After leading you out of the hall, Morgaine deposited you in a currently unused room in the castle. You were left there with very strict instructions to stay put. She didn't say what she would do otherwise, but this is Morgaine we're talking about...it would be imaginative, at least.
     She then marched off, first to check on Linolas. Putting you in the empty room bought her some time, so she could afford to see him first. The women had seen to it that he was as comfortable as possible, but he was in a lot of pain, having roused for a bit. So, she gave him some herbs in warmed wine and instructed the women on how to make it, explaining it would ease his pain and sleep. She left only after he had drifted off again.
     Then, first stop: Arthur. He had been awakened by the commotions both outside and within the castle. He had already heard some of what had gone on, but listened patiently to his sister. Being assured that all was under control, he reluctantly went back to his bed.
     Then, Uriens... she had hoped to speak with him the next morning, but no, he was out in the hallways making a horrendous racket. She managed to quiet him, telling him the King had gone to bed, but he was adamant about having justice. Eventually, he, too, was sent off to bed, but not without a fight.
     It took the better part of an hour, but Morgaine does return to your room once everything else has been dealt with. Her arrival is signalled with a soft knock at the door.

     You can smell the beeswax. You can detect the flicker of the candle. He's still awake. There was perhaps maybe a flicker of hope that he wouldn't be? "Come in," he says, his voice quiet, but in the otherwise stillness of the castle, that softness carries. The door is unlocked. It's even a touch ajar...
     He took the opportunity to clean himself up. He had to budge a little to do that so he wasn't exactly staying put. He'll suffer your wrath if he needs be. After Yseult's unleashing, there's doubt now as to whether anyone else's wrath would even be a threat at this point. He's changed, but fully dressed, no bed clothes -- he eschews them anyway -- and there's something of ... packing? A gathering of his things around. Maybe he's thinking of fleeing. After your talk with Rheged, might not be a bad idea. Maybe there's just ...no reason to stay anymore.
     His harp is out, sitting upon the table. Strung with horsehair, it buzzes slightly with every passing breeze. Drustan half turns to the doorway, to look at you. Now that the mud has gone, you can see where one or two punches from Linolas landed. However many there was, the blow from Yseult was much more shattering.
     "Am I banished," he wonders, matter-of-factly. Fully expecting it.

     Stepping into the room, Morgaine keeps her back to you for a moment as she fully shuts the door. Her voice sounds weary, but still certain as she says, "No, you are not."
     Then she turns to face you. Candlelight catches moisture on her face... or was it merely a trick of the light? Her hair falls in tendrils about her, some of them blocking some of her face. "Arthur is not pleased, but he said you were both drunk and that Linolas instigated, even if he didn't mean to. You were provoked. He will likely speak to you, but not in anger... he understands. But that doesn't mean he's happy about it. It bodes not well for Camelot if its knights are fighting amongst themselves. But, worry not about Arthur. He is abed for the night."
     Now, her husband was another matter. "I did speak to Uriens, as well. He is far from pleased... he was... incensed when he heard. He was already stalking you in the halls when I left Arthur." She pauses and moves to a nearby chair. Lowering herself, she merely states, "He will abide by what Arthur says. I told him Arthur would speak to you, and likely Linolas, but that the matter is that you are not entirely to blame. He.. he has gone back to his room." This last is said with a strange voice as she stares into the candle for a moment.
     Drawing in a deep breath, she murmurs, "But.. how are you feeling physically? Did you sustain any wounds? If so, I should have a look at them..."

     "Even as fine a healer as you are, no..." There is a little smile, but it is only a flicker upon his expression. He is not quite sober, but he's more sober than he was. And the anger has turned to shame, contrition, regret. "No, I am ... " he shrugs his shoulders. "I am fine." Physically fine. "Nothing that won't heal. I've had much worse. When I fought Ireland's champion, I nearly died. Again... later... with Arthur on campaign." He snorts and there's that gossamer-brief smile again. Drustan turns, taking a seat on the bed.
     Eye contact is brief. "I am thinking that I should go. For a while." Drustan sniffs in a breath, dark blue eyes shifting to you. To judge your response. "Get some fresh air. Maybe go to Armorica." A pause. "If I had known she were going to come here..." I would have left. But.
     Clearing his throat, Drustan takes a seat on his small bed. "I think it would be for the best... for all concerned."

     She nods as you mention your physical wounds are fairly superficial. But she still looks over at you for a moment, as though assessing the validity of that statement.
     Once more, her gaze floats to the candle and she speaks softly, as though through a dream. "I will go to visit Avalon soon. I am in need of an escort... perhaps you would be willing to visit the Isle for a short while?" Her gaze then flickers as the flame does, landing back upon you as you sit on the bed.
     She is going to Avalon. And without her husband if she needs an escort.
     "Armorica is so far away, Drustan.. perhaps you just need to go somewhere a little closer, but just as far away. Avalon would take you for as long as you needed or wanted," she suggests gently.

     "A man in their midst?" he chuckles at the idea, half-shaking his head as if he's dismissing it, but...dismissal isn't spoken. "And Beltane approaching. I've heard of killing a man with kindness, but..." a little wink. He hasn't totally lost his sense of humor. He's simply its biggest target.
     Drustan exhales and lies back. "I suppose it would ... do for a sanctuary. She would not be able to come to me there. Maybe..." he starts to hope upon something, but he can't speak it. He looks over to you from where he lies, something of helplessness in his eyes. "If it would not be putting the ladies of the lake out... I would be...honored to escort you to Avalon. I think Arthur would prefer I were there." Rather than in Armorica. Or worse still, in Mercia living with the Saxon horde.
     Drustan takes in a breath. "It is a healing place, I hear. I've... I've never been there..."

     The expression on her face changes to a soft, gentle one as Morgaine stands up and moves over toward you. Standing before you, she murmurs softly, "The Merlin spends time there, as do other men. Although... I might have to hide you at Beltaine." There is a quick wink and a grin for that before she gets serious once more.
     A small hand rests upon your right shoulder, squeezing gently. "You would never be a burden. Vivienne would love to see you, no doubt. And yes... Avalon is a place of healing. It is peaceful, the apple trees are fruitful, and the mists keep it from those not belonging there."
     Morgaine pauses, then adds with a nod, "And no, she would not be able to go to you there. She could not pass through the mists without a guide." The same goes for you, actually. Once you're there, you can't leave on your own.

     "Good..." he simply says. And maybe this is the first step to pulling himself out of the mire. Maybe his wanting to get away from her is the turning of a corner. He does not have hope to hope so far as that, but it couldn't hurt anymore than it already is.
     "The Merlin... Myrddin," as he knew him, "...used to come to Cornwall when I was a boy. He taught me to play the harp in secret. Mark," he never calls him father, "... thought it was a colossal waste of time. But my mother kept the secret." She died, not as poets will write later, at his death, but giving birth to his sister, Ioanna. She is now a nun. Somewhere in Armorica.
     His hand comes up a moment or so later, lying across your own on his shoulder. The calluses from the sword, and from the harp, add a kind of sweet roughness to his touch. "I don't hate her," Drustan murmurs. "I wish I could, but I can't, Morgaine. She's as trapped and miserable as I am, if not more so. She's... made her choice to love him. It hurts, aye, straight to the soul. But I ... can't hate her." As much as he wishes he could. Particularly now. "I know ...she doesn't love me. Or... she's told herself this so much that she's come to believe it," he offers, the hush of his voice indicating that he thinks this is the more likely option. "I don't know that ... I shall ever be able to convince myself of something that is ... just not true. I love her still." A pause and his eyes lift to you. "Do you think the apple trees will convince me otherwise..."

     "I know." That you cannot hate her. Morgaine sighs softly, shakes her head, then murmurs, "Even I do not hate her. I do not really even know her. I was merely angry with what she was doing. Tormenting yourself is one thing, but tormenting another in the process.. it has to stop. Neither of you will heal if it continues, which is why I think Avalon is a good place for you now."
     Beneath your hand, her thumb rubs back and forth, trying to comfort even still. "Drustan, I know how hard this is. Please believe me. I know what you are both going through. For that reason, I am offering what I can to help. It pleases me that you are willing to do this." She pauses. Glancing to the hand upon hers, then back to your face, she adds, "I will talk to Arthur in the morning so that he knows our plans. We shall leave in a few days, alright?"
     To your question of the apple trees, she murmurs more softly, "The apple trees of Avalon are known for their beauty, and for the sweetness of their fruit. It is possible they could distract you... for how long, it's up to you."

     "I'm a hopeless romantic," literally. "What else can I do but to put the faith in blooming trees what I once thought I could have in a young woman. It would be sad, were it not so poetic." It has to stop. How? His hand pats your beneath it, squeezing it gently. Drustan sighs, a heavy breath carrying upon it the seeming weight of the world. "I will... lay my sword at Uriens' feet and ask his forgiveness. The Christian God doesn't have a monopoly on humility, at least not yet. And I will speak also to Arthur." A pause. "And I will make amends to Linolas. It was...bound to happen. He merely got in the way. He's young. He's mouthy. He's foolish. But.. I'm no better." A pause. "Older," and he half-frowns for that. "No wiser."
     His hand slides away and he turns his eyes to the ceiling. A nice blank space to stare at. "You have always been kind to me, cousin. Even when I made it difficult. I am hard to love, I hear." A wry expression pulls at his mouth, shines in his eyes. "I... am grateful to you, cousin," he continues, on a serious note. The solitary tear that escapes is not as noticeable as before, when mud streaked his face and his tears streaked sudden cleanliness upon him. He swallows to still himself. And steel himself. "I was born good at the sword, a natural on horseback, gifted with the lance. How was I to know that such a little hand would be my undoing?"

     The tear does not go unnoticed by her. It nearly breaks her heart. Surely there must be some reason behind all this torment..? She has to believe that. Sighing softly, she pulls her hand from your shoulder and gently wipes that tear away with the sleeve of her gown -- that gown that got the bottom all muddied up. It's drying and caked onto the bottom now. She hasn't had time to wash up.
     But she doesn't care.
     Smiling softly, she murmurs very lowly to you, "Someone has to look after you, hm? For now, shush... I think you need to get some rest before you consider asking for anyone's forgiveness. I know it will be hard, but I will have some herbs in warm wine sent to you if you want help for that. You need your rest and strength. You will be visited by many tomorrow and you will need to hold up to that. I would also suggest to not have another drop of wine after the one for sleeping. You need a clear head so you don't say anything hasty or that you'll regret later."
     She doesn't comment on the little hand. She really has nothing to say for that for now... nothing that wouldn't just stir up emotions even further.
     For tonight, you will sleep in a room not your own, hiding away from others... and she will do the same, in another room, hiding from her angry husband. For now, both of you should try to find some rest, and look forward to the trip ahead of you.

     He cries without shame. A man should cry when he is sad. The Roman in him dictates it. There's no blush, nor flinching. It merelly Is. And he could not deny his sorrow. But neither does he speak of it. He is running out of things to say.
     Drustan nods once, simply. "I could use it. I haven't been sleeping well." That, merely exacerbating everything else. "Thank you, Morgaine." A pause. "I think I am going to stop drinking," he utters the extraordinary in such an ordinary fashion. "It is not bringing me solace. It's not even bringing me escape." Drustan chuckles. "So... your wine then... and that's the end of it." A pronouncement. Maybe he'll even stick to it.
     Drustan sits up with a groan, his body sore. He'll be even more stiff tomorrow. "I will finish packing my things tomorrow... the rest is in my room, what little I have.. I will be ready to leave...whenever you are..."

     And that's the thing about Morgaine.. she will let a man cry and not judge him for it. It's refreshing to see, in truth. So many of the knights think they have to be big 'manly men' who don't cry, never shed a tear. But that's just not right, in her books.
     Nodding, she murmurs, "I will have a glass brought to you by someone I can trust. But for now, I will leave you to rest. We leave in three days." So soon. "So, you have time to get ready."
     Bending toward you, she places a gentle kiss upon your forehead and then pulls away, moving to leave as she murmurs, "Try to sleep, cousin. I will see you tomorrow after you've seen everyone who comes to you."

     There's a grunt. I suppose I deserve that. "Rest gentle, Morgaine," he murmurs. "Sleep sound." An old blessing for a good night's rest. Drustan lies back on the bed, fully clothed. He'll remain that way until ...whomever brings him the wine has done so. An arm is thrown over his forehead, partially shading his eyes to the brightness of the candle flame.
     Tomorrow, there will be talk in this quarter of sweet singing of a sad song. A voice of rare distinction. A simple rolling sound of a harp. How the melody sounded like the waves of the sea...

Posted by rowan at September 24, 2003 01:11 AM