Gate Of Ivory Chapter 2: 2of4, a csi fanfic

Disclaimer: Profiteers are CBS, JB, AZ, CM, and AD.
Author's Note: There are fifteen in each chapter. Happy hunting.
Summary: "Issuing by the ivory gate are dreams / Of glittering illusion, fantasies" -- The Odyssey, Book XIX, by Homer, translated by Robert Fitzgerald.
Feedback: If it pleases you.
Rating: PG/K/FRT
Archive(s): the Graveyard Shift; mine. All else must ask.
Pairing(s): Gil/Catherine in disguise
Spoiler(s): None.
Same universe as A Fairytale Investigation.

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Title: Gate Of Ivory
Author: Laeta

(2/4)

In the 4x4 antechamber to his uncle's study, Prince Gilbert hesitated. It was not the consequences of his earlier actions that he wanted to delay, but disappointment and censure regarding his inappropriate behavior. He frowned and steeled himself in anticipation.

Once prepared, he straightened his shoulders and entered the room.

His uncle's greeting was a weary smile. Prince Gilbert saw the many lines of age etched into his face. Time had been good to him, but life had not.

He took his usual seat and noticed the third chair usually grouped together by the fireside had been removed. A raised eyebrow was his way of asking any revealing question; it allowed the addressee the privilege of avoiding an answer if he chose.

The king sent a look of acknowledgement in the direction of the open space but said nothing. Instead, he handed Prince Gilbert a glass of sweet-smelling liquid. Silence comforted both men and gave the illusion of peace.

At that precise moment when discomfort gathered itself to intrude, the king began to speak:

"Eleven men remained after the show, after the departure of yourself and your cousin. I have no doubt of their partiality, but their account of the match and that which occurred following was entirely unbiased. I know that I show my love for you when I say that I felt Edward ought to have acted better. He knows--he ought to know--that he plays with fire when Catherine is involved; he who knows how you feel.

There was no need for Prince Gilbert to say anything at all. To anybody who knew anything about him, they knew that he hoped to never become his uncle's heir. He wanted nothing more than to return to his books and to his experiments; it was a life that allowed for a marriage between him and Catherine. To be king would introduce so many formalities between them that would make it impossible for them to be homebodies.

A small swelling of despair arose within Prince Gilbert. It made the king's next speech unwanted.

"You must be aware of the speculation and dissention arising from my not having chosen an heir. There are those who, in these times of peace, call for your crowning; others who, fearing a future war with the west, much prefer your cousin."

Prince Gilbert nodded, knowing each party of people was right in their own way.

The king continued. "In a perfect world, I would do a turn of the screws and look to the Spartans as precedence. I would name both my nephews as my heirs and have you work together and leave our kingdom with an always present general of the military in Edward while you encourage the sciences and fertility of domestic affairs."

This sparked intense interest within the younger man. It was an incredibly unorthodox method, yet it had appeal by preventing a big middle within the country. Both sides would win thereby removing fears of a civil war.

From the grim look upon his uncle's face, Prince Gilbert concluded that he had changed his mind. So despite instinct telling him that the king's decision went against his hopes, he prompted the king: "How now, my lord?"

"I once doubted your temperament, Gilbert," replied the king, softly. "Since the coming of rage witnessed by many earlier this day, there is no question that you possess the strength and the will to rule during peace and to engage in war."

He stood with the weariness of age and of mind.

"There will be no more bets. As soon as my one condition is met on your side, Gilbert, I will name you as my heir."

Prince Gilbert gazed into the eyes of his uncle. There was an unusual openness to the elder man, as though the caveat contained no grave danger; rather, it was the acceptance of the throne that was the true hindrance.

Comforted little, he said, "Ask of me what you will, my lord, if this is your decision."

The king smiled; it was wistfully.

"Give your hand and the precious metal that declares my ward, Catherine, as your wife. Your devotion and loyalty to her has been steady from the start of your acquaintance; she is everything that can be desired in a queen--beautiful, graceful, courageous--and, as your lady, she will be your other half--as my own lady was--to give you the spark of life necessary during dire times and the ease to enjoy what you can.

It was clear that this was not what Prince Gilbert had expected. Perhaps he ventured to assume that the exact opposite was to be asked of him.

When the prince finally managed to give his promise, the king ended this interview with: "Be happy while you can for I know you never wanted this role. Your sacrifice relieves me."

The night was too far gone for Prince Gilbert to search for his intended bride so he retired to his room. Sleep could not claim him for repose while he thought upon the future and the very real pleasure attached to being the husband of Catherine.

There was one difficulty: few knew of her actual claim to nobility, so they were butterflied to her real worth. Most knew her solely as the king's ward; he knew her as a lord's daughter. If her father, the Honorable Lord Braun, had survived the assassination during the last era of civil disquiet, well, that was a speculation best considered at another time.

Somehow the night hours passed but not before Prince Gilbert noted an omen which always ushered change: a shower of shooting stars. As he continued to watch the sky's splendor, it gradually lightened in anticipation of a new day. So much had occurred this last day, what, he wondered, would mark this next?

Then, he rose and exited the room for an early rollout, intending to find Catherine.

xxxxxx

It should be noted, my rapt listeners, that the plaguing winds from the start of this tale have begun to sigh. Snow has begun to weep as rain. They know this story, you see, and they mourn for the Prince since change, in itself, is neither good nor bad. Change functions merely to alter the status quo.