trying on a metaphor
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@joyuex
a private + selective LANCELOT DU LAC of ARTHURIAN LEGEND, inspiration taken from a variety of sources ... ( by kait, twenty - five, any pronouns )
¹⁸‧ malory's lancelot is : human. he firmly believes that for him it is a choice between god and guenever, and he takes guenever. he says: this is wrong and against my will but i can't help it
they (myself) are killing me (myself again)
what made u guys pick ur url's !
𝑯𝑬 𝑰𝑺 𝑺𝑶 𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑳-𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑲𝑬𝑵 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑶𝑵𝑬 𝑺𝑶 𝑺𝑴𝑨𝑳𝑳, so keenly aware of his place in the world, his gaze too sharp for his age. How can she not accept the soil and grass? "You offer me a piece of my own realm," she observes, not unkindly. As the legends go, the spider is always kinder to children than she ever will be to grown men. Still, she asked what he would give, and he has given it willingly. The answer falls from her lips like pearls. "Very well. I will tell you that I did not create this place. It was here long before I became its mistress, and I intend to keep it forevermore."
his response is little more than a hum of mild interest, a child's curiosity sated for a fair price. for a moment, it almost appears he will leave it there — drifting away from her and back into that world of sense and wonder that belongs to children alone. but, instead, he speaks, his eyes at last falling from her and settling on the curled nest of his lap - laid palms. "you did not create this place, nor did you create me, but you can know all there is to know about both. so, another question: where did i come from? as a price, i will give you my finest dog, if you will wait for our steward to fetch it."
"my mother's domain is mine as well, but this place seems to answer to you alone." forever strange, this boy who speaks with a man's voice — as if authority was vested in him by life alone. he watches her with eyes unblinking, his hand charting a careless course through dirt and tufts of grass, a child's careless disruption of the fiber of a land that is not his own. "did you make it, or was it granted to you by another?" / @archaeval
𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑭𝑬𝑬𝑳𝑺 𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑨 𝑳𝑨𝑫𝒀𝑩𝑰𝑹𝑫 beetle crawling across her palm -- barely there yet unmissable, an honored guest and beloved friend of Jane, who gifted him that ersatz name. Ruby stood at a comfortable distance, observing but not interfering as he played with the grass. "You know well, dear boy, not to ask questions as questions." Had Jane not instructed him? I wonder this, I wonder that, it was easy to learn, surely. Still, Ruby's eyes flashed in that uncanny way of theirs, as she spoke, "What would you give me to know the answer?"
with the swiftness of a cat, he strikes — filling his hand with clods of dirt and green and proffering it to her on his upturned palm. "this is all i have to give." ever solemn, he watches her with an eagle's eyes: his face a mask of its own, broken only by the slight twitching by the corner of his nose. "if i was my mother, i would cast some spell to make it special, but i have no magic of my own. i have nothing of my own, save the name your daughter gave me and my dogs back home. so please, take this, and if it is not enough i must make you a promise for the future."
"my mother's domain is mine as well, but this place seems to answer to you alone." forever strange, this boy who speaks with a man's voice — as if authority was vested in him by life alone. he watches her with eyes unblinking, his hand charting a careless course through dirt and tufts of grass, a child's careless disruption of the fiber of a land that is not his own. "did you make it, or was it granted to you by another?" / @archaeval
tiny starter call
Ruby bought Twimble his new winter coat and adjusts how it fits on him briefly. Jane flutters in her matching coat behind him, waiting to go play in the snow.
he is a boy of endless summer: his childhood cradled by the lake's dog day laziness and softly stirring breeze. so, it's with a solemn sort of curiosity that he watches as ruby cinches the hem of his coat and tugs straight his sleeves, making sure to button him up tight before, at last, settling back to admire her work. and fine work it is; he greets it with the ghost of a smile as his fingers drift over the stiff woolen fabric and trace the curving lines of embroidery that line collar and cuff. "you have given me a gift befitting a prince. thank you, my lady." with the slightest sweep of a bow, he's off — taking jane's hand in his and tugging her towards the strangeness that is snow. he turns back only once, just as his feet find the threshold of the door, his head held high and his words lofty with the dignity of one twice his age: "i swear i shall return your kindness."
what is lancelot's?
blonde as a child
names everything "joyous"
big wet brown eyes
either sleeps in his armor or fully naked
murderous rage
very catholic
kait button
does everyone see my lancelot vision
George MacKay and Daisy Ridley in OPHELIA (2018).
𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡. 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰. 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢. some women carry a remembering that does not belong to this age. it rises like a fog around their ribs. a pull toward ancient places where their magic was never questioned.
actually my pinterest board for lancelot is so good everyone go look at it right now
my favorite non-loadbearing lancelot headcanon is that he's got one name and its "joyous" and that's what he names everything
thinking about "his word was valuable to him not only because he was good, but also because he was bad. it is the bad people who need to have principles to restrain them. for one thing, he liked to hurt people. it was for the strange reason that he was cruel, that the poor fellow never killed a man who asked for mercy, or committed a cruel action which he could have prevented."
his world is little more than four walls and a sliver of sun, the faintest hint of morning light that creeps in over the grime - soaked floor. he pays it no mind, fixated instead on the mindless thumping of fist against stone, the rhythmic beat of his heart made flesh ... it has been three days, or perhaps a thousand, he does not know for sure. he lives in the narrow scope of a moment, in every breath, in every beat of his fist, focused wholly on the hope that he might find himself free once more.
but now, something new: the screech of hinges, the scape of wood — he blinks, he stills, and, after a moment, he speaks, his voice as flat as still water, "you shall set me free or i shall rise and rip you limb from limb." / @stelegy
