"So you're sure it's in the west wing?" Gillian pesters Arian, smoothing down the dove-grey silk of her jacket with a fretful hand. "I don't want to be going around in circles and end up being late."
     Arian and Maddie exchange eye-rolls, and then with somewhat exaggerated patience, Arian tells Gillian, "Sis, contrary to public opinion, you don't know everything. I've been living here for months. I'm sure, so just chill, okay?" He shakes his head and nudges her in the small of her back. He's dressed in navy and white again, a mix of practical and hedonistic, just like last time; in other words, less hedonistically than when he's not around his family, and with two-thirds less jewelry.
     Maddie dances lightly down the stairs, pirouetting because she can. "He's right, Gilly. Just relax. We know our way around, okay?" She wears a butter-yellow gown with a braided scarf belt of blue and red and purple, her feet in crimson ballet slippers. Her outfit is free and easy, perfect for a dancer, and in direct contrast both to her brother's choice of clothing and to her older sister's severely tailored silk skirt and blouse and jacket. "Do you think that's going to happen again, by the way?"
     Gillian and Arian exchange glances, then shrug. "I don't know," Gillian says finally. "I hope not. It felt awfully, well, crowded in my head when it did..." She falls silent, speeding up to try taking the lead into the atrium off the west wing. The tall glass windows and doors overlook one of the gardens, a set of doors opening to steps leading down and out to the terrace.

     The gardens and terrace are peaceful, their serenity unspoiled by the sudden full court press of diplomats, royalty and gossipmongers. Trees and flowers are in bloom, different blossoms for different seasons. It is heading into the last quarter of the Holly King's half-year reign, and the gardens are in his colors, blooming reds and whites.
     Benches are vacant apart from one and there isn't a single servant hovering nearby. There is only one man, sitting quietly and seeming at peace with all that surrounds him. What a different nearly two millennia make.
     Soulful, fog-grey eyes watch the delicate grasp of strong fingers upon a cherry tree bough. His hands are deft, graceful in their motions: one hand balancing and turning the wood in his grasp; his other working a paring knife against its surface, carving into it an elaborate scene in miniature.
     For someone so reputedly extraordinary, he looks quite ordinary indeed. His once black, curly hair is now salt-and-pepper grey. His face bears the slight softness of an aging poet's, no hard lines or severe features has he. He appears to be in his mid-to-late forties, quite fit, but with an understanding that the days of tilting dragons are far behind him. As they should be... right where he left them, resolutely in his past.
     Lancelot wears a dove-grey pull-over shirt of rough-hewn silk partnered with a pair of serviceable black trousers and black boots. He looks like your average French country gentleman. All that's missing is the wine and the sneer.

     The Wests jointly go silent as they enter the terrace, each of them looking around with their own thoughts and emotions going through their minds. There is no joint communion, now; much to some's relief. They exchange glances, and slowly they draw closer.
     I hope he doesn't say something stupid and make us look bad, Gillian frets to herself. Again she self-consciously smoothes down her skirt; her mother's influence is heavy on her today.
     Arian rolls his eyes again, even though the thought wasn't 'voiced'. He knows how his sister's mind works. He glances to Maddie, who is serene - and, unusually, apparently willing to allow him to take the lead if he wants it. He hesitates, then steps forward to bow his best drawing-room bow. "Sir Lancelot, I presume? I hope we're not intruding."

     He looks up ... and that is when the ordinary becomes extraordinary. The light of intellect in those storm-cloud grey eyes is matched gleam for gleam by that of an emotional warmth. There are similarities to you all in his face. But yes... Bianca was quite right... he and Arian look closely related.
     Lancelot rises -- he's tall, just about six feet in height -- and sets the cherry bough whittle project aside. "You must be Arian. And... Gillian..." he says after a moment, looking to her -- you have his eyes. "...And... Elaine." He stares at Maddie for a moment. "My goodness, you do look like her. Please... have a seat and... Lance is fine." His nature, the energy around him is like to this garden -- peaceful, easy-going.
     There is a little smile, something of astonishment there. "It is so ...strange to be able to make your acquaintance," he admits, "...but good." His accent is heavy, lyrical, and not at all English. It's sort of midway between Welsh and French. "I will ring my servant, if you wish food and drink." He gestures for the nearby benches and the carpet of grass. "Please... have a seat..."

     Gillian relaxes, but only a little bit. "It's good to meet you, too, sir." She smiles, moving to take a seat carefully and with due decorum on one of the other benches. "Thank you, but I don't need anything."
     Maddie grins and drops comfortably onto the grass, not at all worried about stains. "Do I? I haven't ever seen her, so I'll have to take your word for it. Up til now I've just assumed I look like me!" She beams at you, curling her legs under her and sitting up. "It's good to meet you. Just think of us as really distant cousins if it helps. It might make it a little less weird, anyway." She grins again, wrinkling her nose. "But then, I like weird."
     Arian's grin is slighter but not the less genuine for it. "Arian," he agrees. "And thanks. I wouldn't say no to a drink, but only if you're joining me." He sits on another bench, so that you have a West to either side and in front of you. "So, uh." He rubs the back of his head and bites his tongue on half a dozen things that he could say. "I hope our coming here didn't throw too much of a wrench in things."

     Each of you get a different look. For Gillian, there is understanding and assurance, like an outstretched hand. For Maddie, there is warmth and amusement, like a visual laugh. And for Arian, there is in his look something of a fatherly pat upon the arm. He picks up the cherry bough and brings it to his lips -- ah! It is a flute!
     Lancelot sets it aside, somewhere to the side of his bench. "No... not at all," his accent gambols over consonants and vowels. "Although, from the sounds of it, the royal court is in a ..." he pauses to think, "...tizzy," he finally decides. His smile is a quiet one. It is easy to see why queens have loved him. He has a very charming shyness and humility.
     "There is no trouble to Benoic or Camelot or Avalon, nor... I suspect... to Carbonek. I understand," he says to Gillian, "...that you are acquainted with my son, Gavin." Lancelot exhales a bit. "Other than him, you three are my only heirs. What trouble could there be to me," his smile is warm for each of you, "... to have a sudden increase of family?"
     A servant comes with an open bottle of wine and four glasses. The wine is white for winter. "So... do you have, I imagine you do... questions for me? Things you would like to know about Benoic or... the state of things... or gossip and myths I can dispel?" He has a sense of humor about himself.

     Arian smiles slightly. Yes, the court is in a bit of a tizzy, and despite himself, he does kind of like it. They all do, and he knows it; Maddie would admit to it, Gillian would deny it. But in a way, it's good for the ego. "I know this is probably a strange one, but - what about, uh, your son, Galahad? Is he here," he gestures, "in the loosest of senses, or no?"
     Maddie grins mischievously, leaning to snag a glass for herself. "I want to know about the old gossip, of course. Well. Not all of it, it's not really our business," she gives Gillian a look which says clearly, shut up and don't interrupt, Gilly, you can speak for yourself and so can I, "but the bits which are. It's pretty amazing to find out that we really are related. I think it's just as well mumsie and dad and granddad are off on a boat today, they'd probably be falling all over you."
     Gillian opens her mouth to remonstrate with her sister, but the look quells her somewhat. She also helps herself to a glass, somewhat absently. "I'd like to know about Benoic, and the state of things, if you wouldn't mind. Gavin's very nice; I hope he's not going to be put out or, um, inconvenienced by this. The only one of the three of us who isn't ... sort of already committed to something which takes us sort of out of the way is Maddie - Elaine, I mean."

     "Galahad is here. Him, miss a party?" The very idea amuses Lancelot. He sips at the wine as his servant disappears again. "He is my son, of course," he says to Arian, "...but not an official heir. His inheritance was...something else. I have told him that he has three great-and-some grandchildren who want to meet him. I am certain he will make himself available..."
     The old stories. Lancelot smiles indulgently to Madison -- he's no more immune than the next guy. "I am glad they are as well," he says quietly. "I'm ... not really fond of big crowds. The main thread of the stories are more or less true, in substance. Details, of course, were less poetic than what was written. Guinevere is a dear woman, and a good friend and still the wife of my best friend. You know how things can be overblown when one is young."
     To Gillian, Lancelot turns a gentle look. "Gavin is much more comfortable in London and New York ... even Paris, than he is here. His... gift is in communication. And while he may well decide to continue to serve you in your future court," he tells Gillian, "... there is no inconvenience as far as Benoic is concerned. I will split the inheritance evenly. Titles will be granted to you all. This should make certain things at court easier. Other things will be harder. But it gives you a foot on this landscape. Which," he smiles to her, "...when marrying a king, is important."
     To each of you, he looks again. "Benoic is a lovely place. It is a lot like France. Golden apples grow there by the thousands. Castle of the Joyous Garde is there. We will have to arrange a visit... at some point. Though," his smile is slight but warm, "... I do not know when the three of you will have time to see it. You are so busy. Tell me more about yourselves... how you are adjusting to your new lives..."

     They exchange glances. No, they don't really know; the oldest of them is only twenty-one. You have thousands of years on them. "What things will be made harder?" Gillian asks. To the point, and interested; concerned, but not overly so. She is sure she can overcome anything thrown at her.
     "I'd love to see it," Maddie says cheerfully. "My schedule's probably less packed, though I keep pretty busy. I'm a student at the Academy - I'm a dancer. You may have heard." She grins, minxish and unrepentant about past performances. "I also am studying marine structural engineering in my spare time, and - of course - dabbling in politics, because I like flirting and being in the center of things. Gilly," she flicks her fingers at her sister, grinning at Gillian, "is a history major at Oxford - master's program. She's a Rhodes scholar. And, of course, she's trying to get up to speed on all this. In a stunning turnaround, we both got here before she did, so she's having to to catch up."
     "That'll do, squirt," Arian tells Maddie tolerantly. He turns to you. "I'm assisting the king-to-be, Gruffydd. I got here first and I've been sort of playing catch-up a lot. And, uh," he rubs the back of his neck as he admits it, "righting a few wrongs, setting a few people on the right path, stuff like that. Sometimes by breaking noses." Gillian purses her lips in disapproval, Maddie grins again impishly.
     "You need to stop that, Pres," Gillian tells her brother, scolding. "I mean, really -"
     "-And, you're not our mom, Gillian," Arian cuts in smoothly, "so don't worry about it. So." He looks back to you. "We'd all like to see it sometime. I wouldn't want to be the cause of problems in Benoic, and I'm sure neither would my sisters. So I take it there's no ancestral curse on us, is there? Our problems are pretty much our own making, or do we have any old debts that need to be handled? If so, I'm volunteering Maddie for it."
     "Hey," Maddie complains, but grins again. "Sure, fine, big brother. Lemme at 'em!"

     "When you step out of the safety of anonymity or obscurity and into the bright light of peerage in the court, there are things gained... and things lost. Harder, in that you are known. In that your seeming sudden rise -- it's only been a millennium in the making," he dryly notes, "...you acquire fast friends, and faster enemies. And Benoic itself is a plus... and a minus. Plus.. it is a lovely kingdom, rich in natural resources. Minus, it is remote, and not seen as influential on its own merits. It's the combined court of Avalon, Camelot, Carbonek and Benoic that make Benoic attractive to outsiders. And then you have those within Camelot itself. Those for whom time has stood still. Arguments, never resolving. And so you may be expected to pick sides."
     Relaxing against the bench, Lancelot sips at his wine. He smiles a little to Arian. "The Errant Knight. I know that story," he says. "I will just say to make sure you pick your battles carefully. I am sure you shall. From what I understand and have heard of you." There is a chuckle -- how he shines in that laughter, becoming like the knight with the Mayflowers in his hair and his shining platinum armor. "Curses? No. No," he exhales, "...I've dealt with those. The power each of you inherited is its own blessing and curse enough. Have each of you studied your powers... and are you learning to harness them at all?"

     All three Wests smile as to influence. They are confident in the way Americans of a certain social class are. "If they expect us to pick sides," Gillian answers, "knowing us, we'll confer and then each of us pick a different side publicly, and compare notes privately. Or, you know, just refuse to pick on the basis of being from America."
     "Down with the monarchy," Maddie chirrups, grinning with that perpetual mischief, "up with colonial freedom! Throw off your chains of imperialist power and fight for democracy! - Okay, maybe not. We don't really want to start a war."
     "Or," Arian adds dryly, "be persecuted by one. Yeah, I'll be careful." He nods. "So far I defended the Princess Sabira's honor, and defended the honor of a military man, since there was no way he could really challenge without rendering himself or his fellow officer unfit for duty. I'm not in his branch of service," he smirks, "so my hands weren't tied."
     They exchange glances again, and opt to answer singly. Maddie traces a pattern on the grass, and from it, fire springs up, forming individual flickering figures who go through the steps of a courtly rondel, exchanging partners, bowing, curtseying, and then subsiding to leave only a slightly singed patch on the earth. Tiny sparks shower from her hair and her gown, fading away. She looks up at you with guileless deep blue eyes. You've seen those before.
     Gillian shrugs in turn, and lifts her chin, resting it on the folded fingers of her left hand. Abruptly, she is wreathed in lightning, eyes glowing with the spark and sparkle of a star's plasmic energies. Her hair stirs, wriggling with uncomfortable energies.
     Arian shrugs as well. He does nothing so dramatic; instead, he helps himself to the wine on offer. "I'd offer to show you mine," he says, tone dry again, "but it wouldn't be as impressive as theirs, and you wouldn't thank me for it, anyway. Maybe later, yeah?"

     "Sight is less ...showy, that is true. But... if there is a curse, then ... foreshadowing foresight is... certainly the inherited burden of our family." He shares an understanding, and sympathetic, look with Arian. "I have it. Gavin has it twice over. If you have not met him," he mentions suddenly to Arian, "...I do recommend it. One, because you are related but... I think you might find an understanding ear there. He understands prophecy and its demands."
     There is a warm, humorous wash upon his quiet features. "I think the High King would surely be disappointed were you to rebel. He speaks highly of you all. Of course, the news today is that the Crown has been...bewitched by the charms of the children of Benoic." His mouth twists in tolerant amusement. "Fighting for the honor of a lady and a friend." Lancelot's demeanor softens. "I should expect you will continue to be challenged, now that you have offered yourself as a champion to Honor."
     Lancelot sips at his wine again, bending to set the glass of the remainders on the grass beside his feet. "I hope the three of you will always keep to one another as close allies. With your joined arms, you could well form the hub of the wheel of our future. With strong alliances among each other and in support of the royal family, you will prove quite formidable, I think. But expect those allegiances to be tested." He nods quietly in thought to that.
     He knows a thing or two about that...

     "I'll look into meeting with him." Arian nods. He doesn't need to go on at length, and he doesn't feel comfortable discussing it in front of his sisters, anyway. "If they challenge me, so be it. If they're worthy of the challenge, I'll answer it."
     "We all learned self-defense of various kinds," Maddie remarks, sipping her drink with a grin. "Just not all the same kinds. Which means after so many years of sparring against each other, well... our styles are pretty quirky."
     Gillian is the only one to look troubled at the idea of the allegiances between her and her siblings being tested. "Well, we'll have to do our best, I suppose." She sighs. "People are so silly."
     Lancelot turns to Gillian, his softened expression remaining. "You will do well. But expect challenges. And... yes," he grins to her. "People are... silly. I don't mean to worry you," he says to her suddenly. "These are just... lessons I have learned. I should stop projecting. Your lives are your own, and different from mine..."
     "What are your schedules like after the coronation?" Lancelot wonders. "The journey to Avalon takes about a week by ship. I'm sure you have other methods of conveyance that are much faster." The royal family seems to be able to come and go at will. "Perhaps we should wait for spring. May Day. For a trip to Benoic. And, if Elaine is open to it, Carbonek as well. You can then enjoy the festivities at Camelot and Avalon..."
     He is quiet for a time. "Is there anything else I can answer for you? I know you are all busy. We do not have to say it all in our first meeting. This shan't be the last time we cross paths," Lancelot smiles.

     "Spring is good." Arian is the one to say this. He smiles to you. You know what he means. He's seen it; spring works. "I'm glad it won't be the last time. It's good meeting you. A little too much to take in, maybe." He looks at his sisters. "We're ... kind of a lot to take in, one on one. All three of us in one place... well, that won't be happening as often from now on."
     Gillian gives Arian a questioning look, then looks to you with a smile. "Thanks," she murmurs. She goes silent. What else is there to say?
     Maddie rises and stretches gracefully, wineglass abandoned in the grass. "I'd like to meet everybody," she tells you. "Spring is good, I agree. Gillian's not getting married that soon, and that gives us enough lead time to arrange time off and stuff like that. We should probably take a ship anyway; it takes longer, but it shows we're making an effort to meet people on their terms. So that's what we'll do." She looks to her brother for confirmation and receives it with a minute nod in return. "I hope," she turns back to you, "that you'll think of us often. If only," the mischief returns, "as a what might have been."

     Lancelot rises and smile. He is silvery in his grandeur. "What might have been?" Shaking his head, his smile widens. "No, You Are, Madison Elaine. You are the continuation of my story. I hope," he looks to all of you with a grin, "... it reads better this time."
     Looking to each one of you, Lancelot bows his head. "I shall see you at the court functions, I'm sure. And in the spring," he smiles knowingly to Arian, "... we will visit in Joyous Garde. It is a pleasure to meet you, children of my children..."

Posted by rowan at April 07, 2010 07:28 PM