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luzulaTitle: White Flowers in Spring
Fandom: Rosemary Sutcliff's Sword at Sunset
Pairing: Artos/Bedwyr/Guenhumara
Rating: PG
Length: 2150 words
Summary: After many years, Artos receives a message.
Notes: I never really expected to write for Sutcliff fandom, but hey, I am happy that this story came to me! If you don't know the fandom: it's an Arthurian adaptation, so this pairing sort of corresponds to Arthur/Lancelot/Guinevere. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bunn for the beta!
In the spring, one of the Little Dark People brought a message to my door.
I thought at first it was only a scouting report for the coming campaigning season, but when I saw the handful of white wood anemones that he held in his hand along with the written message, my heart gave a painful lurch in my chest. I remembered those same flowers, lying in a bowl in Guenhumara's quarters, and also in the other room, the one that they had shared. That had been in the spring, also.
I might not have opened her message (for I knew it must be from her), but ten years had passed since that day, and the sting of my pride had grown less with the years. I was older now and tired, and could not fan it to life again. Instead, I felt rather a dull, empty ache where it had been.
So I took the message, thanked the man, and he was gone into the spring evening without a word.
The flowers were fresh-picked, with delicate petals that had not yet begun to wilt. I held them in my rough hand, then untied the cord holding the thin wooden slats of the message together.
It was not, after all, from Guenhumara. It was from Bedwyr.
When I had read it, I sat thinking for a long while, and then read the message again. His words were like a stone sinking into still waters, and settling at the bottom.
I wished I could go then and there, slip out of Venta and cover a few miles in the light that still lingered. But the duties of Caesar are not so lightly laid aside. So I called Cei to me, told him that I must needs go north for some time on a private matter, and gave him instructions as to the handling of the war host. I would be back before the campaigning season began, and I knew that he could handle the preparations as well as I could. He did not question me, although I could see that he sorely wanted to.
It was midday the next day before I could set out, since a hundred matters seemed to require my attention, from answering messages from various lords to a disagreement between two captains over picket space.
But finally I did ride off, with my armor-bearer the Minnow as my only companion. We traveled light, and as we rode I felt as a bull must feel when the yoke is taken off his shoulders: a lightening of the heart, a lessening of burdens that I had not realized lay so heavy on me. I had given so many years of my life to duty, and would give many still, but for now, it was spring and the road lay open before me.
The north had been quiet for years, so I did not fear for the safety of the road. The soft grey willow catkins were blooming, and the birch leaves were as yet only little green mouse ears, while the oaks and beeches still had their branches bare. As we came higher into the hills, so the land became more raw with the lingering winter, and I lifted my face up to the distant blue shadow of Yr Widdfa. Stubborn patches of snow lay in the hidden places of the hills that were shaded from the sun, and the streams were swollen with the rushing melt-water. But the weather held good, and I thought I could see the land grow more green by the day.
I rested my eyes on the hills of my mother's country, and did not think much of what was waiting at Bedwyr's small farmstead. My hope seemed such a fragile thing, like white petals in a work-roughened hand.
Outside of Dynas Pharaon, I bade the Minnow leave me. I would fetch him when it was time to leave, and I wanted to be alone. I did not even go in myself, for then I would be tangled again into my duties.
I rode alone inland to the head of the Lake of Bala, and then on smaller tracks to Coed Gwyn. It was evening when I came near the farmstead, and the snowdrops from which the farm took its name were blooming, a sea of white among the still-bare trees. I slowed my horse, dreading the meeting now that it was near. What did I hope to do here, after all these years? I had sent them away myself and they had gone.
But then I touched my hand to Bedwyr's message, which I had tucked close to my heart, and drew strength from the remembrance of his words. I went up to the door and knocked.
It was not Bedwyr but Guenhumara who opened. She drew in a breath and stood still as a stone when she saw me. But I thought it was not surprise or dismay in her eyes, but wariness, as of something hanging in the balance, and I dared not move for fear of disturbing it. I have ever found it hard to break through the distance between us, and this was the distance of ten years and of hard words spoken and not forgotten.
In the end it was Bedwyr who broke it, coming to the door.
"Artos," he said softly.
I wet my dry lips. "Yes. I have come."
Guenhumara moved, then, stepping aside from the door. "Come in. We have food on the table."
We shared a meal, and spoke of simple things: how their farmstead fared, news of the Companions and their families. The silence between us was broken, but we did not yet speak of the things that truly were on our minds. But seeing them again eased my heart. Guenhumara had silver in her hair, and in her face was the calm and maturity of autumn, when all the sweetness of summer is gathered into fruit. And Bedwyr's dear lopsided face was more familiar to me than my own right hand, though I had not seen him for so long.
It was not an easy thing, but I finally broke through that last barrier. They had written to me (for I knew that Bedwyr would not have sent that letter without Guenhumara's knowledge and consent), and so it fell to me to reply.
"I had always promised myself not to mind if Guenhumara took a lover," I said slowly. "I know that I was...lacking, and I swore I would not blame her for turning elsewhere for that which I could not give her."
Guenhumara shook her head. "Artos. That was never the reason for it."
I went on, to complete the thoughts that had come to me during the ride, when I had time to turn things over in my mind. "But when the thing happened, my mind was darkened. It was the manner in which I found you, all tangled up with the malicious tongues of Medraut and his followers. It was pride, and how the thing would appear to the world." That, and black jealousy, but I did not say that, for I was ashamed of it.
"We are not without fault," Bedwyr said, in a low voice. "I never wanted to betray you." I looked at his face, and then away, for I could hardly bear to meet his gaze.
"Nor I," Guenhumara said. "But we did, and for that I am sorry."
"I thought, if you took a lover, that it would be some man I did not know, some faceless man who would not matter to me. But that it should be my dearest friend--that I should lose you both--"
"Artos," Bedwyr said, reaching a hand towards me. "You need not. You need not lose us. We have lived together for ten years, but you have always lain between us. It has been a shadow on our lives."
I took his hand then and drew him into a hard embrace, such as I had wanted to give him when I saw him first this evening. Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back.
He released me, and Guenhumara took his place. She was solid in my arms, her muscles hard from working the farm. Her hair smelled of the sun, and of the food she had cooked.
The fire had burned down, and Bedwyr piled more wood on it. The nights were still chilly in the hills.
"Shall I play you a tune before bedtime?" Bedwyr said, and took out his harp.
"Gladly," I said. "I have missed your harping, as well."
He laid the harp in his crooked arm, and played it with his good one. I dare say the harpers that have passed through Venta since Bedwyr left have been good ones, but I do not listen to harpers for their technical skill, and I am no good judge of it anyway. I only know that for me, no other harper has ever played as Bedwyr can. I sat there in the firelight, for the candles had burned down, and listened while Bedwyr played us simple country songs, songs of sun and spring and the growth of living things. He played last a slow, aching love song, a song of absent lovers, and his notes seemed to pluck out a dull answering ache in my own heart.
I looked at Guenhumara then. Her eyes were on Bedwyr, as mine had been, and I remembered my own thoughts when I had first brought them together, hoping that they who were both dear to me should be friends, so that we should be a trinity together, not merely three in a row, with myself at the center.
I knew then that I was not in the center of us: Bedwyr was.
He was my sword-brother, and his words had brought me here when I was not sure whether anything could. The bond between Guenhumara and me had, in the beginning, been forged not by choice but as a means to an end, and because I was maneuvered into it. We were man and wife, it was true, and I believe there was fondness between us, but she had never looked at me the way that she looked at Bedwyr. Perhaps it was a lack in me, the shadow cast by Ygerna. Perhaps it was simply that my life was pledged to my duty, and she had always come second.
Bedwyr's last notes faded away, and we sat silent. I wondered all at once where I would sleep. Well, I had my bedroll, and would not disturb their bed, which was doubtless more of a marriage bed than the one I had shared with Guenhumara. I felt a faint sting of jealousy, but set it aside.
"Well," Bedwyr said, setting aside his harp. "Will you lie between us, then? We would not have you sleep on the floor." There was a smile in his voice.
"I have my bedroll," I said, preparing to turn away.
"No, Artos," Guenhumara said, touching my arm. "Sleep with us."
And so I did. They were both familiar bed-companions to me, each in their separate way, for I had shared blankets with Bedwyr many a time during campaigns, during cold spring nights in the hills like this one, or in the autumn when the air grew sharp with frost that had come early. I had put my arms around him for warmth then.
I felt no desire of the flesh for either of them. I do not believe it was the shadow of Ygerna that lay over me, for I felt no darkness in my heart now. No, I believe that desire had run dry for me years ago, and perhaps it was Ygerna's fault, perhaps not. Who can know these things?
I only know that it was the first time in many years that I was truly happy.
***
I stayed with them for several days, until the budding leaves reminded me of the swiftly passing time.
"Come to us again," Bedwyr said. "Come when you can. And at the last, when your need is sore, I will fight beside you again. This I pledge, if you will take me among your Companions again."
"Gladly," I said, and embraced him in farewell.
"Farewell, Heart-of-my-heart," I murmured to Guenhumara, and she kissed my forehead.
And so I left them, to take up my duties again.
I did visit them again, a few days here and there when I could. But even when I was not there, the thought of them gave me strength, and something even more precious that I had lacked all those years. I had been a dry husk of a man, entirely given over to duty and the bitter knowledge that I had sent away the two people I loved most. But now I had a secret place in my heart, that stayed green even in the cold of winter.
Fandom: Rosemary Sutcliff's Sword at Sunset
Pairing: Artos/Bedwyr/Guenhumara
Rating: PG
Length: 2150 words
Summary: After many years, Artos receives a message.
Notes: I never really expected to write for Sutcliff fandom, but hey, I am happy that this story came to me! If you don't know the fandom: it's an Arthurian adaptation, so this pairing sort of corresponds to Arthur/Lancelot/Guinevere. Thanks to
bunn for the beta! In the spring, one of the Little Dark People brought a message to my door.
I thought at first it was only a scouting report for the coming campaigning season, but when I saw the handful of white wood anemones that he held in his hand along with the written message, my heart gave a painful lurch in my chest. I remembered those same flowers, lying in a bowl in Guenhumara's quarters, and also in the other room, the one that they had shared. That had been in the spring, also.
I might not have opened her message (for I knew it must be from her), but ten years had passed since that day, and the sting of my pride had grown less with the years. I was older now and tired, and could not fan it to life again. Instead, I felt rather a dull, empty ache where it had been.
So I took the message, thanked the man, and he was gone into the spring evening without a word.
The flowers were fresh-picked, with delicate petals that had not yet begun to wilt. I held them in my rough hand, then untied the cord holding the thin wooden slats of the message together.
It was not, after all, from Guenhumara. It was from Bedwyr.
When I had read it, I sat thinking for a long while, and then read the message again. His words were like a stone sinking into still waters, and settling at the bottom.
I wished I could go then and there, slip out of Venta and cover a few miles in the light that still lingered. But the duties of Caesar are not so lightly laid aside. So I called Cei to me, told him that I must needs go north for some time on a private matter, and gave him instructions as to the handling of the war host. I would be back before the campaigning season began, and I knew that he could handle the preparations as well as I could. He did not question me, although I could see that he sorely wanted to.
It was midday the next day before I could set out, since a hundred matters seemed to require my attention, from answering messages from various lords to a disagreement between two captains over picket space.
But finally I did ride off, with my armor-bearer the Minnow as my only companion. We traveled light, and as we rode I felt as a bull must feel when the yoke is taken off his shoulders: a lightening of the heart, a lessening of burdens that I had not realized lay so heavy on me. I had given so many years of my life to duty, and would give many still, but for now, it was spring and the road lay open before me.
The north had been quiet for years, so I did not fear for the safety of the road. The soft grey willow catkins were blooming, and the birch leaves were as yet only little green mouse ears, while the oaks and beeches still had their branches bare. As we came higher into the hills, so the land became more raw with the lingering winter, and I lifted my face up to the distant blue shadow of Yr Widdfa. Stubborn patches of snow lay in the hidden places of the hills that were shaded from the sun, and the streams were swollen with the rushing melt-water. But the weather held good, and I thought I could see the land grow more green by the day.
I rested my eyes on the hills of my mother's country, and did not think much of what was waiting at Bedwyr's small farmstead. My hope seemed such a fragile thing, like white petals in a work-roughened hand.
Outside of Dynas Pharaon, I bade the Minnow leave me. I would fetch him when it was time to leave, and I wanted to be alone. I did not even go in myself, for then I would be tangled again into my duties.
I rode alone inland to the head of the Lake of Bala, and then on smaller tracks to Coed Gwyn. It was evening when I came near the farmstead, and the snowdrops from which the farm took its name were blooming, a sea of white among the still-bare trees. I slowed my horse, dreading the meeting now that it was near. What did I hope to do here, after all these years? I had sent them away myself and they had gone.
But then I touched my hand to Bedwyr's message, which I had tucked close to my heart, and drew strength from the remembrance of his words. I went up to the door and knocked.
It was not Bedwyr but Guenhumara who opened. She drew in a breath and stood still as a stone when she saw me. But I thought it was not surprise or dismay in her eyes, but wariness, as of something hanging in the balance, and I dared not move for fear of disturbing it. I have ever found it hard to break through the distance between us, and this was the distance of ten years and of hard words spoken and not forgotten.
In the end it was Bedwyr who broke it, coming to the door.
"Artos," he said softly.
I wet my dry lips. "Yes. I have come."
Guenhumara moved, then, stepping aside from the door. "Come in. We have food on the table."
We shared a meal, and spoke of simple things: how their farmstead fared, news of the Companions and their families. The silence between us was broken, but we did not yet speak of the things that truly were on our minds. But seeing them again eased my heart. Guenhumara had silver in her hair, and in her face was the calm and maturity of autumn, when all the sweetness of summer is gathered into fruit. And Bedwyr's dear lopsided face was more familiar to me than my own right hand, though I had not seen him for so long.
It was not an easy thing, but I finally broke through that last barrier. They had written to me (for I knew that Bedwyr would not have sent that letter without Guenhumara's knowledge and consent), and so it fell to me to reply.
"I had always promised myself not to mind if Guenhumara took a lover," I said slowly. "I know that I was...lacking, and I swore I would not blame her for turning elsewhere for that which I could not give her."
Guenhumara shook her head. "Artos. That was never the reason for it."
I went on, to complete the thoughts that had come to me during the ride, when I had time to turn things over in my mind. "But when the thing happened, my mind was darkened. It was the manner in which I found you, all tangled up with the malicious tongues of Medraut and his followers. It was pride, and how the thing would appear to the world." That, and black jealousy, but I did not say that, for I was ashamed of it.
"We are not without fault," Bedwyr said, in a low voice. "I never wanted to betray you." I looked at his face, and then away, for I could hardly bear to meet his gaze.
"Nor I," Guenhumara said. "But we did, and for that I am sorry."
"I thought, if you took a lover, that it would be some man I did not know, some faceless man who would not matter to me. But that it should be my dearest friend--that I should lose you both--"
"Artos," Bedwyr said, reaching a hand towards me. "You need not. You need not lose us. We have lived together for ten years, but you have always lain between us. It has been a shadow on our lives."
I took his hand then and drew him into a hard embrace, such as I had wanted to give him when I saw him first this evening. Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back.
He released me, and Guenhumara took his place. She was solid in my arms, her muscles hard from working the farm. Her hair smelled of the sun, and of the food she had cooked.
The fire had burned down, and Bedwyr piled more wood on it. The nights were still chilly in the hills.
"Shall I play you a tune before bedtime?" Bedwyr said, and took out his harp.
"Gladly," I said. "I have missed your harping, as well."
He laid the harp in his crooked arm, and played it with his good one. I dare say the harpers that have passed through Venta since Bedwyr left have been good ones, but I do not listen to harpers for their technical skill, and I am no good judge of it anyway. I only know that for me, no other harper has ever played as Bedwyr can. I sat there in the firelight, for the candles had burned down, and listened while Bedwyr played us simple country songs, songs of sun and spring and the growth of living things. He played last a slow, aching love song, a song of absent lovers, and his notes seemed to pluck out a dull answering ache in my own heart.
I looked at Guenhumara then. Her eyes were on Bedwyr, as mine had been, and I remembered my own thoughts when I had first brought them together, hoping that they who were both dear to me should be friends, so that we should be a trinity together, not merely three in a row, with myself at the center.
I knew then that I was not in the center of us: Bedwyr was.
He was my sword-brother, and his words had brought me here when I was not sure whether anything could. The bond between Guenhumara and me had, in the beginning, been forged not by choice but as a means to an end, and because I was maneuvered into it. We were man and wife, it was true, and I believe there was fondness between us, but she had never looked at me the way that she looked at Bedwyr. Perhaps it was a lack in me, the shadow cast by Ygerna. Perhaps it was simply that my life was pledged to my duty, and she had always come second.
Bedwyr's last notes faded away, and we sat silent. I wondered all at once where I would sleep. Well, I had my bedroll, and would not disturb their bed, which was doubtless more of a marriage bed than the one I had shared with Guenhumara. I felt a faint sting of jealousy, but set it aside.
"Well," Bedwyr said, setting aside his harp. "Will you lie between us, then? We would not have you sleep on the floor." There was a smile in his voice.
"I have my bedroll," I said, preparing to turn away.
"No, Artos," Guenhumara said, touching my arm. "Sleep with us."
And so I did. They were both familiar bed-companions to me, each in their separate way, for I had shared blankets with Bedwyr many a time during campaigns, during cold spring nights in the hills like this one, or in the autumn when the air grew sharp with frost that had come early. I had put my arms around him for warmth then.
I felt no desire of the flesh for either of them. I do not believe it was the shadow of Ygerna that lay over me, for I felt no darkness in my heart now. No, I believe that desire had run dry for me years ago, and perhaps it was Ygerna's fault, perhaps not. Who can know these things?
I only know that it was the first time in many years that I was truly happy.
***
I stayed with them for several days, until the budding leaves reminded me of the swiftly passing time.
"Come to us again," Bedwyr said. "Come when you can. And at the last, when your need is sore, I will fight beside you again. This I pledge, if you will take me among your Companions again."
"Gladly," I said, and embraced him in farewell.
"Farewell, Heart-of-my-heart," I murmured to Guenhumara, and she kissed my forehead.
And so I left them, to take up my duties again.
I did visit them again, a few days here and there when I could. But even when I was not there, the thought of them gave me strength, and something even more precious that I had lacked all those years. I had been a dry husk of a man, entirely given over to duty and the bitter knowledge that I had sent away the two people I loved most. But now I had a secret place in my heart, that stayed green even in the cold of winter.
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Date: 2013-06-06 08:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-06 09:38 am (UTC)