Osgar Ghiall

Guinevak wasn’t sure if she was baffled by him or envious. To sit in a gaol cell, facing the near-certainty that it would be last place he ever saw, and to still think that he would change any of the choices that had led him there … she found herself questioning the simplest of choices, wondering about so many things if she had done things differently if it would have been better. Cynethryth wasn’t the least of those, but neither was she the only one. “You’re a far more certain person than I am. I can’t say there are things I would change, but I’m not sure that there aren’t, either,” she said, musingly. “I don’t think I could say unless I was in that moment again.” Why she was telling him this, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was easier to speak to someone she didn’t know and who didn’t know her. Perhaps talking to him, she felt as if she might understand Cynethryth better; they were of the same people after all, the same culture. Although even just talking a little made her see how different he was to Cynethryth. Just as there were people of Camelot very different to her.

Part of her wished she could say she could do something for him. Speak to Arthur, try and persuade him to have his sentence commuted. But was it a kindness to let him rot in a cell? She did not believe he would change his loyalties. How many people were in the city now who had lost loved ones to his sword? But if they insisted that there was never any room for forgivness, then this war really would never end. Death and hatred only ever bred more of the same. “Do you really think it’s so hopeless?” she asked. “That there is no chance at all for peace between our peoples?”

“Certainty is one way of putting it,” he said with a wry smile. “Most people would settle for calling me hard headed.” Perhaps that was one of the reasons he was a skilled warrior. He was stubborn and persistent, and he couldn’t seem to bring himself to regret his actions even when they had consequences. Regret changed nothing, and after spending so much time pondering his own mortality in the darkness of a cell he’d found that there was no point in wasting precious time wishing things could have been done differently. “But you could never be in the moment again,” he said with a shrug. “Even if by some sorcery you could go back in time you are a different person now the you were then. Hell, you’re a different person now that you were this morning. Once a moment has passed it’s gone forever, as is the person you were. You could waste your entire life wishing that weren’t the case, but in my experience change and death are the only two things that are truly permanent, and even then I’m not so sure about death. These are strange times we live in, after all.” He chuckled to himself, crossing his arms thoughtfully. 

At her question he sighed and some of the light left his eyes. “Honestly? I’m not sure.” What was the point in denying it? He hardly considered himself a wise man. “I wouldn’t say it’s impossible, but it sure doesn’t seem likely. Humans just aren’t built for peace. I don’t think we’d even know what to do if we achieved it. We’re animals at the end of the day, no better than cats and dogs that chase each other for the simple fact of what they are. The Saxons were wronged by the Britons and now the Britons have been wronged by the Saxons. There’s too much bloodshed between us, even if we are not so different. If someone killed your husband, your sister or even your child... would you be able to forgive them? Even if they were just following orders or fighting for what they believed in, if someone made you a widow or an orphan would you be able to just let that go? Because I wouldn’t.” 

“Fair enough,” Merry acknowledged with a nod. “I suppose you don’t have to like a man to admit to his skill.” Though she wasn’t sure if like was quite the right word for the conflict that ran so deeply between Saxons and Britons; it was far more than a case of simpy like or dislikeable, to so firmly wish to destroy each other.

She raised an eyebrow and replied archly, “Do you know many faeries personally, to say that?” It wasn’t offence that would be problem if she were a faerie; it was anger. Too much pain and frustration ran in her veins, and she had too quick of a temper to be a peaceable, gentle creature. She would gladly use her swords to protect her home and her friends, and there times when she wanted nothing more than to swing them and break something to vent some of the sheer rage that seemed to sleep, permanently coiled, inside her. “Incessant questions probably would be torturous after a while,” she had to agree, chuckling. “Perhaps I can answer a few now and you might be willing to allow me some moments of rest when you haunt me.”

“You absolutely don’t. I most certainly wouldn’t say I like the man who shot me, but I must admit his skill with a bow is remarkable, for I am quite the challenging target to hit,” he said with a wry grin. 

“Can’t say I do, but you’re a human, you know how we are. People love to talk.” He shrugged, though he made no effort to hide his curiosity as he stared at her. So she was as human as she seemed, but she had grown up in the Isle of the Faeries, serving its queen. That wasn’t something he encountered everyday. Actually he didn’t really encounter anything everyday, he was locked in an underground cell. “I assure you I can be quite persistent. It would get on your nerves faster than you’d think,” he teased, though at the offer of answers his smile widened. “I could be persuaded into leniency. Let’s start with an easy one, what’s it like there? Is the Faerie Land truly as beautiful as the stories say? And What about the faeries queen? What’s she like? Is she really that powerful- and immortal?” 

Saraide looked away for a few moments when he spoke once more, knowing that she couldn’t argue with him about that. King Arthur’s will was his own and she was lucky that she had Viviane to support and not someone who was war driven. She looked back when he told her his name, nodding after a moment, “Osgar,” she repeated before continuing, “I’m Saraide.”

It was strange to introduce himself to someone. He felt he scarcely knew himself anymore, so he didn’t know how anyone else ever could. The entire experience of sitting there talking to a Briton was surreal, but it was a welcome relief from the solitude of his cell. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you Saraide. Thank you, for the kindness and the company.” 

Months ago she had fought to heal him, praying ferociously for his health and weeping at the triumph. If she thought on it she could still remember the feeling of his broken flesh beneath her fingers, but this was different. He was as healthy as a man who hadn’t seen sunshine in a few months might be. She stopped herself from running her thumb through the stubble along his cheek, ignoring her traitorous body drawing her closer to him. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as he brought his hand to cover hers, Idelisa’s eyes finally meeting Osgar’s. There was so much there in that look. The redhead didn’t even need the verbal affirmation to know that he too felt the feelings she had quarreled against and suddenly the fight was gone from her. Lord, forgive me…she thought as she made no move to get away from him. His lips were so warm against hers. Now more than ever did she wish for the bars between them to be gone, the determination to see him freed settling even more firmly in her chest. It took a great amount of will for her to pull away from him, the hand rested on his cheek sliding from his grip until it came to rest on his chest. “Osgar I  - we shouldn’t be doing this. If my father ever found out - i’m not even supposed to be here” she whispered, a little breathless from their kiss. In spite of her words she didn’t make to move farther away. 

Osgar wasn’t a particularly controlling man, but he liked to think he kept a steady head. Never in his entire life had he felt so helpless, not even when she’d held his life in her hands. It was as if this was more delicate, more important. He  had kissed his fair share of women before, but never had he kissed with such caution. He moved towards her slowly, dreading the slightest motion from her to pull away. When his lips finally tasted hers they were soft, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. He wanted to tear down the bards between them with his bare hands and hold her. He wanted to pull her close to him until nothing remained. Instead he kissed her as if she were made of fickler stuff than glass. He feared that she might just vanish, proving to be just a conjuring of his tortured imagination meant to torment him. Or worse, he feared she might pull away. Pull back and walk out of those dungeons without a backwards glance and never come back. It could be so easy for her, she could shatter him into a thousand pieces and all she had to do was leave. As if to prove the point she pulled away, leaving him cold where her touch had lingered only moments ago. She whispered and he felt guilt washing over him. She had already risked too much for him, and yet... “I know, I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse and his eyes could not conceal his longing. “Please, just- don’t go,” he pleaded selfishly. “Just... stay with me a little longer, please. Please.” 

Guinevak was surprised that he even attempted to offer her comfort. He did not seem a cruel or unpleasant person, but even so she had assumed he would feel contemptuous of her if anything. Frankly, she felt a little contemptuous of herself. She couldn’t quite say if she believed him either; no doubt warriors did see the world differently. Even speaking with the guards and knights of Camelot, she often felt as if their experiences were poles apart and she could not understand the way they thought at times - and a Saxon’s life would have shaped her even differently. But as to Cynethryth’s fondness for her … well, it was pointless to speculate, but she couldn’t say that personally she thought it was likely. And being an obstacle didn’t exactly help with the issues that had driven her down into this darkness to begin with. But it was kind of him to try. “Thank you.”

What she thought the benefit would be of understanding him more, she couldn’t say. Returning to everyday life knowing what seemed a decent and intelligent man was rotting in the dungeons was not something she was sure she was capable of - certainly she frowned at the mention of fighting with the guards. She would have to talk to them or Sir Kay about that. The guards should not be harming prisoners, no matter who they were. “That is a good thing, I think, to be without regrets. I would like to think if our knights were to die at the hands of your people, they would feel the same, that they believe that much in what they fight for,” she mused. “Strange in a way, that for people on opposite sides you may in fact be rather alike. Or maybe not, if you think about it.”

He shrugged in response, not bothering to say ‘you’re welcome’ when he hadn’t actually helped. Neither one of them seemed convinced by his attempts to comfort her, so he simply put the notion behind him. “It’s certainly a strange thing. It’s not to say that I haven’t made mistakes.” He looked down at his hands, chuckling bitterly. “I mean look at me, gods know I’ve made mistakes. But I think there is not one that I wouldn’t choose to make again.” He was struck by how surreal this entire conversation was. He didn’t quite know what the point of it was, the two of them standing there in the dark trying to understand and comfort each other. If they were meeting in just about any other circumstances he probably would have finished what Cynethryth had started, and yet here they stood. He did not particularly want her pity, nor did he think their understanding would do either of them any good. But solitude and captivity can do strange things to a man. He no longer knew if he would ever see the light of day again, and he went to sleep every night- or day, he could not longer tell the difference- wondering if it would be his last. There were worst scenarios he could think of than trying to be understood. 

He looked at her with curiosity, not accustomed to being seen as something other than a prisoner or an enemy. That was the thing about war, everyone had their ways of dealing with the blood on their hands. The Saxons used blind hatred and rage, while the Britons glorified themselves and vilified their enemies. Neither one of them was right, but neither one could afford to consider that. “We’re all humans,” he said plainly. “We’re all either fighting for something we believe in or following orders. To think we once fought on the same side all those years ago... we’ve done a mighty good job at trying to tear each other apart, I image together we must have been a force to be reckoned with.” Too bad Vortigern screwed them all over. He ran a tired hand over his face. “This war will be the death of us all.” He smiled sadly, not really looking at the Lady anymore. “Or at least of me.” 

The cheerfulness of his tone piqued her curiosity, and she wondered if this might provide an opening to talk about the idea that had brought her down here to begin with. Leaning against one stone wall, she folded her arms and eyed him thoughtfully. “Not many men would compliment the opponent that brought them down. Some would say they just got lucky.” The difficulty was that no matter how open his mind might be, it didn’t necessarily follow that all of his people would be as well. Certainly opinions among the Britons seemed to vastly different in regards to the war.

She couldn’t quite hold back her amusement at the look on his face. It was the same every time she told someone her homeland, and even now she still found it fun to watch the utter surprise that came over them. “I think I should be offended that you think I would be easy to torment,” she remarked idly, then shrugged. “But no, I’m not a fairy. I grew up there and am shieldmaiden to the Fairy Queen, but I’m as human as you are.”

“Well I wouldn’t be worth much as a warrior if all it took was a bit of luck to bring me down.” He shrugged. While he could be short tempered among his colleagues, he didn’t consider himself particularly prideful. He was more... irritable. He sometimes felt like an old man, too tired and weary of the world. “And it’s not a compliment. It’s just the truth.” 

“You wouldn’t be a very good faerie if you’re that easy to offend.” He gave her a crooked grin, leaning back as he examined her with renewed interest. “Though if you are easily offended then tormenting you will be all the easier for me.” When she explained she was a shield maiden he wasn’t sure if things made more sense or became more confusing as a result. On one hand she did look like a shield maiden, armed and well built. From the moment she had walked into the dungeons he could tell she was no mere lady of court. But he’d also heard that faeries were meek and peaceful. “Well that only provides me with about a thousand more questions. Fortunate for my I have all of eternity to torment you. Perhaps that is how I shall spend it, bombarding you with questions and prodding you until you answer them.” 

Saraide almost cocked her head to the side as she listened to the man speak. She believed what he said without a moment’s hesitation but she couldn’t help but wonder if he was perhaps saying such things because he wanted to scare her or even simply to gauge her reaction to his words. She shook her head after a moment, “Kindness is never wasted, not even on the guilty”. That was a view that she had always had since she was a young girl and it wasn’t one that was likely to change. Despite her not replying to the things he said, she had heard them and understood, her eyes showing that. “What is your name?” she asked after a moment. 

He smiled sadly at her words, wishing he could share her views. She seemed to have a kind heart indeed, but what would a sweet young thing such as her know of the cruelty of man? “But mercy is, sweet child. Just ask you King.” There was no bitterness in his tone, no resentment behind his words. He was simply stating that which was true. At the question of his name he found himself surprised. He had not spoken to many souls since his imprisonment, and none so far -besides Idelisa- had troubled themselves with his name. There had been moments where he had lain on his cot, locked away in the dark, where it felt as if everything that he was was slipping away. Even his name sounded foreign on his tongue when he finally replied, “Osgar. My name is Osgar.” 

Idelisa fidgeted with nervousness. Weren’t those words that deep down she had been wanting to hear? Or at least some semblance of those words. She harbored a deep affection for him and it was no wonder that he would eventually take notice of it, in spite of her fight against it. The trials the Lord chose for her were undoubtedly interesting. Osgar was everything that she might want if she ever wanted a husband, which up until meeting him was something she had never given any thought to. When she had become a lady of the church she thought she had sacrificed the idea of any man desiring her in such a way. There, of course, was also the fact that he had no idea that her kindness had spurred from her failed attempt to kill him. If he knew surely he would want nothing to do with her, and she refused to think about what life might be like without him. Against her better judgement, she reached for him. Her hand resting on his cheek. The redhead wanted to force a smile, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Words didn’t readily come to her either, so she stood there frozen, “I -”

When her hand came up to his cheek he almost stepped back in surprised, but instead he froze. He stood completely still, as if afraid that moving, or even speaking might scare her away or break whatever spell she seemed to be under as she reached for him. Her touch was soft and gentle, just as it had been that day when she’d found him wretched and wounded and she’s held his life in her hands. It had seemed to him that she’s willed him back to life out of sheer determination and patience, tending to wounds that would have otherwise meant the end of him. How she could be so fierce yet so kind at the same time was beyond him. Months had passed, but to him it felt like he had known her for far more than a lifetime. She had become his world, his source of light and joy in his dark confinement. She was everything. And she was right there, only a few bars between them. He wished he couldn’t see them. Slowly, he lifted his hand to place it on top of hers. It was small in comparison, but he knew her hands, as gentle as they may feel against his skin, were no strangers to toil. He wanted to kiss every imperfection, for they only made her all the more wondrous to him. Something in his eyes caught his heart, and he leaned forward. He moved slowly, hesitantly, the crippling fear of losing her warring with wanting her. Finally desire won out, and he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against hers. 

“I thought she was,” Guinevak admitted quietly, looking down at her hands. That really was at the heart of why she was here; the feeling of betrayal, the feeling of having betrayed her in return. She wanted to know how much was real and how much had been deception. It seemed to be her lot in life, to care more for people than they did for her, and each time it happened it was like a little piece of her being chipped away and leaving only the voice of a hurt, lonely child asking: Why? Am I so unloveable? How else did a princess end up down here in the darkness of the dungeon, seeking some sort of validation from a Saxon that had tried to kill her? Looking up at him, she gave a small smile, grateful that he was compassionate rather than mocking her for her foolishness - as she would not have blamed him for doing. “Complicated doesn’t quite seem enough, somehow.” Although she couldn’t quite say that being on the same side made things any simpler. It seemed it was just the nature of the human heart to be complicated. War was just one more obstacle. She looked over at him, hearing again that sad voice in her head whispering, What if you have nothing else to define yourself by? But she couldn’t bring herself to voice that, it sounded so selfish and self-pitying, especially considering the situations they were in. So instead she asked, “What else defines you?”

It would be so easy to lie, to tell her that Cynethryth was a terrible actress so she probably actually cared for the Lady, or that she had mentioned her to him somehow and that their friendship had meant something. But if he were in the Dame’s place, he would not want to be lied to, so instead he remained silent. Any sort of validation that she sought was long lost, and to Osgar it didn’t seem to matter any more. It was done, she was gone. “I cannot tell you what you meant to her, so if that is what you seek then you are wasting your time. But if you truly cared for her, then I can tell you that she probably died with pride. Knowing her, she died content to be giving her life for a cause she believed most ardently in. As for any harm she inflicted upon you, I wouldn’t take it personally. Warriors have a different way of seeing people, the same way you can’t feel sympathy for a stranger the same way you would feel it for someone you love. It’s the only way to survive the bloodshed, and Cynethryth was one hell of a survivor. I may not have known her well, but from a few brief encounters I can tell you that few believed as passionately in a cause as she did. She probably didn’t see you as an enemy... more like an obstacle. I don’t know if that’s any better. You can grow fond of an obstacle, I suppose.” He stopped, not sure if he was making any sense, even to himself. Osgar arched a brow in surprise, curious as to why she would possibly give a damn about what defined him. It seemed more than likely she was merely trying to distract herself, but he didn’t exactly have anything better to do, and her company was better than what she was used. “A few months ago I would have told you my stellar sense of humour.” He smiled slightly, leaning back. “Though I seem to have been the only one that found it that way. Or perhaps my short temper, though that’s hardly something I’d like to define me. I can say that I’ve been forced to... adjust that aspect of myself since I got in here. Armed guards versus injured prisoner in a fight caused by my clever retorts aren’t exactly the best odds. I suppose... one thing I can say with some pride is that I will probably die soon, which means I will die a man with no regrets. i’ve believed in everything I have done, and I have not held back. I think that’s as good a thing to be defined by as any.” 

Given that there were things Merry would gladly take an arrow or see herself imprisoned for, she wasn’t about question whether or not his choices really were sound. It did give a little of the answer she had looked for, though, since although quite what the motivations for this war were, now she knew that the Saxons - or this Saxon, anyway - held to their convictions. So she smiled and shrugged and said, “But you’ve just proven me right. Your mistake was getting shot.”

She gave a wry snort, amusement distracting her from her original purpose, and held her hands up in defeat. “That is very true. You are at least being kind enough not to ambush me with your haunting. And I want you to know I deeply appreciate it.” She thought for a moment. “Hmm, what could I give you … I could tell you stories, of Fairy Land. Or would you rather something more tangible?”

“Touche.” He chuckled at her words, amused by her wit. “Though I can’t take all the credit for that. There was also a rather troublesome chap with fantastic aim to consider.” He held no particular resentment towards the soldier who had shot him. He supposed the man was either following orders, or fighting for what he believed in. The latter seemed more likely and he could hardly condemn anyone for that. That was the trouble of this war. The real enemy, Vortigern, was already dead and buried, and there were no villains left in the story. Only people with conflicting needs. 

“As you should, for you see, you have been fortunate to cross a generous dying man. Others would not have been so kind when it came to haunting you.” He grinned, though at her next words his expression morphed into one of surprise. “Tales of the Fairy Land? Don’t tell me that I’ve just threatened to haunt a fairy.” He stared at her in open shock for a few moments before recovering and smiling once again. “And here I thought you would be easy to torment in the afterlife, but if you’re an immortal magical being I’m afraid I’ll have to be more creative.” 

Saraide simply smiled when he thanked her, nodding her head before eventually speaking, “I don’t think anyone, regardless of what they did or didn’t do, should be treated like this.” She looked down the long corridor that led to the rest of the prison cells knowing that some men in there had done far worse than this man and were treated better. “But you’re here for who you are and to be targeted just for who you were born to or who you follow is a great sadness”. The small girl took a step back to let him enjoy the food in relative peace. Were the Saxons evil like people said? She didn’t think so; perhaps the Britons might be deemed just as evil. She didn’t like to judge anyone simply for what they are, that was just her nature and something that was unlikely to change. 

He glanced at the stranger in surprise, the suspicion melting away from his expression, though he remained uncertain if he should deem her sentiment kind or naive. He’d been condemned to a fate that-for many Saxons- was worse than death. But he knew that despite the tenderness in the girl’s eyes and the sincerity in her voice it wasn’t just who he was that had led him into his current situation.”It’s a pretty notion you have, but I’m afraid you’re kindness is wasted on the likes of me. I’m not just in a cell for being a Saxon.” He set down the bread, looking at her to make sure she understood the meaning of his words. “I am here because I chose to fight.” Sure, all Saxons were deemed deserving of death or imprisonment regardless of whether they’d fought in the battle for Camelot, but that was simply because they were at war. “I chose to partake in a battle that cost many people their lives, good and bad. I am grateful for the food and the gracious company, but do not mistake me for an innocent, sweet girl. While I may mean you no harm our people are at war, and I stand by the choices that brought me here.”