#pendraigon

                    the ferocity of his king evoked familiar feelings , ones that had taken him years to properly react towards. digits deftly writing with the quill before abruptly stopping. he sighs , lips parting though no words fall. instead , he looks up at his king who wouldn't take the take the hint. ❛ arthur , can't you see i'm busy ? or would you rather you spoke without your speech written for you ?  ❜

“   i   can’t   reach   that   book,   can   you   grab   it   for   me?   ”    and   she   can   already   hear   the   jokes   roll   in.    @pendraigon​.

“   this   place   seems   a   little   .   .   .   below   you.   are   you   lost?   ”    @pendraigon​.

no one said it would be this lonely.    like alice’s hymns,   there is a repeated mantra in her head.    heavy is the head that wears the crown.   when guinevere stares down at her hands,   she sees scar after scar,   callous after callous,  nothing like the gentleness of those around her,   nothing like the hands of the royals she shakes,    the softness of lips that press a kiss to the queen’s hand in a show of respect.    [    she is not naive.   a serving girl knows the talk behind the scenes,     she knows that she is subject to the gossip that befalls camelot and its allies.    ]        in their chambers,   her hands play mindlessly with the sheets,   an old habit as she awaits for him to come alongside her,   for the two of them to rest.     tresses of her hair fall against her chest as she looks up at him,   doe eyes fixating on her husband’s most beautiful features.    a prince in every sense.    there’s no question on arthur’s legitimacy,  no question the man that he has become,   the man he is always improving.   all these years she’s known him,   and her heart still skips the softest of beats.      she clears her throat,   awaiting his approach.   ❝   i know this arthur,   ❞    

the princess is not meant to lurk just behind closed doors ; she KNOWS THAT, obviously. it had never been spoken with words by the queen, but snow white had picked it up easily enough with the glaring eyes and tightness of her jaw at the sight of her stepdaughter. that will not stop snow, though, with an ear pressed to the heavy wood of the door to the great hall as she tries to make out what her stepmother is saying to her GUEST. it is not usual for the woman to have guests and snow is too aware that sometimes her sparse visitors NEVER LEAVE. snow does not know where they go, only that their horses are let out in the dead of night and their things seem to vanish before morning.

a frustrated little sigh slips from her lips as she struggles to hear ANYTHING beyond the distant impression of voices when the sound of footsteps suddenly interrupts her. they are not from behind the door - thank GOODNESS, she does not want to know what punishment her eavesdropping would incur were it caught by her stepmother - but she still whips around in a cloud of golden curls and flushed cheeks to see who has caught her. 

“ - - - these doors are beautiful. i admire them whenever i go past.” they ARE, at least, with carved figures of myth, but it is a poor lie. snow rocks back on her heels and pastes on her most BEGUILING smile. “don’t you think it is?”