It's interesting how both Wace and Layamon note that Geoffrey never clarifies Guinevere's ultimate fate after entering the convent in his Historia, leading to both of them asserting that nobody saw her ever again from that point forward.
The general assumption is that she stayed in that convent for the rest of her life. But then again, if that was true, why the ambiguity? It would have been easy to confirm her continued presence and eventual death... unless, of course, she left the place and covered her tracks.
I may be spitballing but maybe Geoffrey deliberately left Queen Guinevere's fate ambiguous, perhaps because he himself couldn't find any conclusive material on the subject from his given sources. Perhaps there wasn't any folklore at all to cite or there were too many wildly differing myths to decide on a single version. A later adaptation of the chronicle narratives, Historia Scotorum, instead asserts that Guinevere was captured by the Picts and imprisoned Dunbar for the rest of her life. The local folklore about Meigle's Pictish steles has a version of this idea.
What catches my eye, though, is Layamon's variant, where he alludes to the possibility of Guinevere being "sunk in the water". Now, if this were any other story, it would be simple to assume Guinevere committed suicide by drowning.
But seeing as this is Arthurian Myth we're talking about, bodies of water may not be so ordinary. In a number of folklore, the Otherworld, the land of the fairies, is often associated with, or entered through, bodies of water, such as lakes or the sea. Certain types of fairies are intrinsically tied with water, such the Gwragedd Annwn or the Mari-Morgens.
Maybe the "White Fay" has opted to flee this mortal world, leaving no trace left...
Or maybe she's just chilling in Nimue's flat at the botton of the lake idk lol
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Rowena (also known as Rowen and Ronwen), daughter of the Saxon lord Hengist and later wife of King Vortigern, who first appears in the Historia Brittonum by Nennius (though she is unnamed in this text), then Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britannia (in which she is given a name) as well as Wace's Brut and Layamon's Brut.
A/N : hello i come with another hugh character no one has ever cared about are we excited
WC : 775
TAGS : male reader, wace x m!reader, internalized homophobia (wace), reader smokes and drinks
WARNINGS : suggestive at the end. 18+ mdni
Wace's room was a veritable hotbox right now. Smoke from floor to ceiling, everything hazy and unclear. It was your fault, really, you were the one who wouldn't stop lighting something new, and Wace would just steal from whatever you were smoking.
His preferred poison hit hard in the liver. Yours, in the lungs.
Your days had narrowed down to this. Drinking and smoking with Wace whenever he came back from the hospital, watching him punch walls and rip his hair out because he refused to talk about it like a man should. Laying in his bed with a cigarette dangling from your lips, your shirt hanging off the headboard, your belt unbuckled and your fly undone.
Watching him pace the room through hooded eyes while you selfishly waited for him to notice you.
The sun's rays split the smoke like lasers in a shitty action movie. All you could feel by this point was your fingers tracing up and down your torso. From your chest, to your navel, and back up again. Staring at him. Waiting for him to stop doing what he hated so much.
Running. Waiting for him to stop running.
Because to Wace, running away is physical. You need to disappear without a trace to be a coward that runs. Like his mother. Like Barky. You have to be a jerk that doesn't say a word before you vanish, and only send a postcard every 5 or 6 years, to be a coward that runs.
Wace runs from everything, and he doesn't see it. He drowns his problems in cheap beer and silence. He thinks saying nothing will fix everything, that if he ignores it hard enough then there'll no longer be a problem.
He doesn't realize it, but he's running from his fathers death. And he's running from you, too.
Forever, he's been running from you. You can't complain. You've never bothered chasing him.
“Sit down.” You mutter out. You've noticed him swaying, and there's a hundred things in this room he could split his skull open on if he falls.
“Don't want to.” Wace whispered out, distracted, pressing his lips to the mouth of his beer bottle.
“You can't walk straight. Sit down.”
He visibly swayed again, nearly tripping up. He decided to heed your advice, and sit. Your hips are touching. He's staring at the wall still.
“How's he doing?”
“Same as fuckin’ last time, isn't he.” He spat out, before downing the rest of his beer. “Can't lift his fucking arms anymore.”
“Have you been sleeping?”
“What? Nah. Not in…not in weeks.”
He harshly set his beer aside, nearly breaking it on the nightstand. You reached out. Made him slouch and lay down the way you were.
“Might be why you've been so pissy lately.” You murmured around your cigarette, reaching out to caress his hair, your hand almost drunkenly slipping down the side of his face.
“Pissy? My dad's dying, you fuckin’ prick.” Wace batted your hand away, but you reached back to keep caressing him.
“Yeah. ‘M sorry.”
He rolled onto his back, away from you, running a hand over his face. You reached over him. Dropped your smoke in the ashtray, then leaned down til your lips were a hairs breath away from his. They brushed together, like you were coaxing him to return the gesture.
“Stop.” He muttered.
You put just the smallest sliver of distance between you two. “What?”
“Not a bloody faggot, that's what…”
He turned his head away, and you just sat there, patiently waiting for him to change his mind like he always did.
It wasn't right. You knew it wasn't right, wasn't good for your heart and wasn't worth it. You were just someone he fucked when he was stressed. You were a bi-monthly mistake and that was it. And he was a bad man, and he was violent, and every time he said “this won't happen again.”
But it did. It always did. And when it did, you saw past it all, past his fathers personality that he wore like a skin.
Wace was on top of you. And his hand was down your pants, and his mouth was on yours, and you could feel the sweat on his chest rubbing off on yours.
In an hour's time, you'd be naked in his bed, and he'd be sitting on the edge of it with his head in his hands, muttering about some mistake and you messing with his head. He'd get up and leave, he'd slam the door and leave you there with his sweat cooling on your skin.
Là alai jo merveilles querre
[J'allai là chercher des merveilles]
Vi la forest et vi la terre
Merveilles quis, mais nes trovai
[Je demandai des merveilles mais n'en trouvai point]
Fol m'en revinc, fol i alai,
Fol i alai, fol m'en revinc
Folie quis, pour fol me tinc.
[Ce que je demandais étais fou, et je me tiens pour fou].
(Wace, Le Roman de Rou, 1160~1170)
dans (Jacques Le Goff, L'Imaginaire médiéval) (Un autre Moyen Âge)
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on raising yourself from the dead - lady lazarus - sylvia plath//hebrews 11:40 - the mountain goats//cody - the killers//lady lazarus - sylvia plath//the raising of lazarus - van gogh//look what you made me do - taylor swift//lady lazarus - sylvia plath//the raising of lazarus - caravaggio//wace - the mountain goats//lady lazarus - sylvia plath
