AN: Hello! I'm back with a new story, unfortunately, it's not as happy as Telling Tales. This is my take on Lancelot Du Lac, but in a modern setting. I'd love to know what you think of it. - BNQ
She opened the door that led to the back deck, the one which overlooked the water. A smile curved her lips as she remembered. It was the reason she fell in love with the house, the reason she insisted that it be the one they bought. The memory of that day made her chuckle to herself. He had initially insisted on an embarrassingly huge mansion–eight bedrooms and baths, lots of marble floors and columns. She was speechless when he had led her inside, and he mistook her lack of words for happiness. It took all of her self control not to burst out laughing when she gently broke it to him that she was not altogether sure, and that they should try again.
This house was the last one on their list. Much smaller than all the other properties they had visited; he had his reservations when he saw the floor plans. But she had pleaded, and he agreed.
The minute she walked in, she knew. Much like the way she felt when she saw him for the first time. This was their home. She walked through the house, going to every room, turning on lights as she went. She was oblivious to the way the real estate agent tried to get her attention by explaining the detail and origins of the light fixtures and the faucets.
She had left the deck for last. When she stepped outside and saw the lights on the water, she gasped. She remembered putting her hand to her chest and breathing in deeply; she remembered thinking that this was their house.
She turned around to face the two men and said just one word, "Yes."
Both had smiled warmly at her, perhaps they had seen how enthralled she was, and how deeply she felt by simply walking through an empty house.
She smiled again in remembrance and turned away from the view. Walking back inside, she passed the familiar dining room, running a loving hand over the dark wood of the dining table. Memories of evening spent laughing over good food and even better stories flashed through her mind. Looking up, she saw the flowers on the counter through the doorway that led to the kitchen. Potted jasmine. A reminder of the home she left when she decided to start a new life with her husband.
Walking even further inside, she gazed at the little touches that marked this house as hers. Every piece of furniture had a story. The mirror in the hallway; the large leather ottoman in the living room that didn't match anything, the coat stand that was so badly dinged from having fallen over so many times. She laughed to herself. She could tell those stories over and over and never get tired.
When she had gotten her fill of the ground floor, she began to climb the stairs that led to the upper level, taking a fortifying breath as she did so. Four rooms were up here: what had been the master suite, another turned into a study, another into her studio and the smallest one, the guest room. Grasping the knob of the door, she walked inside the biggest bedroom.
Memories began flooding through her as she walked in. Richly decorated in lush fabrics of mocha, cream and dark burgundy, the bed was the focal point of the room. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, giving her a magnificent view of the sunset and soon, the lights of the city as it turned dark.
As with every room, the master suite also had its story. That it held witness to the most intimate secrets of both of their lives was probably the reason why she suddenly was so still inside it. She remembered conversations–all too clearly. One in particular, when it came to mind, suddenly brought tears to her eyes.
"Why, Arthur?" There was a pleading tone in her voice. She didn't understand where his anger was coming from. What had she done?
"I saw you," he bit out. His body was visibly trembling as he tried to keep his anger in check.
"Saw what?"
"With him!" He rushed to her, his hands gripping her arms tightly, his fingers digging into the flesh. "You were with him when you promised–you promised me, Guinevere, that you would never see him again!"
His voice exploded with anger and for the briefest of moments, she thought he would strike her. She closed her eyes, anticipating the blow, but when seconds passed and nothing happened, she opened her eyes and stared into his.
"Get your hands off me," her voice was calm, not betraying the turmoil of her emotions.
He let go, and immediately, red marks in the shape of his fingers bloomed on her skin. He knew they would soon darken into bruises and that was enough to shake him into sobriety. He had come so close, so frighteningly close, to doing much more.
"Guinevere," he began, his voice now soft.
"You can't trust me can you?" She asked but the pause that took the place of his answer told her everything she needed to know.
The papers were filed the next day. "Irreconcilable differences" was her reason. It was hardly a lie.
Taking a deep breath once more, she sat down on the edge of the bed, the fingers of her right hand almost automatically coming up to touch the band on her left ring finger.
When she felt the cold metal against her skin, she gave an involuntary jerk, her eyes going down to gaze at the simple piece of jewelry. Her fingers continued to stroke the smooth surface of the ring for some time. When it had grown warm under her touch, she looked up. She was again surprised when she saw that the sun had started its descent, flooding the room with crimson light.
Composing herself, she began to stand up. Placing her hand on the bed, she felt the remote against her fingers. Wanting to put on some background music, part hoping that it would drown out the thoughts racing through her mind, she picked up the remote and turned on the TV. All at once, the familiar voice of a reporter came on. Smiling once again, because this particular reporter had befriended her, she stood up and went to the window and began to slowly draw the drapes to shut out the light of the setting sun.
She was halfway done closing the drapes when her attention was caught by something said by the lady reporter. She had mentioned a name. Hers. Turning toward the TV set, she caught sight of a video clip of herself and him. It showed them walking down a street, her hand clasped in his, smiles on both of their faces. An innocent, happy scene, only underneath, were words saying quite the opposite. Neat white letters spelled out IT'S OVER.
She stared at those words for a while, unblinking and unmoving, suddenly being shaken out of her reverie by the reporter once again, "We all see fairytales crumble right before our eyes these days. They've become so common that we're all used to them. But this time, with this story, I wished the fairytale lasted forever."
With the slightest of movements, she went to the TV and turned it off, at once ending the broadcast. There was no smile on her lips this time. Her face was an unreadable mask. She turned back to the drapes, closing them. The only light left in the room was cast by the floor lamp next to the bed. She went to the lamp and turned it off as well. Silently, she retraced her steps; walking out of the room, down the stairs and to the hall, to the deck. Her movements were curt and deliberate, without any trace of sentimentality. Where she opened doors and turned on lights when she came in, this time, she did the opposite.
She came once again to the deck–it seemed to have a magical effect on her, immediately calming her down and slowing her movements. Lights were coming on as dusk began to fall, tiny points on the horizon which were soon going to be mirrored in the water.
With one long last look, she took a deep breath and raised her face to the sky, closing her eyes as she took in the evening breeze. Then she turned back to the house, closing the glass doors behind her as she went inside. She closed the doors with a click, and walked through the house, turning off lights as she went. Once again, her movements were brisk, like she could not get out of there fast enough.
Walking out the front door, she squared her shoulders and held up her head. Beyond the gate, she could see a sleek silver car parked outside. She had become so used to being followed the last few weeks that it didn't matter anymore. The cars all looked the same, the people inside them all wanted the same thing: proof of her falling apart. She had decided that she would not give them that; they had taken so much of her privacy already, this time, when it mattered, she would not give them that satisfaction.
She walked out the gate and gave the keys of the house to the realtor who had patiently waited outside while she took one last look at what had previously been her home. Her home. The impact of those words hit her with a force that caused her steps to falter, but she told herself she would deal with those emotions later, when she was far from pairs of curious eyes.
Smiling and saying her thank yous to the man took little time and soon she was inside her own car, driving away for the last time. The divorce had been finalized that day, and part of the settlement was that she got the house. It was the one material possession she would have fought for, he knew that, and to avoid a longer battle, he agreed to give it to her.
It was the last thing that tied her to the memory of her heartbreak; she loved that house as she loved him: fully, completely, without reservation or selfishness. When she filed the divorce papers, she resolved that nothing of him would remain with her. As he cut her off from his life, she would numb herself and erase him from hers as well.
But she never imagined that giving up her dream would hurt so much.
As she drove away, her eyes blurred with tears. Wiping them away, she didn't see the man in the silver car roll down his window to look at her. There were tears in his eyes as well. Tears that fell to his cheeks as he watched her car grow steadily smaller as she drove away, because he knew that he was the one who was damned.