Courtly love or domnei was a medieval European conception of nobly and chivalrously expressing love and admiration. Generally, courtly love was secret and between members of the nobility. It was also generally not practiced between husband and wife.
The "courtly love" relationship is modeled on the feudal relationship between a knight and his liege lord. The knight serves his courtly lady (love service) with the same obedience and loyalty which he owes to his liege lord. She is in complete control of the love relationship, while he owes her obedience and submission.The knight's love for the lady inspires him to do great deeds, in order to be worthy of her love or to win her favor. Thus "courtly love" was originally construed as an ennobling force whether or not it was consummated, and even whether or not the lady knew about the knight's love or loved him in return.
The "courtly love" relationship typically was not between husband and wife, not because the poets and the audience were inherently immoral, but because it was an idealized sort of relationship that could not exist within the context of "real life" medieval marriages. In the middle ages, marriages amongst the nobility were typically based on practical and dynastic concerns rather than on love. The idea that a marriage could be based on love was a radical notion. But the audience for romance was perfectly aware that these romances were fictions, not models for actual behavior. The adulterous aspect that bothers many 20th-century readers was somewhat beside the point, which was to explore the potential influence of love on human behavior. The behavior of the knight and lady in love was drawn partly from troubadour poetry and partly from a set of literary conventions derived from the Latin poet Ovid, who described the "symptoms" of love as if it were a sickness. The "lovesick" knight became a conventional figure in medieval romance. Typical symptoms: sighing, turning pale, turning red, fever, inability to sleep, eat or drink. Romances often contained long interior monologues in which the lovers describe their feelings.
tl;dr characters are in a fantasy/medieval setting and having a courtly romance.
How to Play
- Comment with your character, preferences, etc. Also, be sure to include what "role" your character will be taking on in this little affair.
- Lord/lady
- Knight (gender neutral, of course)
- Prince/princess
- Bard or poet
- Servant
- Commoner (for the ultimate "forbidden romance")
-Comment to others, using the RNG to determine your fate.
Prompts- When I First Saw Your Face: You are meeting your liege or your knight for the first time. What you see takes your breath away.
- Lovesick: Your pining for your beloved has made you ill! You can't eat, you can't sleep, you're in loves throes.
- Playing Hard to Get: If you're of nobility, you at least have to pretend you're not interested.
- You're So Coy: The art of flirtation is just getting started, but you have to be subtle about it.
- In Your Honor: Be it a jousting match or a battle, you're going to win this for your lord/lady's name!
- A Token: You must give your knight something for good luck.
- A Gift: This is the reverse of the above. You must give your love something.
- Keep a Secret: Kisses behind columns, holding hands under the table. You must sneak away little moments together, but you have to keep others in the dark.
- Back from War: Your knight has been away in combat, and now they've returned. You want to shower them with affection.
- Consummate: Believe it or not, courtly love could have a physical angle, as well. Sometimes physical afairs happened.
- To Defend Your Honor: Someone has insulted your fair lady or lord. You know what that means! DUEL.
- I'll Protect You: The lands are under an attack, and you must protect the person you love!
- Breaking the Rules: You've decided to abandon the pretense of courtly love and actually be with this person, even if that means running away.
- WILDCARD
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bakerstreet2020-08-23 03:09 pm
ben k̶y̶l̶o̶ ̶r̶e̶n̶ solo. STAR☆WARS. ota
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Claire Bennet ∞ NBC's Heroes ∞ OTA
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Fortunately he's been able to keep the marks at bay. Being so near to the town where Claire lives, his ability to pass for just another human does come in handy. Even his armor isn't likely to give him away, as he's stowed in his saddlebag the most recognizable piece, an antlered helm. Today he wears only the battered pauldron, crafted for him by a rare Faun smith, the color that lent him his title not nearly as striking after hard use. The Green Knight might as well be Vague Olive, in this light.
At present he couldn't care less. He is going to see his human ally — a phrase he could once no more conceive of than the seemingly inhuman ability she possesses — a woman whose nobility, to him, does not frailly depend on species or station. She is so much more than either, a fact he's aware he came perilously close to rejecting out of hand. How keenly now he realizes his good fortune in knowing her, and in being able to visit with her again like this, before he takes his leave.
(And he will take his leave, and that will be right and proper, and he will bloody well not impose on her any other damnable realization.)
When he reaches the appointed glade Gawain reins in his horse, searching the surrounding trees without catching any sign of Claire. Either she's not yet arrived, or she's gotten distinctly better at cloaking her passage through the woods as he'd advised her.
Then a strange and rare-witnessed sight occurs. The Green Knight's stoic countenance slowly relents, and he grimaces a little, though any pain in it is all for show.
Turning his unshaven face up to the trees, he carefully whistles a few bars of birdsong. (He hates whistling, he's terrible at it, but she'd insisted they needed a secret call, and in this the Fey's grimmest defender could not deny her.) ]
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Still, she knows she'd been sheltered, enough to have been largely ignorant to the plight of the Fey despite facing some of the same hardships herself. The destruction of powered humans seems to have been set aside in favor of persecuting the Fey, which is not something Claire will not just stand back and accept. She wouldn't dream of sacrificing others just to keep herself and her own people safe.
Perhaps that's why she'd been so adamant about offering to help Gawain when he had told her of the Fey. It's just the right thing to do, after all; if she has this power, why not use it to protect others? What good does it do her - or anyone - if she's shut in all the time?
She pushes those thoughts out of her mind on the way to the meeting place, listening carefully as she treads down a forest path leading to their chosen glade. Her boots are quiet on the packed dirt trail, and she's holding up the long skirt of her dress to ensure she doesn't trip. Despite the fact that she's a few minutes late and worried that she might miss Gawain, she's still trying to be make as little noise as possible, just as he'd told her. Aside from the wind rustling through the trees, and her own soft breathing, she doesn't hear much at all.
At least, until a few notes of birdsong pierce through the velvety quiet of the forest around her.
The sound lifts her spirits, and by now she's certain that no one had followed her out of town, so she picks up her pace. It's not quite a jog, more of a speed-walk, though made awkward by the fact that she's still trying to be quiet. As soon as she catches sight of Gawain, however, she's no longer bothered with stealth. Claire rushes in and bursts through the trees, grinning brightly. ]
You came! I-- I mean, hello. Sorry I'm a bit late, I couldn't sneak off with a horse.
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Normally his first reaction would have been expert analysis; in an instant he'd have considered Claire's apparent pace against the point at which her presence became detectable. He'd have judged her progress in covert forest travel, found it admirable but worthy of further critique, and proceeded to greet her with observations on the matter.
When he sees her the possibility of that reaction scatters like so much chaff.
He's long believed that to feel as he does now was for a knight of the Fey pure irresponsibility, comparable to the downing of some nepenthe elixir. That imbibing in this way would be like choosing distraction and forgetfulness, like indulging in an unearned reprieve. Because no one who's watched his people suffer as he has should allow that knowledge, those memories, to be even temporarily eclipsed by joy in another's face.
Yet looking at her here, all honey-hued hair and skin, grin more radiant than the last of the gilded daylight, it doesn't feel like forgetting. He's still aware of every risk they're taking, every threat and care that surround them. When he sees her it just feels like, for this moment at least, everything will be all right in spite of it.
And he wonders if that might not be altogether more reckless. ]
I'd have waited, my lady.
[ He swings a leg over the saddle and dismounts, looping his horse's reins around the nearest branch. In the process he's only partly turned away, so this does little to hide the fact that he's smiling too. Less broadly, perhaps, because he still battles valiantly against any smile's overtaking his expression entire. But certain muscles in his cheeks remain mutinous, and it shows. ]
What news? I am overdue to hear yours, and you mine, I fear.
[ He takes two measured steps towards her, gait efficient as his words. But as he stops and meets her glance, a different note comes into them. ]
It is — good to see you.
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[ She's so unused to any sort of title that the simple 'my lady' is enough to bring a flush of pink across her cheeks. With her hair partially pulled back and tied with a ribbon, it's entirely more obvious.
But she's ignoring the warm feeling across her face now in favor of admiring that hidden smile on Gawain's. Suddenly she's filled with a purpose, of sorts; just to make him smile. Really smile. Because, she tells herself, he's her friend, and he deserves happiness. It has nothing at all to do with how even the hint of his smile makes her chest flutter. ]
My parents fear for me, which is normal for them. I... didn't tell them I was coming to meet you.
[ They wouldn't understand. No, they don't understand. She had overheard them talking about the Fey's plight, and their view on the matter is precisely the opposite of Claire's: that they should all hide and keep Claire safe, lest the Church decide to add her people to their list of enemies. She hasn't dared voice her desire to help them, knowing her parents would forbid it outright.
Instead she's had to feign ignorance, to pretend she has heard nothing. Luckily it had been easy enough to sneak out, but she'd been slowed down significantly due to the simple fact that she had kept looking over her shoulder out of sheer paranoia.
Her worries seem lessened now, however, by Gawain's presence. She can breathe easier, her posture relaxing. ]
It's good to see you, as well; especially looking so pleased to see me.
[ Perhaps she shouldn't draw attention to it, lest he think better of showing such an emotion. But the sight tickles her so that she simply cannot help herself. One might say that immortality has lent itself to boldness, but in truth it's only made her bolder than she already is. ]
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If a seer had told his younger self he'd go on to marvel at a woman's blush, he'd have scoffed the charlatan out of town. It seemed something for man-blood tales, full of virtuous folk farcical as puppets. Complexions admired for fragility had no place outside their nonsensical ideals.
But Claire's pinkening doesn't look painted, or even delicate. It looks like a blazing up of innermost vitality, health and pleasure and warmth he could stretch his hands out to like hearthfire, knowing he'd feel the glow of it against his palms if he dared. ]
I am sorry you must circumvent them, but it is understandable, and necessary.
[ He hears himself answering the mention of her family as though from a great distance. Fortunately his outward demeanor doesn't reflect his staggered train of thought.
Seeing her posture relax, Gawain leaves his horse's side and takes a half-seat against the trunk of an old fallen tree. Even bent-kneed he has a head and a half on her, though to his estimation her height itself has never rendered her vulnerable. One doesn't assume a young wolf defenseless because its shoulder lies lower than yours, or a hind sluggish because its legs more slender.
Her next words do the trick of drawing out a wider smile — almost — at least his lips quirk deeper under the shadow of beard, and both eyebrows rise as if acknowledging a strike landed. He ducks his head, at the same time shaking it a little, so strands of hair fall down to either side. ]
"A stouthearted friend always soothes the traveler's gaze." So we say among the Sky Folk.
[ Glancing back up mid-proverb, he looks her in the eye through the rest, just like he's delivered no lie of omission. ]
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No, I know. They care for me deeply; they had wanted a child so desperately before me, and I know they love me as their own, but... I'm still not of their blood. They can't understand any of this, not really.
[ But as she sees him nearly smiling, it pulls her away from that sorrowful line of thinking. Drawing that reaction feels like hitting a target, though it's more akin to aiming an arrow at a painted target and missing the bullseye, instead hitting just wide. Close, but she'll nock another arrow and fire again soon enough.
The way he ducks his head to hide his face still feels a bit like a victory. Is the stoic knight going shy on her? In this, she'll spare him her relentless teasing and instead savor the sight in her memory. She'd much rather reach out to brush back a few of those strands of hair to get a better look at his face, anyway, but she denies herself this small pleasure as well.
Where had that notion even come from?
Claire doesn't have much time to dwell on it, as a heartbeat later Gawain's meeting her eyes again. Dark brown, in contract to hers of pale green, and even in that darker hue the sun still catches with a warm glow. The fire in his eyes could warm her as well as any brazier, she thinks idly, then she realizes she's staring at him.
Gods help her, these distracting thoughts. What's gotten into her? ]
Your Sky Folk are wise. I'd hardly call myself a traveler, and yet I feel my gaze has been soothed as well.
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"It isn't easy to set your own course under the roof of those who raised you. My father would've been content for me to stay in our village forever, to never journey abroad or learn to hold a sword. More than anything he wanted to believe that the struggle facing our people would pass us by, if only he could cling tight enough to the past as a shield." There's no discernible bitterness in his tone, or even unresolved sadness. He's had a long time to make peace with both.
As she steps nearer to him he angles his upper body to face her, his stance still comfortable, if not wholly informal. He's well past the point of remaining physically tense in her presence. But though not undemonstrative by nature, for much of his adult life he's kept a certain aloofness, a guard he doesn't easily let down save for younger Fey children and his most familiar companions.
When he's with Claire like this, he can't help but regret the precedent. He knows she's come to feel safe by his side, a development he never expected to inspire again in a human, much less cherish himself, and he would honor that by being less stilted. But every time he thinks to reach out a hand — without expectation of anything but the clasp of a friend, hers to reciprocate or withhold as she wills — the seeming disingenuity of his own longing for more betrays him, and he keeps, as much as is reasonable, at nearly literal arm's length.
Yet she's close enough at the moment for him to pick out her irises' inner rings, illumined by the slanting sun, like kernels of amber caught between sage leaves; and the smattering of freckles below her nose's bridge. He never notices her staring, any more than it occurs to him he's doing the same.
It's only one word of her reply that cuts through, and he remembers why that particular saying most likely leapt to mind. Gawain's brow furrows, quelling all traces of the previous expression, and his news comes out blunt and bumbling, before he can think better of it.
"I will be, though — traveling. I'm leaving England, and soon."
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Claire can feel that she's about to start a new chapter in her life, one even more uncertain than the last. Her future prospects aren't much to get excited about, though she's loath to admit it. Gawain's company has been a distraction from those worries, this she can't deny, but she doesn't think that invalidates their friendship. There's nothing wrong with finding solace in a friend's company.
And so those three little words, I'm leaving England, stop the breath in her chest though she'd been struck. She inhales sharply, staring up at him in disbelief, the color draining from her face.
"Leaving? But I-- no--"
Words fail her, especially as most of her focus is on keeping her emotions in check. Surely there's an important reason he must go, but that doesn't make the news any easier to hear. It's the worst possible timing, considering what she'd been holding back from him.
Just that week, she'd found a letter, carelessly left out by her father, from her birth family. They had sent an ultimatum for Claire's future, and neither choice is anything she wants. Either she's married off to a young man of their choosing, or she enters a life of service to the Church. The latter choice is the harshest betrayal, knowing her birth family is like her, and seeing how they hide it from the Church to work against not only their own kind, but the Fey, too.
She had been waiting for the right time to tell Gawain; now she doesn't want to burden him with it. But she still has to be honest.
"Then this might--" Claire stops short as her voice breaks. She steels herself and presses on, her posture so rigid she feels she might shatter at a touch. "This might be the last time I see you."
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He damn well knew when hard-won admiration edged towards more dangerous fare; he could have assigned another point of contact, another Fey for her to meet with and exchange aid. She would've still willingly offered that last, he's sure, despite the unlikely connection they'd seemed to forge from the very first. But he had not done it, could not even make himself truly regret not doing it. And now they find themselves here.
Her reaction brings him straight up out of his recline, as though that indrawn breath had yanked a cord tied to his spine. Inwardly cursing his mangled delivery, it still takes him a second to process her response, and the fact that (he assumes) ill-considered phrasing has made her misunderstand.
"No, Claire —" She's as posturally opposed to the woman he was looking at seconds ago as a curious stag is from one arrow-pierced to the marrow. He'd expected the news to be difficult, both to hear and to relate, but this... He doesn't quite extend both arms, to brace or embrace her, but every muscle's rife with that inclination aborted.
"It's a supply run, or so we hope — I'll come back, of course I'll come back. I didn't mean to —"
He stops for a heartbeat, searching her face, then swiftly goes on.
"I'm meeting Fey I journeyed with years ago, in the Desert Kingdoms. It may be I can rekindle old trade partners, and faster friends too. Bloody galls me to be the one to go, but I've made the trip before, know their language."
He can hear himself almost tripping over the words in his haste to ... not reassure her, exactly, since they both know the world remains perilous as before. But if he can just talk the look of last time out of her eyes, he thinks, somehow it might yet be all right.
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"No, I-- I'm sorry, Gawain," she murmurs, eyes brimming with tears. "There is more news I didn't tell you."
The most difficult part now is forcing herself to admit, out loud, the true nature of her birth father. Until now, she'd mostly alluded that he's not a kind man, too ashamed to go into great detail of his crimes against her people - who would also be his people, if he'd accept them. If the man can’t accept his own people, his thoughts on the Fey should be obvious. The family’s close ties with the Church should also make that crystal clear, another tough pill to swallow.
Her uncle, Peter, is a decent man. They had shared a bond, once, or so she thought. Though now he’s so he’s so busy with his own life that he doesn’t make time to visit with her anymore. A shame, too; she could use his guidance on this matter, or if nothing else, his empathic presence. She’d imagined trying to convince him to tell his brother and mother - Claire’s grandmother - of a better way, but she knows such a dream is folly.
It's not to be. Her birth family is wealthy, and ever since they’d revealed themselves after Claire had tracked them down and forced their hands, they have been quick to remind everyone that they hold all the power. After all the trouble she’d caused, she’s honestly surprised they hadn’t done something like this sooner.
“My birth father has given my parents a choice: either I’m to be married, or…” Claire trails off, struggling to compose herself. “Or I’ll be sent to the Church. I’m not supposed to know about it, but I expect they’ll be telling me about it soon. I don't know where I'll be going, I just know I'll be leaving here, one way or another.”
She doesn’t tell him about the plan she’s forming to run away and avoid both options altogether, mostly because she hasn’t fully decided when or where she’ll go. Though perhaps he knows her well enough already to guess that she has such an idea in mind.
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He knows enough of her birth father to have realized the man could exact ruthless influence over Claire's life if he chose. It was just one of myriad threats crouched in the shadows of their every urgent meeting, every exchange of dire information, and yet still they'd found time to make each other —
Even mentally he can't state the word, when the very notion of happiness now seems some cruel satirist's jape. And what a bloody gomeral he'd been, to ride here presuming he could draw comfort from the visit, while selfishly supposing he might not inflict on her further disruption.
And those brutal words, marriage or the Church — they don't make his features blanch so much as skin them, slicing away all resolute pretense until the bones of his face lay bare. His armored shoulder wheels away from her, and he makes a futile half-lurching pace of their glade, as much in submission to his own discomposure as to being stricken by the sight of Claire's.
Of course he guesses she won't merely yield to either demand. But whatever she will do instead, the magnitude of change required means she's most likely correct: there's vanishing chance that, compounded by the uncertain length of his absence, they'll ever see each other again.
Gawain will never be the ill-starred lover in the tales of Feykind and Man alike; he'll never propose flight, never embrace some madcap plan to leave all duty and care behind. Even if such were not simply anathema to his soul, he'd never begin to imagine that Claire might accept it.
But he thinks about it, for those long seconds turned away from her tear-filled gaze. Hidden help him, he thinks about it.
Then he steps back to face her, breathing in hard, his normally round-timbred voice gone sharp and ragged at the edges, though the words are surprisingly steady.
"You have been a friend to the Fey, and if there is any assistance my people can provide in the finding of your own path, I swear it will be yours."
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The specific choice of words there, of finding her own path... it's a comfort. Not only that he would offer his aid in doing such a thing, but that he knows her well enough to realize that she would be considering that course of action. So, at these words, there's the hint of a smile.
"Thank you. That means more to me than I can say." She pauses, composing herself a little more and wiping her eyes. "I don't know yet what I'll do, but it's a blessing to know I may have some other option."
Claire had, of course, upon first finding the letter and reading how her birth father sought to control her in this way, found herself giving in to the briefest fantasy of urging Gawain to run off with her. Though she had realized immediately that they're both so tied to their duty and desire to protect others that neither would ever truly allow it. She doesn't imagine the knight would even entertain such an idea.
If she can find some Fey who would be willing to help her, and who she could help in return, that would be something. Having the favor of the Green Knight in doing so will certainly be to her advantage. Maybe she'll find some of her own people as well. It might be a lot to hope for, but it's a hope that gives her the strength to keep going.
Plus, the prospect of being able to lend her aid to the Fey gives her hope that perhaps she could see Gawain again. She'd be far easier to find if she were in contact with his people, she thinks.
And that, she's surprised to realize, is the most encouraging thought.
"Perhaps you won't be rid of me so easily after all," Claire teases, very nearly back to her old self again.
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"More is what you deserve, but I must start with this." He takes slow steps in returning to her side. Not out of hesitation, but because each moment now seems a fragile thing, to be stretched out with infinite care, like the new-blown mold he's seen a rare Fey glass artisan work by hand.
As he moves his eyes rove over her frame. He's not usually one to let his gaze so plainly mark intention, to say nothing of desire; but it couldn't be clearer, how he means to drink down the sight of her and keep it evergreen. When he finally looks back into her face there's a wistful smile pulling at each eye's corner, deepening the crow's feet there, bittersweet.
"Didn't I tell you I would try but poorly, when first we met? To accept aid, and to offer it." And Gawain laughs softly, just that single breath of it. A sound that marvels at both his reluctance then and what she's made of it since.
He watches her rallying, and it does help settle the sensation of barbs lodged, in throat, in heart. But he isn't able to summon the same hope as she. He's been reminded of how foolhardy it is to entertain a future where their paths run ever alongside. They will part, one way or another. And to those who face such odds as they do, that can only be for the best.
Yet he stands in front of Claire with those words fresh on her lips — rid of me — and he aches for her. In another country, another world he would go to his knees and tear the words out of himself like thorns deep-embedded, to tell her how much.
"Never." In the echo of her teasing his sudden solemnity falls as an axe-chop. Gawain hears it and looks down, swallowing, before he gracelessly adds:
"May I ask something of you?"
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Moments before she would have thought such an idea was absurd, but the threat of losing him has changed everything. It's precisely why she has to keep some hope alive. She couldn't bear to lose him before, and especially not now that she knows...
The echo of his laugh lingers in her ears and she concentrates on it, memorizing it. All of this, the two of them, their glade around them; she lets it fill her senses so that she may recall it later, in their absence. The road ahead of her isn't going to be easy no matter which path she ends up on, so she'll need something to treasure in those dark times, something to fight for. Never would she take any of this for granted, but keep it and honor it.
Claire longs to reach out for him, to pull him close and let a few more details burn into her memory; she finds her hands are trembling with the sheer desire to do so. It's a wonder she can find words to speak.
"I think you're getting better at it, and you don't give yourself enough credit. You never would have made me such an offer when we met."
She toys with the long sleeves of her dress, instead. Her focus shifts at Gawain's question, her expression shifting from longing to attentive.
"Anything," she says, and finds that she means it.
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On the road ahead he still expects loneliness and pain. There's no self-pity in him for it; that is just the nature of the way forward. But he believes he can carry the greater burden for them both, that by leaving in this manner he's still sparing her the worst of what the future will hold.
(And in his heart of hearts Gawain truly sees this kind of sparing as his responsibility to those he cares for most, and not, in fact, a way of denying them the chance to state they'd rather not be spared at all.)
So he straightens to his full height, looks down squarely into her face as he says:
"I have never been knighted in the courts of men. Among the Fey there are vast differences in both custom and obligation, but I'm aware of some commonalities. The bestowal of tokens, for example."
The strict roles of gender between bestower and bearer, the potential for sanctimony and shame within a code driven by control: those are not in common, but he'll leave be a discussion of such points for now.
"If you would give me something of yours, Claire--" In between one sentence and the next his voice alters entirely, lapsing out of the formality it had briefly brought to bear, back into the unguarded tone that in all this wide wood riotous with life is meant for her ears alone.
"I would carry it proudly, to honor our alliance. And--" Gawain's eyes darken, thanks both to dwindling light and the fact that his irises slacken with the yearning in his blood, lingering again on her brow, her cheeks, her mouth.
"--To think of you by."
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(Not like the childhood crushes and fleeting affections she'd felt before. Nothing like that.)
Gawain's request is unexpected, at first, though as soon as he makes it, it makes perfect sense. Claire is still choosing to hold out hope that they'll see one another again, but she wouldn't dream of denying him this - or any - request. The thought that he'll have something of her with him fills her heart with joy.
"Yes, of course," she says, and then hesitates. The only issue is the matter of what to give him. Having decided she didn't need much for this secret meeting, she didn't bring anything with her to carry. Her first thought is the ribbon in her hair, and her hand lifts to reach for it before she stops. No, that's not enough. He deserves something better.
Something he could only get from her.
So instead, she reaches for her neck, fingers slipping under her dress and pulling out a leather cord. She carefully tugs it out from where it had been hidden beneath the fabric and then over her head, making sure not to get it tangled in her hair.
Fastened to the leather cord is a small green stone wrapped in wire tied to an arrowhead, hand-carved from wood. It's imperfect in that it's slightly uneven and not as smooth as it could be, but it's easily recognizable as an arrowhead. Claire looks at it for a moment before holding it out to Gawain, her smile turning shy.
"Here. I, um. I made it. Not too long after I met you, actually. I would always steal my father's knives when I was growing up, and try to carve little bits of wood I'd find." She's starting to ramble now, suddenly a little nervous. "I still need more practice to make anything decent, but I just-- I thought it turned out all right, so I've worn it ever since."
It had been made to remind her of Gawain. And now it's his, to remind him of Claire.
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With the removal of her necklace and accompanying explanation, understanding dawns over Gawain's face, followed quickly by a kind of admiring astonishment. He reaches for the piece where she holds it out, taking it carefully between calloused fingers.
It's not only the knowledge that she'd made this by her own hand, carved the wood so adroitly and affixed that stone in the very hue of his title. But that she'd done it not long after their first encounter, her thoughts moved by him even as his had been irrevocably moved by her...
"It's perfect." He says it with vehemence, answering the apprehensiveness in her voice, casting off any doubt that he holds her choice in highest regard.
Moving his thumb gently down the arrowhead's edge -- he's impressed by her attention to detail, feeling the bevels at the sides, and so too by the fact that the framing wire's still heated from her skin -- in his opposite hand Gawain stretches out the cord. It's clear it's not quite lengthy enough to encompass his own neck; he'll have to fasten on another later. Wearing her gift close against his chest is exactly what he has in mind, both for the intimacy of it, and out of sheer practicality.
But though it can hardly be called practical, in the stories of both species the knight wears his favor openly on his armor. And while of course in the longterm he'd not risk the damage or loss of Claire's token in this way, he's seized by the impulse -- fanciful, ridiculous -- yet in this moment nothing seems more right.
He offers the cord back to her, at the same time turning slightly aside and lifting his arm. On the leather cuirass covering his torso, just above his swordbelt, there's a strap that cinches it shut. He indicates this strap, holding her gaze, every line of his body acutely aware of the little distance still between them. When he speaks again his voice is low, reverential.
"Will you tie it on for me?"
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Still, there’s no mistaking the look of pride that warms Claire’s features as he takes the necklace in hand, pendant and string, to inspect and - she dares to think he is, anyway - marvel at. She’s absolutely over the moon.
Suddenly it occurs to her, as the knight turns to offer up one of the straps of his cuirass, that despite all of their encounters like this, they’d always kept a distance. They’d never been this close; had they truly never touched at all? She cannot recall even an accidental brush of fingers or bumping of elbows. It hadn’t seemed important before, and maybe it wasn’t. Now, though, faced with this meeting that could be their last, the thought that they might part ways without her ever knowing so much as the touch of his hand against hers, it puts that ache back in her chest.
Claire nods, taking the pendant from him by its leather cord. Nimble fingers loop the cord through the strap of Gawain’s armor, and she carefully knots it, ensuring it won’t loosen or break off. She admires the sight of it hanging there openly, for all to see.
“May it guide you on your path, straight and true,” she breathes, her gaze lifting to the Green Knight’s face. May it guide you back to me, she leaves unspoken.
Instead of stepping back, like the more sensible part of her brain is insisting that she should, she stays there at his side. Not yet, she thinks, only a moment more. Just enough to remember…
Breathing him in, Claire's senses are filled with the smells of leather and sweat and horse. Even the scent of the forest, of leaves and dirt and wood, lingers on him. Just as she lingers, daring to lift her hand and reach for his. She's steady as stone and no longer trembling, her fingers brushing his just before she wraps them around his hand to hold it in her own.
There. Now she can remember him properly.
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The leather he wears is poor armor indeed against the awareness of Claire's fingers encircling the strap, and then the arrowhead's tender weight trailing along his hip like another kind of touch. He'd swear during those scant and yet protracted seconds he does not draw breath, but he would be forsworn, as evidenced by the breadth of his chest expanding once, slow but spreading as a bellows, above where she stands.
He's gazing down at her all the while, so when she lifts her face the green of her eyes blazes up at him, a sun-shimmered forest pool he might willingly drown in. He wants to thank her for the blessing, worded so poignantly, but doesn't trust the sudden dryness of his throat.
How many times since they met has he imagined being this close to her, this able to shift a fraction and feel the exquisite shock of skin against skin? At first with disbelief and repudiation, only gradually with acceptance and determined despair, knowing he'd no sooner act on every wish to reach for her than he would a dream of taking up an herbalist's gardening.
And in the next instant he feels only a desperate kind of gratefulness, that she should be the one to finally bridge the gap.
His fingers tighten reflexively in hers, their relative largeness no bar to their being captured completely. He lifts them slightly, thinking only to meet Claire's glance over the level of their clasped hands. But instead he watches as the long sleeve of her dress falls away, revealing her bare arm's elegant line, the bones of her wrist dexterous and slender.
He remembers the first time witnessing her power in action: how she'd cut her palm on a jagged bit of rock, and he'd watched the bloody tear knit closed without a seam. It wasn't that before then he hadn't believed her -- that fact of her otherness was always the least difficult for him to accept -- but he had been taken aback all the same. By how it made him sense in her some deeper vulnerability, and think of her flesh, her spirit, as no less dear.
Almost helplessly Gawain brings her hand to his mouth. When he kisses her it's not like some courtly tableau, the knight bowing in stylized chivalry, just barely grazing the lady's arched knuckles: a kiss meant to pique the fancies of simpering onlookers, yet remain chaste as cool stone.
Instead he looks like the One God's sinners in the throes of earthly worshipfulness, greedily seizing up the long-withheld cross. He turns over her wrist, pressing his lips to its naked inside, then again to her hand's warm rounded heel. He knows his face all unshaven can only rub coarse as a rasp. That doesn't stop him from nuzzling tight into her softness, inhaling sharply the fragrance of her skin.
His dark eyes boring into hers convey both the affirmation and the apology he will not voice; and a plea for her to pull away first, because Old Gods forgive him, he can't.
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A kind of longing that startles her, that almost makes her draw her hand away as one might when accidentally touching a hot pan. But no, Claire holds fast, savoring the heat of his cheek against her palm. She can't feel pain, but she can feel this. It's the most she's felt since that terrible night.
No. She refuses to let that memory haunt her now. It's something she's yet to tell the knight, something she hasn't even thought about since their first meeting. Perhaps something she never wants to tell him.
Claire hasn't spent all this time trying to bury the darkness in her past only to have it come digging its way out of the grave now.
Her thumb grazes over his cheekbone, and then -- a true testament to her daring nature -- his lips, fingertips tracing his jaw as she finally begins to draw back. Even before today she could close her eyes and see Gawain's face, now she can recall the gentle warmth of his cheekbone under her thumb, the exact angle of his jaw, the rough scratch of scruff against her skin.
The curve of his lips--
As Claire's hand lowers, it passes over the leather of his breastplate before it finally drops to her side. As the realization of what she's done catches up with her, she swallows hard, trying to quell the heat that seems to have taken her over. She quickly ducks her head and takes a step backward, a few strands of blonde hair falling from the ribbon holding it back to frame her face.
"Forgive me, my lord," she says, her embarrassment nudging her into excessive politeness. "I forget myself. I-- I only thought it fitting that I should have a little something to think of you by as well."
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So he shouldn't be surprised by the startlement mingled with longing, clear-etched on her upturned face; and he isn't, especially not while realizing he's imposed on her, just as he'd promised himself he would not do. (For his desire itself there is no shame, as such is not his people's way. It's only for what he sees as a failing to not further exacerbate the heartache of this, and any inevitable future parting.)
What does perplex him are other, weightier emotions, just barely glimpsed, like a rock-strewn jetty within the shifting tide of her expression. The fact that Claire traverses it anyway to cup his jaw and cheek, to learn for herself the shape of his lips, fills him with such tenderness, he knows he'd wait a Fey age and a day if that's how long she'd need to even consider more.
Assuming either one of them could ever forgo duty for time.
As she lowers her hand he lets it go without any hint of resistance. The way she steps back, head bowed and words of apology the first to her tongue, can't help but cut him to the quick. But the rest of what she says makes him smile, sincere if still a little too unshielded about the eyes, in want and in wistfulness.
"On your part there can be no pardon needed." Gawain's voice comes out rather more hoarse than is its wont, but he takes it quickly in hand, straightening his shoulders as he clears his throat. "You thought rightly, and if-- if you will remember me, too, the honor's all mine."
He glances around the glade, at its gathering shadows, and back to Claire's face. Oddly, perhaps, the immediacy of the day's ending helps him shake off a bit of his own resumed over-formality.
"Well. No use sending you home in the dark, skipping through brambles."
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There's a growing sense of finality as she draws back, and she mentally curses herself for having done so, as though the simple act of staying close to Gawain would somehow have him stay. Of course that's not the case.
At least he's given her one more smile to memorize.
Claire knows he's right, as much as it pains her to admit. She should be going before her absence is missed. It's not out of character for her to take a walk at sunset, but it certainly would be noticed if she returned too late after dark. Her plans to slip away and carve her own path would prove more difficult were she to arouse her parents' suspicion now.
"Yes, the sooner I get home, the sooner I can leave home. But I'll be careful, I know what I must do to survive." No use in hiding it now, not when he's guessed as much by offering the assistance of the Fey.
It has to be soon. There's nothing here for her anymore. Another home left behind.
She has to push all that down deep, now; she has no time for self-pity. So she stands up straighter, taking a deep breath. To face what's ahead, she has to be brave and strong, like so many times before. Though she can't help but feel as if part of her is already missing with their impending separation, and she knows what it is.
"My heart will be with you," Claire says finally, green eyes blazing, then turns to leave the glade.
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It drives home to him all the uncertainty that lies ahead for her, the reality of leaving behind any semblance of security and just surviving, as she puts it, by herself; to say nothing of continuing the fight for her fellows' safety, which he knows she will, even at the risk of her own well-being... if not in body, then certainly in soul.
It's not that he doubts her ability to figure out a way, to push past seeming obstacles and forge ever on. It's that she shouldn't have to. Not alone, not like this, with him a sea voyage and a continent away, unable to serve her as even a bloody sounding board.
His offer of the Fey's assistance was no fair-weather pledge, but he sees now what cold comfort it must make, knowing only strangers' ears await her.
Then she says -- Gods, she says --
No sooner is her profile half-obscured, cloaked by a golden spill of hair as she turns, than he calls after her. Not sharply, but with an urgency that leaves his horse tossing its head.
"Claire, wait. Please."
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Claire wouldn't dream of denying him in these last moments, or ever. If whatever he has to say (or do) is so important to stop her leaving, surely she'd wait however long it takes. The one commodity she has in abundance is time, after all.
There's something in his voice that cuts through her, and for a few seconds she's almost afraid to turn around, knowing that as she does that she won't want to turn away again. But she does turn, slowly, and though she tries to keep her features in check there's still a kind of desperation in her eyes that she cannot hide.
"Gawain?" It's all she can say, her voice heavy with the hope that maybe it doesn't have to be this way, after all. A silly, childish hope, but one she's found herself swimming back to cling to as though adrift at sea.
Seeing him makes this harder. She could have just walked away...
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But it will serve something greater. The Green Knight would never allow it to do otherwise.
Even on the brink of apparent disaster, he's been capable of drawing forth a confidence for others to borrow, a low-simmering but steady optimism that's contagious, however unlikely. (Not because of slim odds so much as leadership style, which in Gawain's case tends to be decidedly un-sugarcoated, to say the least.) In these efforts he has made Fey believe him entirely convinced, when privately he felt the Widow's veil trailing whisper-thin past their feet.
But he knows here it won't be enough merely to drop hope over his face like a helm, to be grimly removed after the fray. Claire is not one of his men, and she isn't a child, for all the heartbreaking sweetness now warring with turmoil in her voice. He must find a way to dredge up the thing for himself, to believe in it, whatever the cost.
He thinks back to the way he felt, seeing her burst into their glade with a grin. Coupled with the declaration she'd made moments ago, glorious to him even in despair, he finds -- enough.
Not much, but oh, enough.
"I'll bring it back to you."
Gawain brings up an arm, crossing its vambraced length over his body. His hand moves past her arrowhead, comes instead to rest in a fist against his chest, where the source of his pulse beats determined as the promise.
"In the meantime, find Nimue." He looks at her across the glade, his features all settled into a warmth like the sun's setting rays, transitory but no less tangible. The tension's melted away from the corners of his gaze, and the way he holds himself straight, it's no longer like he's stiffened by anguish, but buoyed by pride.
"She has heard of your character, and of what it means to me. She will be an ally to you and yours. Not on my say-so, but because by your own merit you've earned it."
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Claire finds herself struck with the desire to cross the glade again and throw her arms around him, to cradle his face in her hands once more and say those words herself. Her body tenses almost imperceptibly with the effort to keep herself from doing so. It feels foolish; like a reckless, vain attempt to try and sway him from his duty. No, she would never.
She can't believe she's said as much as she has already.
Instead she keeps her gaze on him, unwilling to look away just as she'd predicted she would be. He's looking more knightly than perhaps she's ever seen him, standing tall and proud, framed by golden sunlight and their verdant glade. Gods, she loves him--
"I will," Claire promises, her face slowly lighting up with a smile that echoes the moon rising to replace the setting sun. "I've been hoping to meet her, actually. And she'll have my aid however I can give it."
No doubt she would have preferred a different introduction, but she also has no doubt that they'll get along, despite the circumstances. The fact that she isn't exactly sure how or where she'll find Nimue is concerning, and though she probably could ask for help... she thinks better of it. They have their own paths to take now.
She rocks on her heels, truly meaning to turn around and go this time. And yet she lingers, searching for some last, profound farewell that doesn't come.
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And if there was some ribbing regarding his support of such an interspecies alliance, it didn't move beyond. He'd long since grown to accept Arthur, after a fashion, and even cautious partnerships with other humankind in their region.
Then someone had stumbled upon a chest salvaged from their burned village, from the depths of his father's old stone storeroom, no less. In it were some undamaged articles belonging to Gawain's older sister, from one of her first journeys to the Desert Kingdoms, many years before he'd followed her ghost there.
Nimue thoughtfully had the chest brought to his chamber, where they sat together on his bedroll looking through the contents. He'd expected to feel some sadness, but as he handled those souvenirs and trinkets all Gawain could think was that they were just things, albeit potentially pleasing things to folk other than himself. He'd been about to tell Nimue to give away the keepsakes to whatever families she saw fit, when he saw the seashell.
It was just a small one, delicate and whorled, its tapering point and smooth peach inside not wholly bleached of color by tide or time. He'd no notion, then or now, how it had survived intact the trip back to England.
But he'd hefted it almost gingerly in his broad palm, made some remark about saving it for Claire. He doesn't even remember how it was worded, he'd done it so thoughtlessly.
And Nimue, looking straight into his eye, had replied, "Neither the shell nor anything else will shatter, Gawain. If you'd like to just tell me you're in love with her."
He had put the shell down with the rest, walked out of his own room, and never spoken of it again.
Now that he longs to tell, to give up those minimal yet agonizing words to the one they most concern, he knows he cannot. They've each made the best of it, and lent one another purpose, here in their glade now lit only as gold darkly burnished. But some things could still shatter.
All he can do is bask in Claire's smile, for one moment more; then he unties his horse's reins, swings easily up into the saddle. He guides the bay courser a few paces closer to where she stands, from its back bowing his head, though his eyes don't waver.
"Born in the dawn," he says, almost a murmur.
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They'd spoken during that first meeting about the afterlife, a conversation which had stuck with her as much as anything else that day. If someone had told her then that she'd be feeling this now, she might have laughed at them. She almost wants to laugh now, but she doesn't, instead her smile grows more subdued, eyes brimming with tears again but this time not of sadness or despair.
As trust and friendship had grown, Gawain gradually told her more about the Fey, and about his clan in particular. In his peoples' culture she had finally manged to find a little peace with her losses. And now, in their glade, feeling smaller than ever as Gawain approaches on his horse and says those words to her, though his voice barely audible, she hears the hope in it.
It's a farewell, yes, but that sense of finality has gone and left her with optimism instead. Less goodbye and more, see you again soon.
He will return. He will find her. She's as certain of that as she is of her own heartbeat, now.
"To pass in the twilight," Claire returns, soft as a feather.
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Still, he looks into her tear-sheened gaze, and the sadness, however sweeping, fails to tear like an arrow-point barbed.
The parting words of his people are no great secret, spoken as they are in not only their private language but the common tongue. They've been overheard by enough humans to be oft discussed, in ridicule and repulsion, and sometimes even mimicked back to them like the flimsiest attempt at truce.
The mere prospect of encouraging an outsider to use them would once have enraged him. He is not a Fey without flaws, still subject to deep-rooted and long-nursed suspicion. But in this moment Gawain feels himself far from the kind he used to be.
And the knowledge in no way disappoints him.
The last word of Claire's reply hangs in the air, velvety as the dusk it seems intent on bringing into being, as he nudges his horse's side. Agilely the courser turns, easing past where she stands, those first hoofbeats hushed, as though in deference to the glade's protection. But as soon as they touch the forest path it surges forward and away, allowing its rider, mercifully perhaps, no instant in which to look back.
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