So Sayeth Light

“Please, stay - “ That was what the Queen of Lothric wished to say, and it was clearly visible in her eyes; for the momentary sorrow was overwhelming, to the point that it threatened to consume her - once and for all. … But it was not for a queen to speak her mind. What she said, was: “… I should love to see thee both, if thine brother and thee would allow it. And mine regards to thine wyvern. It is a cruel season for - for many, is it not…” Her eyes, half-veiled by dark thread, stared past the beautiful armour of her beloved Lorian, and at the rotted exhaustion that was her cherished Lothric; broken, despised and idolized all at once. … Perhaps her fingers shook; perhaps not. Was it dark in the room? She - the Queen of Lothric realized she had not noticed, and her eyes opened for a brief second; their gleam having faded, like burnished copper.

Once warmth returned to the room, some of the clinging melancholy vanished - although it was as much the presence of the radiant Prince and his silent brother who carried that warmth with them. No - where the dark retreated, it found plenty of corners to hide in, amongst those lost and weary…

But, and her brief smile danced like the fire, at least in this instance, they might both know warmth.

“There must be some pillows about; please be seated. You - you never interrupt me. Either… Either of you.”

Her tone switched, adopting the timbre that a queen must carry - but something else fought its way free, and the flicker of a smile tried to show itself, once more. “… You know… Your aunt, my dearest sister… We oft sat, like this. I think… I think that the both of thee would have loved her.”

“Take him, then.”

Lorian sets Lothric in Gwynevere’s lap, the deliberateness of his movements and his averted eyes making it clear that if it wasn’t his fragile brother he was moving around, he would have unceremoniously dumped him on her. If she wanted to see them so badly, why hadn’t she left her room to seek them out? It wasn’t as if they visited many parts of the castle during the colder months. He had to stay in the warmest areas for Lothric’s sake. “Don’t get up. I’ll light the fire.”

As Lorian goes to pile logs in the fireplace, Lothric stirs, grasping for her hand, hooking his clawed nails in her sleeve. The sickly warmth of his skin seeps even through the heavy fabric of his robes. There was no use trying to prevent his fevers; the best they could do was give him willow or elderflower tea to take the edge off. He smells heavily of sour sweat and incense fruitlessly meant to cover up the stink of his unwashed robes. Winter was never easy, but he’d made it through 16 of them so far, and he’d make it through this one too, for better or worse. 

“Vile stagnation…” Unable to restrain her laughter, Gwynevere hid her eyes beneath her hand, uncertain as to why she’d hid them, instead of her lips; though perhaps it was because she knew well enough that hiding her laughter would prove impossible. When the laughter finally receded, the Princess rose to her full height, curtsied, and then… Took a smart seat next to the ‘dragon’,  resting her hands against the mess of silks that had fallen around her legs. Some more of her mirth faded, as her fingers drew tense around skin - and for a minute, the ambience of the day threatened to overcome any further words from her. But then, the flashfire of her smile lit up once more, and she glanced from her knuckles to his eyes - and her unwavering gaze stayed there, resolute. “Thou art a master warrior, Knight Captain, though I do not fear thy skill at arms.” Motioning for him to sit next to her - and with a firm grin that made it clear refusal was out of the question - silence returned, and her mirth fell a bit more, though just as briefly. “… I spoke of mine work with Sir Gough, who gave to me some semblance of instruction; but I fear thou hast already stumbled upon the crueler wyrm. But… But.”

Whatever she wrestled with was kept well-hidden, communicated in glances and half-gestures. But just as the sun fell from behind clouds, she could not stay so pensive - and, her legs kicking up into the air at the half-begotten dragon’s side, Gwynevere stared up at Ornstein - eyes radiant.

“You would give your life, then… I hope to mine fullest, such a terrible oath shall never come to pass. But! Thine promise comes with a price, for, I do have a minor request of thee.” Gwyndolin, as ever he did, had found a way to give her the gift of time. And the cost of such a gift was acting on it - her hands took his, however briefly, and she dared not blink, watching his expression intently. “There is a - I believe it is a festival dedicated to the harvest of the hardwood trees, and their fruits. Mine presence was requested - I did intend to go. And I know it is a stretch, but…” Her grasp tightened, for a moment. “… Go with me?”

—  || ☨

Ornstein remained kneeling as Gwynevere broke into peals of bright and bell-like laughter, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as good humor danced in the grey like the swirl of her skirts. It pleased him to see the Lady of Gentle Sunlight indulge in such carefree whims – and truth be told, her efforts did much to lighten his own spirits from the weight of its cares.

The glint in his eye matched her own. “I shouldst hope thou dost not fear me at all, Princess, for what reason wouldst thou hast to do so? Save, perhaps, for those pursuits at which I am unskilled, but I shall fail to mention them for the sake of my pride.”

When Gwynevere patted the ground beside her, he knew the command for what it was, and needed not the further enticement of her dimpled grin to take the open spot at her side – though he certainly appreciated the sight of it, bright and beaming and, in this moment, all for him.

“To confirm that I have indeed seen fiercer foes than this shouldst not devalue the product of thine efforts here.” He reached out, one long arm stretching over her shoulder, in order to further examine the ferocious foe she’d constructed from wood and paper. “Gough aided thee well. It carries a fine semblance indeed, though perhaps with some… artistic deviations.” A small, secretive smile, and he tapped the side of his nose. “Nothing that cannot be forgiven, of course.”

For all that he next expected her to ask him to fell the “dragon” that she had created, perhaps acting out one of his previous battles, the request was a far gentler one.

“My lady, thou hast but only to ask; in mine own heart I hath no wish or will to refuse, and I doubt such a request is one that thy Lord father wouldst deny. ‘Tis only sound prudence to request the presence of an escort, after all.

Privately, of course, she understood entirely. Intricacy was a strange thing; it had to be navigated like a river, and unless the person opposite you knew the dance as well, it was all too easy to become lost amidst the current... Just as the demands of her station had limited her from some of the thing she wished so desperately to claim as some talent or skill, so too were her Fathers’ Knights bound by their oaths. She pulled her knees closer to her chest, and remained silent - though still smiling, especially at his praise. It had been - a stupid vanity to set this all up, for his sake; or rather, for hers, though to admit would’ve been a terrible sin...

“I do not... Fear thee...” Gwynevere began, quietly - the timbre of her voice low enough that it was hard to understand if she were being serious, or if the wind had carried away what she had meant to say - however faint and gentle the wind itself seemed.

He already knew, for of course he was no stranger to the rootless currents; and her demeanor, her joy, her manners - all had betrayed her, perhaps not only to he.

Which meant, perhaps, there was nothing else to lose.

Plucking a (rather sad) alleyway flower and placing it between her lips, Gwynevere turned her eye to the faint sky above - and then to his own, and her voice did not falter... Despite the phantom of a smile.

“Mine command is that I should have a companion present. Mine... I shall be guarded more than prisoners, soon enough. So, mine wish - knowing that thine will and heart are in unity - is for thee.” Her eyes shut, and her slight grin betrayed little.

Kesha – Rainbow Album { sentence starters } || accepting

    It was easy to say, thewitch said to herself back in her mind. Her arms were wrapped aroundher own body, wanted to protect herself from all this harm they haddone to her with their words. At first when she had came to the cityof gods, after the chaos flame turned her home into a ruin full ofdemons, she was overwhelmed by all this beauty and divinity. Nothingill had came to her mind when she saw the golden city, Anor Londo butsoon after her mother disappeared and the protecting wing above herhead was gone – the people, who had been so kind at first, becamehostile towards Quelavah. They called her demon and bringer of chaos,the demons deep down in lost Izalith would surely be lured to theirhomes by her mere presence. They wanted her to be gone like hermother did.

    Since then no day passedwithout insults or deadly gazes towards her. They did not believeLord Gwyn allowed her to stay as a guest, a guest who had failed themall. Not only in these days she found shelter in the great cathedral. Gwynevere was always good to her, even after the huntafter the young woman had started. Quelavah forced herself to a weaksmile, wanted to show the goddess, that she was not defeated yet. Shelied to herself in that matter, she could not bear it any longer andnot rarely she considered to journey to lost Izalith, claiming herhome back from demons’ claws. But that was insane.

    “Maybe I should leavethe city, the Duke might find a purpose for me in his archives.”She said, playing with the sleeve of her robe. “They do not harm mephysically but it still hurts. They say it is my fault, yet I wasnever part of the ritual itself.”

It hurt to be so cruel; for it seemed like so long that the endless summer days of her youth had clung to her - and the faith she had felt for the people of the great city had burnt, too -

But still there were those worthy of hope, and if by clinging to that hope she might yet protect even one soul from this storm, Gwynevere felt resolved that she might. Quelavah was not weak, not some pawn to be discarded because there was talk - monstrous talk! - of abandoning Izalith entirely, as if it had never existed... As if it were nameless.

So Gwynevere steadied her anger, and instead focused on the love she cherished beyond all other things. And she smiled down at her dear friend, and made it clear that even if they both felt powerless, not now nor ever would she abandon the other.

“Mine Uncle is dear, truly... And a wise soul. His temperment has been - capricious, as of late, but - I know in thine aid, he would find a treasured friend and confidante.”

But the words held a bit, made it clear that - so long as this place offered Quelavah some semblance of security, she was welcomed to stay... For as long as she wished.

The sound of the stein crashed against the table.

“It isn’t fair. After all the patience thou hast shown to their bickering games, they move to keep thee hidden… Dost thou remember when I called them jackals? T’was too kind.” She could not, of course, grow inebriated - but it was a facet of who she was, and what she must present to the people. The same people, she reminded herself, that would be denied a view of their patron of the Dark Sun, because it might ‘upset’ them… … Her brow knit in embarrassment at the outburst, and she bowed her head low in apology. “Ah… Mine heart spoke out of tune with mine lips, dearest sister… Though I do stand by my words.” Even without that new mask he wore, his eyes were so somber - and saw so much. Gwynevere mulled her words carefully, like the mead from that province, blessed with its bounteous floodplains…

“I do not wish you to be uncomfortable, sister. But I beg thee - a quick appearance, without telling them. I… I know that if they just see you, for but a moment, they will respect you! And they shall love you as I do, as the sun loves the moon..!” Stammering from formal to informal speech, she drew back breath, and wondered when he had become so regal. Yes. They would accept him, they must - “Just one appearance, at your own debut. That is all I ask. You are not some treasure, to be - to be hidden away, and left uncherished..!”

( 陰の太陽 ) — 

Gwynevere’s outburst took him by surprise. It hardly showed, of course. He flinched little, but only his eyes betrayed him, trained on his sister. He remained silent. The whites of his eyes, however, were clearly visible through the golden mask he wore though little else of his face could be seen. I would have been the polite thing, proper, to refute her claims. But, it would have been wrong to do so. She had every right to be angry, especially since he felt he did not. A part of him, disquiet, wanted to encourage her. After all, what she said was true.

He remained silent, though. His head dipped, eyes pulled away from her to hide the truth in them he was certain she would see. Her apology, however, the idea that she made to recant forced his gaze back up, his back straight. His mouth opened and he frowned.

He looked sad, he knew, if anything. She would see it. The fact that he was ever the cause of her upset troubled him, regardless of how appropriate it was or not. As she continued, her thoughtfulness forced his frown to fade until only somber silence remained. His mouth closed and he grew, in her wake, thoughtful.

He did not wish to disappoint her. But, perhaps more importantly, he did not wish to disappoint himself. He drew a breath before he spoke, still forcing his eyes down from her, away.

His tone was quiet, steady and yet hollow somehow. She would read it like a book, hesitation.

     “ It… it doth seemed flawed, sister, to have a party on my behalf without mineself. ”

The admission, already, was a start.

     “ I have no desire to render father’s guests speechless, however. As none should.      He will tire of hearing only himself talk after a time. I— ”

He paused in his words, the sentence beginning left incomplete. He sighed and then—

     “ It is too much, is it not? ”, he asked, finally, the question strangely gentle.

And at that, his head lifted and he made to find her eyes, straight on. The mask was his gift, his pride. At last, he was given a place among the family even if he were to forever remain in shadow. He was proud of it, too. Perhaps overly so, he wondered. Did it suit him? Did he look truly out-of-place among rays of golden sun?

Perhaps that was why. His father knew; they all knew, he guessed. It was better if he was celebrated in name alone, to rise like the moon only long after everyone had departed and drifted to sleep. To pretend he was anything else would be a lie.

And how they had loved her showered her with thanks and adulation undeserved would he truly be greeted so differently

... It felt like such a flimsy thing, this white prison.

Her eyes shifted to the mask he wore, its radiance - like him! - so beautiful, so much so that it almost moved her to tears, and yet nothing she said would change this detente, this wretched separation from what she wanted and what must be -

As always, it boiled down to that man.

She said nothing - for to speak ill of their Father was a sin, as much as any other thing. And she did love him, after all - But uncompleted words painted a picture as strongly as any other he had completed, and...

No.

She was not some powerless wretch, earthborn and low. She was the first daughter of the Lord of Sunlight, and her word was - in his absence, at least - as righteous as Law.

Her lips terse as his grew, all the more so, she held her fingers to his chin, and looked straight into his eyes - only just visible behind that golden crown. And she smiled, her own drawing shut - knowing that he deserved it more than so many times she had called it forth.

“Thou art truly beautiful, sister. If t’were me, witnessing the two of us, I should find thee the fairer. And thy austere countenance, and the silver of thine hair... If thou art not worthy of adulation, it is because thou art more worthy than mineself. There will be a day when I am forgotten, dear sister, yet men honour thy name. I swear it..!

It always sounded like hyperbole when she spoke; this, Gwynevere knew. But at the same time, the earnest truth of it must dispel his doubts; make Gwyndolin know that even should they falter beneath their Father’s crown...

Once warmth returned to the room, some of the clinging melancholy vanished - although it was as much the presence of the radiant Prince and his silent brother who carried that warmth with them. No - where the dark retreated, it found plenty of corners to hide in, amongst those lost and weary...

But, and her brief smile danced like the fire, at least in this instance, they might both know warmth.

“There must be some pillows about; please be seated. You - you never interrupt me. Either... Either of you.”

“You will all leave.” She intoned haughtily, and the way the discomforted attendants filed out, one after the other, nearly amused her to tears. It wasn’t right, of course; she felt certain that odd old man Father kept so close to, Lloyd, had done similarly… But in this situation, it just felt right. And with the pleasant silence restored at point of authority, Gwynevere bounded over to her cherished sister, trailing draping red silks that had been intended to look like some kind of fire, or perhaps the sunrise. The ones she had adored, a softer pink, fading to orange had been prohibited for being too festive, which she found… Odd. It was all quite odd. “Let them find thee, then. Whatever shall they do? Bray more, like jackals or asses..? Ah…” The shoes had to go, of course. Her eyes burnt with an anger that she hoped he did not understand, not yet, might never understand - already understood.

“Well, then… If thine patterns are predictable to them, we must simply grow unpredictable.”

And she was soft, and not particularly strong, but the heavy wooden bar slid readily into place, and she felt just a little smug about that, as she motioned to the pile of pillows that her retinue had insisted upon - and smiled, more softly than she’d felt herself smile in… A month, perhaps? Time had gone so quickly…

“Please, sister. I’ll put on some tea. White tea, I think?.. Now tell me, just what happened - all of it - this time.”

( 陰の太陽 ) —

Her frankness with him— a certain sense of humor that only she carried— was never lost on him. And at her words, the question posed, he huffed a laugh and dipped his head, a greeting— a show of gratitude, in truth— to her before he followed after her, further into the room. It did not take his sister long to realize the most direct source of his plight. He took the nearest seat and ruffled his skirts to the side before pouncing at the opportunity to free himself of the aforementioned foot prisons. A sigh of relief left him as the first tumbled to the floor with a brutal clack—

He paused as he unlaced the second, turning his gaze up at her. A look of bewilderment almost stuck in his face, surprise at what she suggested.

Of course, from her, he expected no less. And for the briefest moment, he grinned.

The second shoe was gone just as quickly and he turned to see his sister approaching, inviting him to a better seat, more comfortable. Barefooted, he jumped up with his usual grace and clicked across the ground toward the pillows she had indicated. With a deep breath, he found he fell to them with just as much ease and relaxed. He nodded as she spoke.

     “ I am certain you can guess the whole of it. ” His head nodded, back toward his shoes.      “ If they think to make me some sort of show, entertainment, I would sooner die. ”

He paused for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he nodded once more. He settled in.

“I do not comprehend. If I am allowed to walk as I please, then surely they must let thineself do the same. Wretches... Utter wretches...”

Fortunately, it was the same thing that had caused the tempest of emotions upon her face that freed her of them. Alone together, with him, there was nothing she desired more than to protect him... Though it felt her ability to do so was being stolen from her, by the day.

Still. The tiniest of smiles crept back onto her face, as she took in his grin; and his own radiance filled her with life. (And if she kicked his shackles under her divan with one last burst of fury, well - only the two of them would know.)

“... Thine skirts are truly beautiful today, sister. Perhaps they were just jealous of thine radiance; could one truly blame them?...” Of course one could, and she did. But outside, the sound of angry conversation was faint, even breaching this little sanctum - and though the hydra’s head was rent, and the ministers plenipotentiary dared not risk entry without permission of her Father, she knew full well their time must be spent well. Propping spare pillows against the cracks to further soundproof the room, Gwynevere grinned at him, a little wryly.

“Shall we - wouldst thou like to have some other kind of lesson today, then? I cannot remember where we left off, but dearest Havel did bring me some peculiar books... Ah! And, on my trip to the Delta, I found thee some watercolours; I do not know if they suit thee, but...”

Gesturing out the window, the Prince directed his sister’s attention to the distant courtyard. Some of the Silver Knights were still clamouring about, perhaps enjoying a moment’s reprise before they continued home to their own residences. It had been a long journey back to Anor Londo after all. Even Lord Gwyn and Captain Ornstein had already gone, but General Havel could still be seen conversing with the remaining knights.

“... This powerlessness of mine. But, if I might encourage thee... Well, perhaps the best manner to do that would be letting you rest, hmn?”

What was there to say? Resentment hung in her silence, choking her like a vise. As ever, he created in silence, and only she might appreciate it - and once again, she ran. There was no she might hide it beneath a protective dark - because he would see, had always seen, and would surely see through her now. … His words, when they finally breached that silence, cut to her more than any she had heard. To look at this and think of him, alone… She fell to her knees, and grew silent as the grave, strands of mourners’ white fluttering around her. And she had heard that it was the custom, now, of fine nobles, to bury their dead all in white, and she wondered, bitterly, if that, too was in tribute to her powerlessness… But. He had asked what she’d wished to see, even if he might have already known. And there was no time left for tears. Her shadow grew close behind her as she rose from where she’d knelt, draping a hand across the easel, to the reflection of a woman who seemed so small… And she gestured to the evening sky, and smiled. “… It might be difficult, but there is a beautiful person, I cherish dearly. And if thou couldst draw them, in their fine blue and white raiment, so that I might not be so terribly lonely…” Her fingers almost touched the portrait, hesitated near his shoulder. “And perhaps, if thou couldst paint a smile on the figure in the centre, there. I think - I think that should make it perfect.”

( 陰の太陽 ) —

     “ Thou asks for much of me, sister. ”

The words fell, quiet, but did not seem stunted or out of place. If anything, there was a sort of endearment, fragile humor, in them. And surely, the gentlest of huffs left him moments later, confirmation, as he rose and moved to her side. He was silent again as he shifted. Then, drawing a breath, he reached a hand out and, fighting against the fabrics they both wore, took her own. He did not make to look at her, thought. His eyes, as ever, remained firmly forward, thoughtful. He would do his best, he decided, to make her wish come true.

     “ I would hardly call them beautiful. ”, he noted, eyes falling on his own figure.

He had been required to insert himself in the frame, this gift for his sister, to take with her as she left. It was a way to remember him, he supposed, though he had decided some time ago she would be better off without any memories of the place. What good could come of wanting for something that could not be had? He knew that path well enough.

     “ Perhaps… ”, he began again, head tilting slightly. He seemed to fight for agreement.      “ Perhaps it is that such things are better captured in water, still. ”

He paused to shift where he stood, turning away from the painting and toward her, letting go of her hand as he did so. His eyes, at last, searched for hers. He gave a faint smile, thinking of her own.

“Truly, do I ask too much of thee... Mine selfishness knows no end. Yet ask of thee, I must - for no other might do this thing, for me. You know this well.”

Gently, she met his eyes - no. This, she would not forget. Even if the fire died, and when it did, she too was snuffed out; even if she was but that man’s caged bird, even if it all was for naught...

His every movement was so dedicated, so precise. Even with her request, as - as foolish as it might be, the care he took showed in every stroke; a tiny maze of colours and memories, painted into life where the real thing had grown distorted by it all. ... Perhaps it was dangerous to dwell too much on such things. But the comfort it gave her was undeniable. She clung to it - like a torch, in the darkness... And, perhaps, she could give something to him; her laughter fading to the gentle, encouraging warmth that she had felt so lost within her.

“You will find, of course, that this task is one I could not trust to any other - you must know it has given me fitful dreams, for some time - I could scarce sing nor write, Sir Ornstein…” Throughout the wide roads of Anor Londo, her words echoed; though the alleyways that the Princess of Sunlight took were surely unfamiliar to her, or at least should have been; though so implicit did her trust seem that it was, perhaps, an impossibility in her mind it might be betrayed. And though she remained at a somewhat cautious distance, mandated by decorum… So too did she stop, leading him forward by his hand, whenever her companion faltered. Finally, their destination reach, she held a sun-kissed hand to her face, and withheld a terrifying screech! … Before them, someone had constructed an object, or target, perhaps - one of wood and paper and paint. It clearly bore the shape of a dragon, though somewhat amateurishly… “… I was aided with the paint, you see. My original attempt was less - regal.” Her tiny huff of laughter made it clear just who had helped with that. And Gwynevere brought her arms to her chest, and bobbed her head low - perhaps to hide her smile. “You see, I realized there were no more dragons to slay, so I - I felt I might give you one, to see your valour, once more.”

—  || ☨

Gwynevere gave no indication of where she intended to lead him, but still the Knight Captain followed her without hesitation. Through winding ways they walked as the Princess spoke of distraction, of distress, even though the sun shone gentle and fair upon the day.

Though her restrained shriek startled him true, the sight of the source of her unrest was not as dire as he feared.

“Bright one!” He gasped in theatrical fear, writ large and wounded across both body and face. “Thou wouldst startle the heart from this poor knight, bringing him to face one of his greatest foes without so much as a whisper of warning!”

Curious, he stepped forward to examine the ingenious – if somewhat haphazard – creation that stretched its thin wings to the sky. “‘tis fitting, though, that even thine hands couldst not bring true regality to this creature’s fearsome countenance. A dragon’s innate foulness cannot help but seep through to corrupt its outer form, even if-” And here he tapped a finger against the hint of a smile on his lips, eyes twinkling with the mischief shared between them. “-that form is paint and paper rather than scale and stone!”

Whatever she wrestled with was kept well-hidden, communicated in glances and half-gestures. But just as the sun fell from behind clouds, she could not stay so pensive - and, her legs kicking up into the air at the half-begotten dragon’s side, Gwynevere stared up at Ornstein - eyes radiant.