It was disasterous...
     No, not merely disastrous but splendidly, stupendously disastrous. With all the force and fire, weight and destruction of a comet hitting the earth, Yseult's refusal to run away with Drustan, to allow for their love, decimated the knight. Laid him out and laid him low.
     By the time he returned to Camelot from his amazingly disastrous and singular invasion of Cornwall, the Cornish Prince was an empty shell. Well, not quite empty. He was full of ale and wine.
     The passing of several nights didn't see him any better. In fact, most didn't see him at all. It's full spring, tournament season -- if there be not a war to fight, rather -- and one of Arthur's greatest champions has been sight unseen for going on a week.
     So, having said all that...
     It's late afternoon, spring's blush still a hue upon the world, the air and clouds are orange and pink. Red and gold. Like his lady's hair. It's the first time in a week that he's left his quarters, and he looks it. Black hair still has straw in it from where he passed out last and he smells of barley. Hard to believe that under that rough, yet still handsome exterior is one of the greatest lovers and knight-bards of the court. There he is, ladies and gents, shuffling his way through the courtyard toward the blooming apple trees that grow in the king's garden, and on all sides of the walls.

     The courtyard is alive with movement as people bustle about in a flurry of brightly hued colours. Young ladies brush past you, giggling at being so close to the handsome night, despite how he may look right now. They laugh shrilly as they knock into each other, sending apples bouncing out of their hand baskets...sending them to scurry about after them.
     Men gather in clumps beneath the trees, some leaning against them, some snacking on the fruit within reach.... all enjoying the lovely afternoon. Conversations vary from tournament strategies to eligible women for marriage...or otherwise. If their conversations lean toward anything less than chaste, they lower their voices as those they are not close friends with draw near.
     And amidst all the commotion and bustling, one moves calmly through it all. She seems calm yet troubled at the same time, giving her an unsettling presence to some...while making her seem all the more wise and worthy of counsel to others. It is a common expression upon the face of the High King's half-sister.
     Morgaine passes through the courtyard carrying a basket full of recently collected herbs and wildflowers. Her dark green skirts trail behind her as she moves.

     If he were drunk, rather than sobering from last night's drink, he would have swung about one of those giggling girls into a dance, he's a fine enough dancer, and given her reason to blush as well as giggle. But to the chiming bell sounds of the laughter of young women, Drustan barely turns an eye...
      ... And the gaggle of knights, well... here comes Lord Gossip himself. And the men of court are no more immune to it than the self-same ladies they tease for it. Not a few eyes tend toward the Prince in Exile, Cornwall Expelled, as he makes his way, aimlessly and hollowly for the grove. Incest. That's what they whisper about. Cuckolding. Fornicating. Hell, and my packing for it. But Drustan doesn't look at them either. If they have anything to say, let them be men enough to say it to his face so he can beat them into wood pulp...
     Like a moth to flame, lady...
     Your calm air pulls him in. Drustan actually stops his downcast wandering to turn to look at you as you pass. And sudden life comes to his eyes. Like magic. "My lady," Drustan says, and his calling out gets a few onlookers. He can't go anywhere without prying eyes anyway. "A word... if I might?"
     There is a desperation in his dark blue eyes, Morgaine. An intense energy that sucks at him. That love... that is eating him alive. And he is in pain, as much as he's under a cloud of gloominess. Pity, for one so talented and otherwise handsome, to have such... or choose such... a miserable existence.

     Let the eyes pry. She cares not. Morgaine pauses in her steps and turns her face toward the owner of the voice calling to her. "Ah, good afternoon, my lord..." comes her silken, calm voice flowing over you like the gentle waves of a quiet ocean. "A word? Of course." The smile which follows the words is genuine and simple, in no way mocking or teasing...nor flirting.
     With a tilt of her head and a flick of her free hand, she motions toward the nearby grove. "Shall we leave prying eyes to speak at our leisure, my lord?" she suggests wisely. This gets more onlookers watching. Her head moves toward them... or does it? Either way, her gaze finds each and every one of them, seeking out their own gazes, daring them to step forward and say a damned thing. None of them do and actually look away...as most are too cowardly to actually speak up. She is the king's own sister, half-blood or not, and a Daughter of Avalon. Her tongue is known to be sharp enough to cut to the bone when necessary.

     "I suppose they think that because I once cuckolded my own father with my step-mother that I'm apt to seduce my own cousin as well," comes the bone dry drawl. Speaking his own scandal perfectly loud enough for a good many of the nearest onlookers at-hand to hear. Your tongue and Drustan's own combined could slaughter whole armies of them.
     But he turns serious soon enough and the rabble is ignored. He follows you to the nearby grove. He is quiet for much of the journey. "I need your help, Lady Cousin," he whispers. Ah, magic help. Well, he needs another potion like he needs another hole in his head. Or his heart. "A poltice, potion, a locket, anything. I'd drink hemlock, but it'd only give me a hangover," speaking of his iron stomach and his more recent reputation as a drunk.
     Drustan sighs mightily, arms crossing the broad chest, his eyes going to the blossoms of the apple trees. Dark eyes are narrowed. Not in thought, but in pain. "Is there no ... potion or... magic that could make this... agony go away? For she has made her choice," and it's not Us. It's not me.

     As she turns her back on the onlooking crowd to lead the way, Morgaine forgets about the crowd easily. No, that's not true. She never truly 'forgets' anything...just brushes it aside. There are more pressing issues now. She can tell by your demeanor, by your comments, by your movements.
     Your comment about seducing your cousin merely gets a snort and a shake of her head. "Idleness from the lack of war leaves people to find amusements for themselves. Unfortunately, those of less intelligence fall prey to gossip," she murmurs just before moving into the grove.
     Now to the present concern...your well-being and state of mind. Once within the embrace of the long shadows of trees, she turns toward you and halts. "She rejected your offer..." It is not a question. It is a statement. She knew even before you returned to Camelot...the Sight has always been strong with her. Sighing and dropping her head to shake it a moment, she runs through an entire list of herbs, potions, tinctures and other magics before looking back up at you. "Cousin, I won't lie to you.. it is not so simple. A woman's heart is a tricky thing to play with. To make the pain away... that is a bit more simple, but I fear you may not like your choices." She has always been so honest with you.

     It stings when you say it. It ran him through when She said it. I cannot, Drustan. She said. She with the horse her husband, my father, probably gave to her. The thought of him... getting to have her. And he doesn't love her. Anger wells up in him and jealousy like a poison. "I just want something for the pain, something to make me forget... to not think... constantly," a fit balls up and he thinks about pounding the nearest tree, yet something keeps him from doing it. Maybe it's your presence.
     Maybe it's the tree...
     "I have tried... every spirit known to man," Drustan smirks, putting his back to the tree instead. A moment later, he is slowly sliding down it, to sit at its base. "In every... possible combination... quantity," a short, snide self-directed chuckle for that. "And still... all I can think of is her. Her in his bed, in his arms. Knowing that when he makes love to her, he's getting the chance to... fuck," a sudden Saxon word used for emphasis, their language so much more...blunt than Cornish or Welsh, "...both of us. Her literally and me figuratively. I can't bear it," he finishes in a breath. "And I can't stop loving her. So... given what my other choices are... how bad can yours be?"

     Any other lady might have looked around to see if there were prying eyes before making this move, but this is Morgaine we're talking about. Without ceremony, Morgaine hikes up her skirts a bit and knees down next to you in the soft grass. Settling down in this position, she draws in a deep breath and then says softly, "I'm sorry. Sometimes I am more blunt than is necessary."
     She hesitates, then murmurs, "There are potions that you can take to help you fall in love with another. There are potions to help you think a woman is another, although these are usually temporary and wear off by the morning. There are many different ways to handle this, cousin, but I fear the ache will never truly cease completely. It is like an old wound which flares up in bad weather. Most potions are temporary. Stronger magics--"
     She pauses there, then shakes her head, "Stronger magics are very dangerous. Even I would fear to use such methods. And in this, nothing is certain." As she says this, she reaches out to touch your hand gently, seeking out your gaze with those liquid blue eyes. Those calm eyes. "I would not want to risk hurting you more, my lord," she whispers.

     Drustan tips his head back until it knocks against the bark of the apple, and then he rolls it toward you so that he might look at you. The fine mouth darkens with the shadow of a non-humored smile. "You should have heard her," he whisper-croaks. He swallows, trying to loosen his tightening throat. "She ... all but thanked me for loving her, gave me a clipping of her hair, as if that shall soothe me. Christ, Morgaine," he says roughly and in impassioned outburst, "..what am I to do? It is not possible to love another. It is impossible to love her."
     Dark blue eyes blink moisture back as he turns his eyes up to the blossoms overhead. "She's everywhere I look. Am I to wish for blindness? That would only make my other senses stronger, and then this pain would triple in taste and touch and sound."
     He says nothing for a while. He looks at your hand, his finger toy with yours, so much the smaller. Slender. "What am I to do, Morgaine," he asks more softly.

     Seeing the pain in your face and hearing it so raw in your voice, Morgaine winces and allows her concern to crease her smooth, tattooed forehead. She lets you toy with her fingers, only wanting to comfort you however she may be able to.
     Shaking her head, she murmurs so softly so that anyone who might pass into the grove could not possibly overhear, "By the Goddess, Drustan, I want to help you. Believe me, I do. But all remedies I could give would be false to your heart." A sigh escapes her and her tiny fingers squeeze yours for a moment, hoping to convey her support.
     "Do you know that she spurns you out of love? Or is it duty? Did she convey at any point that she wanted to leave? I would that I could make these questions easier on you... but I'm not entirely sure how to help just yet," she adds in that calm tone. Or if she could help.

     "She loves me," he says it, he knows it, part of him hurtingly wants to doubt it, but he saw it, heard it. "She is married to my father," his mouth makes a smile, almost winsome a moment before turning wan. "I begged her on my knees to come away with me," Drustan continues, a breath exhaled, "...but she worries about what that would mean for her Ireland. She is..." sickness wells in him again, "...making the best of her situation, it seems. Trying to. But she says there is no joy in her life. I could make her happy. If she would just... come with me. But... she says she does not want to watch me die." A pause. "As long as she stays in Cornwall, there's no fear of that," he finishes in a gruff.
     "It doesn't make it any easier. What am I to do? Find a wife?" He laughs. Loudly and richly. "Good God, what woman would have me. A drunk, in love with his mother, unable to give his heart. Exiled, no title, no land..."
     He wipes at his eyes. "She spurns me because she must, I guess," Drustan mutters. "You know how it is. Love and politics... they don't mix."
     Placing his hand at the bridge of his nose, he squeezes it to stop the tears. "Maybe I should leave Britain all together. Go to Armorica." Lancelot's land. "... become a mercenary or a mad hermit poet." He snorts a chuckle.

     "Poor, noble Drustan.. You have had such a harsh time of it," Morgaine begins softly, trying to continue to soothe you with her soft tones. Her fingers draw little circles on your palm, again to keep you calm. It would not do to have you raving through the courtyard, that's for certain.
     "These things, not to lessen your situation, do happen. It is the sign of the times... unfortunately, the sign of the Christians." She releases a heavy sigh and continues, "It is not the Goddess' way to be married off to those you do not love. It is not the way to betray the heart and soul. I long for a simpler time, sometimes... an older time before marriages were arranged in this manner, ignoring the most basic needs of humanity."
     Shaking her head, she nearly spits as she curses, "Bah! There -must- be a way. However... she has a point about your death. I would that I never need to see your death because of a woman." There is a pause, then another murmur, "As for what woman would have you... there are plenty, sweet Drustan. Women who do not abandon themselves to gossip and the pettiness abundant these days."

     "I fear, My Lady, that my death has already been written," he murmurs. "I felt it when I looked at her in Eire. I felt it as I made love to her on the boat carrying her and I to my father. I felt it when she told me... goodbye last week. This love is my death. It is a matter of... simply... when. I was hoping, of course, for something heroic or poetic, to feed my ego. But I'm probably going to end up drinking too much and choking on my own vomit. That's the way of my luck."
     Such a ray of sunshine he is. Well, there were days when he was. And it shone on him and made him beautiful...
     He shrugs. Let the denial begin! "I'm not fit for any other woman's company. Though... come Beltane, if you see me by myself..." he waggles his brows at you. As if. Drustan chuckles and shakes his head. "Alright... I'm done with my pissing and moaning. I should let you," he pauses for a groan as he stands, "...go back to your bud and herb and apple gathering. I'm going to go get pissed..."

     It pains her to see you this way. She has always been fond of you. Letting out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, rises with you, still keeping her hand on yours. Her skirts manage to straighten themselves...good thing, since she ignores them.
     Beltane... ah, that is coming up, is it not? How long has she been from Avalon? It has made her forget some things, or become slow in remembering. Grinning, she murmurs, "Such an offer... be careful of what you suggest, dear cousin, or you might just find yourself presented with the counter-offer." She teases, surely. Or does she? Sometimes it's hard to tell. But in a time like this, when you are so pained, it is likely a tease to get you to smile. She misses that smile.
     "However... you were not interrupting anything which cannot be seen to tomorrow or another time. If you wish to be alone, I shall head in the opposite direction. But, if you wish for company, I bet I could drink you under the table." This is coupled with a wink and another grin. Another attempt to cheer your spirits a bit, no doubt. However, her drinking abilities are widely known, too. She's been known to out-drink Arthur on some occasions, not that she makes a habit of such behaviour. Just because you're capable doesn't mean you have to do it all the time.

     Neither Christian nor Pagan is Drustan. He worships a goddess who walks the earth. There is only one of Yseult. And she is so in his heart and soul, what room is there for Christ or the entire Celtic pantheon? He celebrates all holidays, and none.
     His hands come to take both of yours and he bows his head. In part with the weight of everything he's feeling, in part out of respect for the high king's sister, his own cousin. "Ah, you're right. I ... of all... should know better. As for your challenge," Drustan drawls, turning with a smirk, "...would you be scandalized if I said I'd rather ...drink in private? As it is, the next tourney day is going to be all Drustan. I have five challenges in as many days from loud-mouthed bastards who won't keep their fucking opinions to themselves," he ends in a growl. Such language, but you're... not a delicate flower. Not in his mind. You can take what Drustan dishes out. As so few can.
     "I couldn't bear it if you turned me down as well," he pleads. And then he grins lopsidedly. "A man can only take so much rejection in a week, my lady... say you will come to my room and drink me under the table..."

     Despite being a priestess of the Pagan faith, one thing that Morgaine is not is pushy with religion. It is the pushiness of some of the bishops that she finds so offensive in the new faith...among other offenses. Perhaps that is one of the reasons the two of you get along so well. Who knows?
     Either way, she smirks and replies boldly, "Since when have I cared about scandals? In the eyes of many in this court, I am a witch who is only tolerated because she is the king's own sister." Her shrug emphasizes her 'gossipers be damned' attitude and stance. Squeezing your hands gently, she adds, "If you wish, I will meet you there separately, so as to lighten the gossip about you...?" While she doesn't care about the gossip about herself, she cares about how her presence and behaviour affects others.
     Regardless, she did not say no. You were not rejected. Gentle acceptance. But, to keep things clear, she whispers softly, "I will go to your room and drink you under the table, Drustan." Another wink, then she slips her hands from yours and pulls back a bit.

     He could only have borne so much. That much, is true. Though he teased with it, it was the truth nonetheless...
     Drustan nods. "Better to spare us both. It's bad enough everytime Artos looks at me, he expects to find a sword sticking out of me somewhere. God love the king," he sighs, and he does. "He's a good man. I should stop worrying him... " he shakes his head. It's no matter.
     "I will see you soon then...I'll have the glasses poured and waiting, my lady..." He reaches and plucks a few apple blossoms, sending them raining down upon your head. A wink and he turns back toward the courtyard.
     You know how this will end...
     Drunk, he will begin to talk about her...
     Then he will rail and cry...
     And then he will sing. That sweet, deep voice of his will sound out. The harp strings will tremble beneath his fingers...
     And then, he will pass out...

Posted by rowan at September 22, 2003 10:42 PM