THEREFORE I WAS CREATED WITH A STUBBORN OUTSIDE [ and ] WITH AN ASPECT OF IRON. ( w. shakespeare )
► muse aesthetic / graphic for gorloisofcornwall.
IGRAINE.
@gorloisofcornwall
“I would but speak with you.” she spoke softly,” About your youngest.”
There is something in those words that tugs at his full attention, the Duke’s stare turning toward her attentively. Curiosity furrows his brow & questions float in that eternal tide locked in his eyes, but he asks only one : ❝ What is it ? ❞
IGRAINE.
Gentle hands retrieve the golden circlet as she chides “ Don’t scuff my table.” And it occurs to her that this thing has been on many a man’s head. There are little dings and soft scuffs that could have been there before resting atop its current holder.
Her hand extends to give the wearer is ornament, “There will be time to return to Tintagel. I am not sore that we cannot leave now. Dimalloc needs you and you need me. The girls will understand.” she says softly, her hand coming to push stray strands from his face.
“When will Cador return to us?” She knew very well that boys must become men, but that did not stop her concern when he was far from home.
Gorlois accepts it back & turns it between his fingers idly, watching the gold spin while he mulls over her words. ❝ I will gladly sit with them & speak about it if they do not, ❞ he answers first, frowning. ❝ & I do . . . need you, Igraine. Thank you. ❞ The smile is small, soft, but it does nothing to dismiss how harshened he yet seems. Her touch is more than welcome & gives him a few thoughts’ peace. After a moment, however, he lays the crown to the side ( gently, this time, in the hopes of leaving the table unscathed as requested ) ; his eyes tear away from it slowly. ❝ As soon as I can bring him back, my love, but no sooner. His duties are those of a PRINCE. I cannot recall him from the field in good faith or conscience just yet. ❞ The answer is fulfilling & vague all at once the answer of a desperate father & a cunning king rolled into one. What else was there to say ? Cador was simply too valuable to his campaign, though he hated to think of him so. Gorlois leans back, fingers running through his disheveled locks halfheartedly. He had never thought he would live to see the day he would send his son to their war, let alone be unable to ride at his side into that first terrifying conflict.
I don’t believe in the stars aligning. I believe in your eyes staring straight into mine. This is a connection I feel deeper than the ocean.
Dela Gaba (via frenchcandie)
It’s on the table the moment the door shuts with its final, beloved noise ; he discards it with a sigh, straightening as if a mountain has been lifted from his broad back. The former Duke shakes out his locks, not minding when the graying strands slip from behind his ears & spill over his shoulders. Even still, however, his eyes still gravitate toward IT, the crown, the foul circle laying there for him to retrieve shortly. Hatred burns in his dulled gaze, venom twisted into the fine lines folded ’neath his features there’s something driving him half - mad in that thick skull, surely, to warrant such a contortion of a usually fair face.
@igraineofcornwall.
IGRAINE.
“Silence his spirit, my love. His sound is so cruel at my ear.” She does not know whether to advance toward him and pull him back into the safety of stationary solidity, or to let him have his thoughts and beg for things to be as they were.
“The fae say death is out walking and eager to sit at shoulders. He cannot come inside for he is not invited. Do not let him leave our heels.” She doesn’t know what to do. “ Please.”
Her words make little sense, in truth, but the idea they present is easy enough to grasp. In this dreadful hour of the coming morning when all things were bare & brutal, the Duke almost wistfully longed to see a fae or even his old friend’s ghost ; anything, really, to convince him this was a mere trick of the mind or an intricate dream. That nonsense passed in a moment, the whim shaken away for familiar faith that nonetheless could offer little comfort. By Uther’s degree, he had betrayed his king no matter if Uther was his leader no longer. Salvation, Gorlois reasoned, did not welcome traitors, therefore, it would not draw into its embrace he who fell beneath a snag in the law. Such a thing weighed on him as greatly as the tasks to come, as the loss of his so - named brother. His true king. ❝ It is best we strip our tongues of his name, then, ❞ Gorlois finally reasoned, mouth set into a hard line. ❝ I invite him here no more nor welcome those of his blood into our presence. Peace, Igraine. ❞ He can’t resist it now : he yields, steps forward, raises his arms halfway in the gloom. ❝ We must make our own peace in this . . . mad time. ❞