FIC: Blood Guilt
Jul. 8th, 2006 09:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mharificTitle: Blood Guilt
Fandom: Arthurian
Rating: PG-13
Words: 304
Disclaimer: No more mine than they are anybody else's.
Summary: Things fall apart.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
theatrical_muse #132.
"I'll kill him," Gawain says.
He's still white-faced and shaky from the shock of it; his voice wavers. His eyes don't: wild and mad and deadly as the hawk they sometimes call him. I've seen him like this a scant few times. I still don't recognize him.
All I can answer is, "Do that."
Because God, my God, I had the chance -- and didn't, couldn't do it. The hell with honor and justice and self-preservation; I should have killed Lancelot by any means to hand, sooner than let it come to this. Stabbed him in the back, smothered him in his sleep, taken him down tooth and nail, if I died trying.
I saw his face. There was no hate, no guilt, no regret, almost no anger. As if he couldn't believe they'd had the audacity to call him to account.
"Both of them, my God--"
He cut Agravain down without a second look. My poor damned dense brother, least beloved and least wise --
Bleeding his life into my hands, one thing he didn't grudge me.
Was that not enough? He was a fool, Agravain: brave, and for once even right, but a fool to go looking for trouble. Given time, Gawain would have forgiven his death. Even I might.
For little Gaheris, cocksure, contrary, perversely anxious to please -- for Gareth, who in his innocence trusted Lancelot even above his brothers -- for what he left of them, there's no other word than murder. For what he's done to Gawain --
I should get up now, never mind that it hurts; I should go to the only brother left to me, and reason with him. I should at least try.
But I won't: because I know now the stark black agony that's in him.
"Do that," I say.
Fandom: Arthurian
Rating: PG-13
Words: 304
Disclaimer: No more mine than they are anybody else's.
Summary: Things fall apart.
Notes: Written for
theatrical_muse #132."I'll kill him," Gawain says.
He's still white-faced and shaky from the shock of it; his voice wavers. His eyes don't: wild and mad and deadly as the hawk they sometimes call him. I've seen him like this a scant few times. I still don't recognize him.
All I can answer is, "Do that."
Because God, my God, I had the chance -- and didn't, couldn't do it. The hell with honor and justice and self-preservation; I should have killed Lancelot by any means to hand, sooner than let it come to this. Stabbed him in the back, smothered him in his sleep, taken him down tooth and nail, if I died trying.
I saw his face. There was no hate, no guilt, no regret, almost no anger. As if he couldn't believe they'd had the audacity to call him to account.
"Both of them, my God--"
He cut Agravain down without a second look. My poor damned dense brother, least beloved and least wise --
Bleeding his life into my hands, one thing he didn't grudge me.
Was that not enough? He was a fool, Agravain: brave, and for once even right, but a fool to go looking for trouble. Given time, Gawain would have forgiven his death. Even I might.
For little Gaheris, cocksure, contrary, perversely anxious to please -- for Gareth, who in his innocence trusted Lancelot even above his brothers -- for what he left of them, there's no other word than murder. For what he's done to Gawain --
I should get up now, never mind that it hurts; I should go to the only brother left to me, and reason with him. I should at least try.
But I won't: because I know now the stark black agony that's in him.
"Do that," I say.