The sun sits high at midday, but clouds have begun to slip in along the 'somer' valleys, sitting low, threatening to skim the green hills. The slopes of the hills that surround Camelot are littered with flowers, white and pink and gold. And the great mound of Camelot itself, the highest hill of all those around it, is streaked with colors. The sun seems the painter...
     The action of this morning's tournament still hangs in the air with a hum. The lingering of voices, the lingering of debate, the milling about of squires and grooms, leading horses to and fro, picking up equipment. Serving men picking up the splinters of wood from the tournament grounds. The refuse of mock battle shall not go wasted...
     It was a banner day for the Prince-in-Exile. While at first he did not seem as though he'd be able to sit up straight in the saddle, once he was helped there, he was the very lord of jousts. In all, six naysayers and gossipmongers kissed the turf. All his challenges answered swiftly, and surely. For even when drunk, Drustan may still beat a good many men.
     When he was done, he tossed his lance to the ground, dismounted and began removing his gear, dropping it behind him in a trail to the chair outside his tent. And there he sits still, wineskin in his hand, half armored, sitting amid his own disshevelment. Short dark hair is wet and curled at the nape. Dark blue eyes, steely look at nothing in particular. No, that is not true.
     He is eyeing the list he cleared, the sigils and heraldry of those he mock-slaughtered displayed at his booted feet.

     "Not bad, filled up with enough drink to satiate entire villages," comes voice heralding the approach of Galahad. The tent was most's first notice of his arrival as he was not on the morning schedules. Dressed rather sharply, he seems recently cleaned up after a travel. "I've seen you better," the tall golden-blonde comments, eyes wandering left and over his shoulder, where a pair of young women pass.
     "Still," Galahad looks up skyward, "...a nice showing. You..." Galahad chuckles, "...see Arwith on his ass, with much too much quickness. He's talking putting himself on tomorrow's lists..."

     "He might win," comes the soft Cornish drawl, "...I'm not going to be on the field tomorrow. Today," he lifts the skin to you in a salute as he tips back his head, "... I had to defend my honor," and the smile wise-cracks. It needs no princely quip. "And you are right, I have been better. And you, still with the sun on your shoulders. Were you not so legendarily pure, I think that God should be angry with you." Blasphemer. Adulteror. Mother-lover. How long is his list of his sins?
     Drustan smiles winsomely, "But, to speak on the bright side, I believe you have also seen me worse." He cackles a moment and tips back the wineskin. A swallow, and then a sigh. "Ah, but it was a good day," Drustan rumbles. "Six mouths most resoundedly shut..."

     Galahad's clapping is soft and dramatic, but his smile seems genuine. The sun is with him, shining in his fair and youthful face. "Pure?" he chirps, grinning now. That is the story, yes. Smarter men and women (and boys and girls, but that's another story) know better. Glancing away in an almost-blush, Galahad replies, "God has no reason to be angered at me. This week." Finger to mouth, gloves in other hand. "I was good," he notes for the record, turning to face the broader field.
     "Who was on today's list, other than," gloves wave over at Arwith's tent. "I missed all the good parts," he sighs, moving to take a seat next to you. "I did not expect to have to stay overnight at Caernith..."

     A handsome man, Drustan, though several years your senior. He is cresting into Summer. You are still into Spring. But his mood is all Winter. All the time these days. He, in perpetual Yule. The longest night...
     Drustan passes the skin to you -- it is half full, and by the shade's graces, almost cool -- and his arms fold against his half-armored chest. Sitting side by side, being as you are so different, you create a universal balance, Light and Darkness. "There was Sir Lionel... Bors...Cadwallan of Glamorgan... Sagramore... Dinidyn...and," his head rolls toward you and dark brows waggle, "... William of Rheged. North to South. East to West. I fought in cardinal directions," his voice is deep and wry, lyrical. When the man sings, he can pluck the heart. No wonder he ended up where he is...
     "I think that's about it. We will see how the next seven-day goes," brows sweep upward and Drustan beams, with full sarcasm. "I am the busiest, if not the mightiest, lance these days..." Rumors being what they are. Truth... being what it is.

     Galahad waves the drink off, oddly enough, as if he is keeping his wits about him for a reason. Perhaps some particular business has him in Camelot. "Good list," he nods, "...and busy is good," he nods, "...idle hands are the devil's..." his hand waves. You know.
     He will not broach the rumors. Such is not Galahad's way. He'd rather make them, than to dig around for Truth. Truth comes on the field, as you showed today. "Someone has to keep things in line. Speaking of," he murmurs, "...have you seen Kay?" Certainly some business. Few approach The Administrator willingly. "I heard he had been out here," Galahad finishes, looking over your list to recall the names you just mentioned.

     A shrug. Your life. He pulls the wineskin for another drink. Long. Slow. As if he were looking for his life at the bottom of it. And ...isn't he. Drustan lowers it with a sigh, gives it a shake and then tosses it on the ground with the rest of his litter. Not half so glorious as he should be having cleared the field he cleared. There's a sharp look as you mention idle hands.
     Shall I retort that I am already consigned to hell, my hands kept idle by the law of two King's and the rejected love of one woman?
     Drustan says nothing, and the look softens as the words are absorbed. "Cei," he murmurs, speaking it's more southern pronunciation. "No... actually I did not see him. After my time was done, I ... settled in this chair," a hand gestures to the spectacle of him. "Why do you ask? I'm sure cos will be at the post tournament banquet..." Cos. Cousin. Though no blood relation to Cei per se, Drustan is Arthur's cousin. And Cei the adopted brother thereby becomes family. "You come with purpose at your heels. Are you going to tell me? You could not have a more sure set of ears. Or a more silent heart." Drustan is many things. A blabbermouth is not among them.

     "I know that, Drustan," Galahad murmurs, watching the skin on the ground. "I will confess, my arrival is not due to my own design," he inhaling resolve as much as air. "I was summoned," he says with an angle of his thin mouth, apparently much to Galahad's chagrin. "When I am summoned..." his brows rise and fall. I come. What else is there.
     "So, I am trying to understand why the call. Orneth travelled well to find me," he having to deal with a few skirmishes closer to his father's domain. "Perhaps I have been away too long," Galahad surmises, for that would be the only reason for such a messenger. "Or, there is something that they want me to do..."
     But neither here or there for now. Galahad looks over at you for a long moment. Such a large topic stands between you, but he has no solutions for your predicament. "Will you come to a gathering I am having this evening? A celebration of my arrival," Galahad smirks. "I am reduced to throwing my own fetes..."

     "Well," Drustan drawls, "...if you want something done right..." You have to do it yourself. He chases it with a wink. As to the veritable chasm of topic between you there is an acknowledgement of it that comes in a moment of silence. A meeting of your gaze in the look you give. He stares it in the face every waking and every sleeping moment. And for a moment, so do you.
     It is ended in the sardonic smile. "Me? Miss a Galahad event? The party of the season? Am I an unwashed Saxon? Or worse still, Goth?" He laughs and for a brief moment there is the glimmer, the flicker of the Drustan that was. Arthur's comet. Bright eyed and smiling, he was the most glorious knight of the realm once upon a time. With a song upon his lips and women littering his path like tossed petals. Even covered in mud of battle, laughing uproariously as his own horse kicks him in the ass after beating back a Saxon horde at Arthur's side. For a moment, it is there. The man She fell in love with.
     And then the moment passes, and the ache shudders behind it. Drustan nods his head once. "I will be there. I will bring the best mead in the southern counties. Part of the pleasure I had in beating Glamorgan to a pulp. Fresh honeywine. From his personal storage. The great fuck." Fuck. The one word of Saxon he learned and uses with wild abandon.

     The tourney grounds buzz with activity. Tents of all colors sit attended, and in a prime spot, the tent of Galahad goes up. He's in country, for some reason. Knights, squires, and ladies fair walk the paths, tending duties or watching the fanfare.
     Two figures sit outside of Drustan's tent, another prime locale among the ordred arrangements of position and rank. One familiar, is that of Drustan himself, the second, a gesturing blonde. Galahad.
     "Sounds good," Galahad cheers, nodding at Drustan. "I will supply everything else, including stories of fucking Goths..." He just had to get those two words in there.
     "Say," Galahad remembers, "I think Lenore will be there as well, with her friends in tow." A girl who could cheer up any man. Well, maybe not present company, but still. "Maybe we should wait on the good stuff that you bring until most of the rabble have eaten me out of house and home and gone on for the night..."

     It couldn't have been better this way if it had been timed. It's busy, but with the jousting no longer in progress, it's an excellent time for a procession to enter the grounds - the better to draw all eyes. A King and Queen, accompanied by knights and a few ladies, have arrived in fair Camelot.
     Four knights ride before, wearing the badge of their liege. The Boar of Cornwall is seen on the pennants that fly gaily above from the spears of two foremost, the two just behind having their visors up, hands on the reins of their bays. Behind them rides King Mark, sitting proudly upon a handsome black stallion, chin lifted in benign arrogance, and beside him on a placid white mare, rides his bride, Yseult.
     She is clad in green, the colour of springtime, a flowing gown with long, heavy sleeves and golden kirtle - her favourite colours, the green and gold of her homeland. Her hands remain wrapped in the reins, and her gaze cast downwards at the mare's combed mane, as though fearing what she might see, what she might reveal, if her grey-green eyes should lift.
     Behind them are four more knights, and two ladies-in-waiting - a small retinue, but perhaps more are en route.

     "Aye well... we'll keep it for ourselves. Quite right..." And the voice trails off. The procession gets an immediate rise, half-thinking it was Arthur coming out to do a midday sobriety test. As if he has the leisure of such time these days. He sees the high king about once a month, on average. Though, it is always fond and warm. Arthur is a breath of sunshine in a weary soul. That's what separates the true kings from those who merely hold power.
     But the procession is not Arthur's. If the wineskin had not already been dropped, empty, it would have been dropped full at the sight. And Drustan's eyes steel. His features harden into sharp, Celtic beauty. And his body is as stiff as a henge stone.
     He has come to parade her. Specifically for me. Ah, the love of a father...
     Drustan's face could be set in stone as well. "Lord grace the King of Cornwall," he calls out.
     Now... the smart squire would be asking himself right about now: Where is my master's sword?

     What? Galahad was about to respond, but as Drustan stands, so does he. Someone must be about. He turns to see who approaches, but quickly does it dawn upon him. Galahad is in the middle of a drama. But what is so new?
     Indeed, God grace the King of Cornwall. Galahad stiffens as well, but for a different reason. "Your Majesty," he offers as formal as any knight would give, nodding his head at the procession's approach. Quick and done. Maybe the entourage will not stop. If Blessed Mary had any love of him, the entourage would not stop.
     Another nod comes for the lady accompanying the King. A Queen, no less. But that is not how he knows her. Forever is Yseult the love of his friend first. Galahad is polite once more, but for this particular disaster, it is all he has to give. Politenesses.

     Of course there is no such luck, to pagans or Christians alike. Not when it's revenge Mark is riding for, this day...
     A royal hand is lifted, and the procession comes to a gradual halt. Spears are lowered so that their butts rest on the ground, knights making room - but not too much room - for king and queen.
     Mark reaches over to take Yseult's hand, lightly, and she looks up at him, then over, and pales visibly at what she sees, though no sound escapes her lips. So this was her husband's purpose...
     "Greetings from Cornwall to Camelot," comes to dryly amused rolling voice of the monarch, addressing his son less than he who stands with his son. "We are most pleased to see we interrupt nothing, by our arrival, neither jousting, nor feasting, nor - drinking, either."
     Colour comes warmly to the woman's face, but still she says nothing, her free hand curling more tightly about her mare's reins. The little chin lifts, the mouth tightens for but a moment, and - nothing. Silence, save for the slight shuffle and shift of hooves in the dust.

     Galahad nods respectfully again, stepping forth, slightly ahead of his companion. "All of us are honored you come to the grounds today, Your Majesty. Yes," he nods, "...we are between sessions at this moment. This morning, we were treated to an excellent series by Prince Drustan," you remember him, yes, "...that has much of the grounds still in amazement. I only hope to fare as well in tomorrow morning's rounds."
     I am not he. And I have nothing to fear of no man...
     "The Knights Complement," the band of us, yes, us, "...would be honored tomorrow if you would return again to the field, Your Majesty. Hopefully, I will stand my stead then, and you should have good entertainment," Galahad's eyes wandering to the Queen with the notion of you.

     It is the stiffness in his limbs that gives him grace at the moment, steels him straight into sobriety. And with that, dare I say, noble grace, Drustan turns to his lover-mother-queen and bows in a sweep. "My Lady Queen," blue eyes flicker to Mark, "...and loving mother." Oh, he just couldn't help that.
     Drustan turns to his father, "Ah, your grace, this is a pity. You have missed my many victories of the morning," the prince exiled says to his father King. "And as for the drinking... it's only short after noon," a chuckle. "Not even I would be drunk by noon." A pause. "Give me 'till one, amends will be made. What... brings you to Camelot, My Grace?"
      And he cannot help the eyes stealing their way to Yseult. How beautiful she is. But he aches. To his soul. Such glances are brief. Brief indeed. And it has nothing to do with politeness.

     Yseult's cheeks flush with unwanted colour, but she keeps her gaze and voice even, steady. "Sir. Your victories do Cornwall, and your family, great honour." She doesn't let her gaze rest on him, but neither does she look at her kingly husband, whose hand tightens for a moment on the lady's own.
     "A kind offer, no doubt," Mark drawls to Galahad, eyes sharpening on the knight for a moment, "but I fear business between Camelot and Cornwall shall occupy much of my time and thoughts. Besides, it should hardly be courteous of me to abandon my queen's side to disport myself with you young men."
     Casually, he lifts that white hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over Yseult's knuckles and causing the Irishwoman's gaze to again drop, hooding her expression. Dropping her hand, King Mark adds, jovially once again, "We have heard good things of Camelot's air, and as well, my lady hopes to make obeisance to the Virgin at her shrine but a little way outside the castle walls, do you not, my dear? That the new year may bless us." There is only one blessing Mark would so seek. "But we must not weary you with our pleasantly idle talk. Perhaps we shall see you in the great halls this night."

     Keeping his interposed angle, Galahad nods and smiles. "Of course, Your Majesty," he adds. "Mayhap we should see Your Graces both. Until then, welcome. I wish you an excellent visit."
     The broad young man steps aside, as much as getting out of the way as subtly suggesting that the conversation is over.

     "Oh... do they," he murmurs of his victories and a family's feeling of honor. "I am glad to hear of it. I do trust that my father is... brimming with feelings for his son. I ...do not doubt his love." Drustan spins slightly, his look directed to the king. A lift of a brow. "Enjoy the temple. You should also make special note of the queen's caged doves. Amazing, truly," his blue eyes take in Galahad as well. "No matter how tightly she locks the garden gates, the lovely fowl always escape..."
     Drustan looks to Yseult, and for a moment, the intense love is not hidden, nor couched, nor alluded to in clever speech. It merely Is. Let Mark see it. He deserves that.
     Drustan bows again to her. "My Lady," he murmurs, "... enjoy your stay..." And then to Mark, Drustan rises and inclines his head. "Father..." And with that he turns, motioning his squire over, finally. Get my gear. I need to get out of here...

     Mark's smile fades, though doesn't quite become a scowl, and he responds tersely to Galahad. "Your welcome is appreciated. Until then." His hand lifts, and spears are similiarly lifted, so that the pennants may again flap in the breeze.
     Yseult's gaze lifts, and for a moment, the storm breaks in her eyes as she looks to Drustan - Galahad is there, yes, but only barely does she notice him. For her, there is only one knight standing there, and no king beside her...
     For one moment, and then her mare steps forward, docilely following the horse in front, and Yseult's gaze again drops, fringed and masked by the fall of her lashes. Cornwall has ridden into Camelot.

     Galahad does not move further, eyes glancing to Drustan after his rather pointed commentary. There's subtlety and then there's Drustan. Galahad's expression does not change; it remains as polite and formal as when he began. There shall be no talk of anything but courtly affectations from him when this story flies around Camelot. A bow comes as the entourage lifts to head away, but in the bend, Galahad glances at Drustan, eyes narrowing faintly.

     There is a parting bow. And then he rises, his hand lifted, waving at the backward glance of a guard -- a former friend. Hell, they grew up together. How strange the world has become...
     But after they are out of sight, a hand goes to his gut and he wears a most sour look. "The wine of the day sets not well. I think it not the grape's fault," Drustan murmurs. He exhales and gives his head a shake, trying to dispell instant and deep grief. "I... shall see you... later, at your party." He looks at you. "I will be there."
     But maybe you doubt that with the look. The searing, tearing look. That look of I want to hold her, I want to kill him. Unable to do either. "Good day to you, Galahad... " And he turns to head off. Though it's a sunny day, Drustan moves in a fog.

     Left alone, Galahad stands there, sunlight glow still radiant from him. After a great sigh, he looks up at the sky and heads upfield, towards his colorful tent.

Posted by rowan at September 22, 2003 11:02 PM