ellarose
babe with the power
“Can you imagine the look on Arthur’s face if he knew that I could best his most prestigious knight in battle?” Guinevere stands tall and triumphant, but smiles like a child as she sheathes her sword. “Can you?”
Lancelot shakes his head and laughs as she helps him to his feet. She watches expectantly as he recovers, dusting himself off and sheathing his own blade with a practiced sort of ease.
“'Cause it would be priceless.” Guinevere adds through a smile that never wavers, still high off her win. Lancelot, being the good sport he is, returns it.
“I wouldn't doubt it, Guin--” Then he clears his throat, as he tends to do whenever he realizes he’s treated her a bit too familiarly. He bows his head slightly, abashed. “-- my lady.”
This is where the illusion shudders and shatters. Her smile vanishes along with it and she wrinkles her nose. Formalities. Gross. She'll never get used to them. Besides, it's not like she’s his queen. Not yet, anyway.
Guinevere needs these temporary escapades like she needs air in her lungs. The wind in her hair, the freedom to move and express herself however she pleases. She is more at home when she stands beneath the sky, no matter how dark and foreboding it might be, than she ever will be within castle walls. No matter how safe it might be. Arthur seems to think that he's going to change her mind. She can tell when he charts the freckles on her face with his eyes, when his stare lingers on the scar beneath her eye. He must think he's rescuing her from the life she had before. But what he doesn't know is that when she has her sword in hand, there is nothing for her to doubt-- least of all herself-- because she is one hell of a good fighter, a force to be reckoned with, a storm with skin. Not the awkward, unrefined fool, scrutinized under a microscope by royals in court.
“Remind me when I'm queen. I’ll have you executed for your insolence.” Guinevere huffs with a faux imperious air, turning away from him. She can hear him grapple with himself for a response, undoubtably scouring his mind for a way to compromise between her views and Arthur’s, to remain in both of their good graces at once. It's not an easy feat and she knows he takes his status as Arthur's knight seriously. It should be enough that he spars with her at all... so she supposes she'll let him live. But she isn’t paying attention to Lancelot anymore. Instead, her gaze is fixed on the sky, on the graying underbelly of the clouds. “It’s getting dark.”
“It is. We ought to head back.” Lancelot seems grateful for the change of subject. But Guinevere is less concerned with the night’s approach than she is with a certain woman. A woman whose sharpest glare could rival an icy stake through the heart. Goosebumps perk up on her arms.
Sparring with Lancelot kept her warm until this point. Now it's time to face reality. Cold castle floors and cold gazes from anyone she might pass in the halls. And especially cold gazes from-- Morgan.
Their lesson.
“Shit's sake! I’m not gonna to make it back in time.” Guinevere holds a hand over her eyes, massages her brow with her fingertips. Untamed wisps of blonde hair frame her face and stick to her forehead, still slick with sweat. There isn’t nearly enough time for her to bathe and comb her hair and make it to her lesson without missing it entirely. “Oh... she’s gonna kill me.”
“Who?”
“Morgan. Morgan is going to kill me.” Guinevere emphasizes and begins to pace. Unenthused as she is about these ‘lady-in-training lessons’, she isn't so indifferent to her circumstances that she would skip them on purpose. It's an honest, innocent mistake, really, to forget the time this way. Even so, she doesn’t envision Morgan listening with a sympathetic ear when it comes to excuses. A proper lady doesn't make excuses. A proper lady doesn't need to make excuses. But surely Morgan doesn't need to be told that Guinevere is, perhaps, the farthest thing from a proper lady.
“Now, now. She's not going to kill you.” Lancelot smiles like it's funny. But it isn’t funny.
“She hates me.” Guinevere presses.
“She doesn’t hate you.” Lancelot reassures.
“Yes, she does.” Guinevere reaffirms.
They carry on like this, just far enough away that they don't hear the deep, guttural growl of something beastly yet distinctly mechanical lurking nearby.
Lancelot shakes his head and laughs as she helps him to his feet. She watches expectantly as he recovers, dusting himself off and sheathing his own blade with a practiced sort of ease.
“'Cause it would be priceless.” Guinevere adds through a smile that never wavers, still high off her win. Lancelot, being the good sport he is, returns it.
“I wouldn't doubt it, Guin--” Then he clears his throat, as he tends to do whenever he realizes he’s treated her a bit too familiarly. He bows his head slightly, abashed. “-- my lady.”
This is where the illusion shudders and shatters. Her smile vanishes along with it and she wrinkles her nose. Formalities. Gross. She'll never get used to them. Besides, it's not like she’s his queen. Not yet, anyway.
Guinevere needs these temporary escapades like she needs air in her lungs. The wind in her hair, the freedom to move and express herself however she pleases. She is more at home when she stands beneath the sky, no matter how dark and foreboding it might be, than she ever will be within castle walls. No matter how safe it might be. Arthur seems to think that he's going to change her mind. She can tell when he charts the freckles on her face with his eyes, when his stare lingers on the scar beneath her eye. He must think he's rescuing her from the life she had before. But what he doesn't know is that when she has her sword in hand, there is nothing for her to doubt-- least of all herself-- because she is one hell of a good fighter, a force to be reckoned with, a storm with skin. Not the awkward, unrefined fool, scrutinized under a microscope by royals in court.
“Remind me when I'm queen. I’ll have you executed for your insolence.” Guinevere huffs with a faux imperious air, turning away from him. She can hear him grapple with himself for a response, undoubtably scouring his mind for a way to compromise between her views and Arthur’s, to remain in both of their good graces at once. It's not an easy feat and she knows he takes his status as Arthur's knight seriously. It should be enough that he spars with her at all... so she supposes she'll let him live. But she isn’t paying attention to Lancelot anymore. Instead, her gaze is fixed on the sky, on the graying underbelly of the clouds. “It’s getting dark.”
“It is. We ought to head back.” Lancelot seems grateful for the change of subject. But Guinevere is less concerned with the night’s approach than she is with a certain woman. A woman whose sharpest glare could rival an icy stake through the heart. Goosebumps perk up on her arms.
Sparring with Lancelot kept her warm until this point. Now it's time to face reality. Cold castle floors and cold gazes from anyone she might pass in the halls. And especially cold gazes from-- Morgan.
Their lesson.
“Shit's sake! I’m not gonna to make it back in time.” Guinevere holds a hand over her eyes, massages her brow with her fingertips. Untamed wisps of blonde hair frame her face and stick to her forehead, still slick with sweat. There isn’t nearly enough time for her to bathe and comb her hair and make it to her lesson without missing it entirely. “Oh... she’s gonna kill me.”
“Who?”
“Morgan. Morgan is going to kill me.” Guinevere emphasizes and begins to pace. Unenthused as she is about these ‘lady-in-training lessons’, she isn't so indifferent to her circumstances that she would skip them on purpose. It's an honest, innocent mistake, really, to forget the time this way. Even so, she doesn’t envision Morgan listening with a sympathetic ear when it comes to excuses. A proper lady doesn't make excuses. A proper lady doesn't need to make excuses. But surely Morgan doesn't need to be told that Guinevere is, perhaps, the farthest thing from a proper lady.
“Now, now. She's not going to kill you.” Lancelot smiles like it's funny. But it isn’t funny.
“She hates me.” Guinevere presses.
“She doesn’t hate you.” Lancelot reassures.
“Yes, she does.” Guinevere reaffirms.
They carry on like this, just far enough away that they don't hear the deep, guttural growl of something beastly yet distinctly mechanical lurking nearby.