Hi all!
This is very different – somewhat serious and a rather definite departure from The Game (which I am getting back to). I wrote this in an odd, cynical little mood and I really don't know what to make of it. That said, I hope you enjoy it and please review.
Usual disclaimer applies… make no claims to others' intellectual property…
celosia ©
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She had arrived one day and set up trade like so many other women. So many others who sold themselves to make a living, really. But she was different – as all the men were quick to realise. She was sought out and business was good, probably better than she had expected. (Her apparent modesty was part of her allure.) It created jealousy, as you would only find among the resident whores of a military post. But she was selective and never accepted more than her 'share'. She soon made some friends among the women. Or at least what you would call friends. She didn't seem to mind.
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Lancelot had looked upon this latest addition to the tavern women with misgivings. Sure she was pretty enough with a figure to make grown men cry… but there was something odd about this one. He would not be one to sample her wares. He still watched her – her practiced and hidden gestures, her friends, her customers… and on the odd occasion when her offhand gaze would sweep measuringly over his form, he would work hard to curb that shudder of doubt she created.
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Tristan went to her one night. The first of the knights. He had his coin and a new face was always pleasant. Tris was particular about his women and had developed a reputation. Many of the women avoided him if given a chance. Lancelot had watched the approach and almost hoped for a refusal but none came. They disappeared together. It wasn't jealousy he felt, nor desire. It was a hard emotion to pin down. It almost felt like fear. There was a bitter, sour taste in his mouth that the ale would not drown.
When he returned Tristan made few comments about his nighttime activities. Only when asked directly would he say that she was worth the coin. Lancelot recognised that for the true compliment it was – Tristan was particular about his women.
He also said her eyes were odd, distant. Not something that would worry Tristan. But Lancelot marked the comment for what it was. The woman had even managed to unsettle the scout. It did not make him feel any better.
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Lancelot heard the news one night that she was leaving. Searching for greener pastures, as it were. There would be no farewell although he was certain that some of her patrons would be disappointed. They would get over it – plenty of other willing women.
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Her last night.
Lancelot sat in the tavern, nursing his drink. Tonight was not a night for getting drunk, but all the same he wasn't going to lock himself in his room and hide under the blankets.
He kept his eyes downcast. He did not want company. He did not want to invite any attention.
It was late and customers were thin. He still had half a cup of ale.
He spent just a moment in reflection… and there she was, standing in front of him. Her last night.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, almost staring, if not for her habitual slow, seductive blink. "You treat me differently… from the other women. Why?"
He took a long pull at his drink. Obviously buying for time.
He set the cup down carefully with almost exaggerated care.
She waited.
And when he finally met her gaze his eyes were sad.
"You're different."
She snorted, something never done in front of potential customers. And her voice when she spoke was slow, almost mocking, "You think I don't know it?"
The unguarded reaction relaxed him slightly, loosened his tongue. "You're like this fragile mix of cynicism and toughness, and something else… something I can't, can't…"
He paused, seeming almost frustrated with himself. The famous curls danced as he shook his head.
"You stand there like a queen and then ruin it by grinning at some crude joke. I don't understand you. I believe in what I can touch, what I can see, what I feel, but you…"
He was rambling.
He stopped and looked at her intently.
She had brought her hand up and was idly brushing her full lower lip with her thumb. Above, her eyes glittered in the half-light of the tavern.
"It is an act isn't it?"
"Of course", she replied, with a small almost derisive twist of her lips.
He took a deep breath; felt her eyes on him as he let his chest slowly expand and then contract.
"I fear you. What I could do to you and you to me… I didn't want to damage this delicate balance you have. So I kept my distance."
She spent a final moment looking at him silently. He watched her eyes, her odd eyes as Tristan had called them. Then she shook her hair out (it was always loose, and it was a familiar gesture – one he had seen many times) and with a graceful but still artless dip of her head, she was gone.
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Later, much later he was still sitting at the table. The ale was finally finished but he didn't call for more. No one approached him.
Lancelot was concentrating. His brown eyes watched carefully, always measuring, gauging and telling him when to make allowances. It was a trick he sometimes practised - the knife carefully balanced at its point on his forefinger, swayed somewhat in the dull light but mostly stayed upright. The tip was ever so slightly blunted so as to not pierce his skin, but it was still sharp. He felt a new awareness of this simple parlour-trick tonight. The balance, the careful allowances; the unsteadiness of it all…
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Rightio!
The way I think of it is that in making the admission he admits his own weakness. And the fear he feels towards her is also directed partly at himself – the delicate balance we all maintain…
I did tell you it was odd but I hope you liked it anyway.