IP: 82.19.140.112
Posted on September 16, 2012 at 10:57:33 PM by tristan & celidon
Tristan listened, with his head bowed, and his fingers still tugging at each blade of grass in turn. Biting his lip the prince turned his head when Mallos lifted the rock, his green eyes drawn to the insect life beneath. Lilith had not liked spiders, he remembered that. One had scuttled out from behind the wardrobe once when they had all been sitting in the same room, Lilith on the bed next to Gawain, and Arthur sitting on the chair with Tristan at his feet. Arthur had chuckled, as he had slipped a goblet over the spider, and, using a piece of parchment, escorted the creature to the window. A millipede moved through the grass towards Tristan’s knee, and the boy lifted his leg in order to let it pass by, as he mulled over his grandfather’s words, the happy memory fading from the forefront of his mind. “I miss them,” the prince confessed, with a sniff, furiously trying to hold back any more tears. He paused again, looking away from Mallos and back out towards the lake, at the birds that had returned to disturb the surface in their pursuit of pondweed or fish. They were ignorant to the discussion taking place between the faeries on the bank. It made no difference to them. Life went on. He hadn’t intended to ask it, even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he could not remember making the decision to share the worry, the fear, with anyone. “If it had been me...” the Prince began, his fingers leaving the grass alone at last, and instead brushing against the leather of his boot, “instead of Gawain...would she have stayed?” Tristan had never spent as much time with his Mother as Gawain had, there had always been a bond there, a connection that, on some level, Tristan had always felt he was invading upon. He had spent the majority of his time with his Father, but had that meant that his Mother had felt that he had not loved her as much? Tristan’s green eyes were large, almost pleading as they filled with tears. His chin lifted, in order to look imploringly at Mallos, “if Gawain was here, and I wasn’t...would things have been better?” Gawain was better cut out for the job Tristan now had to do, or so the remaining Prince believed. He had always been more sensible, steadier. It was like stepping into shoes that were not only the wrong size, but completely the wrong shape. “No,” Tristan replied, shaking his head, “I don’t know...I...” He broke off, unable to maintain eye contact for very long, he returned his attention to his boots, tracing the line of the stitching that ran around the bones of his ankle. The prince wanted to say that he was scared, but he couldn’t, the pride of a boy held him back, after everything he had admitted, it seemed like the weakest thing to confess. “I want to try,” he managed, finally, “and I want to do things well, I’ve always done things well!” The second half of the sentence sped up, a passion slipping into the acknowledgement of the fact, the return of the cockiness that had been smothered by the tragedies that had struck. “I just...I just think Gawain would have done everything better and that everyone knows it. Is that stupid?” He had told himself that it was on a number of occasions, but he had never quite managed to make himself believe it. Self-doubt was not something Tristan had experienced much of, it was in conflict with his nature, and he so wanted to be rid of it. Mallos was clever. Everything he had said had made a strange kind of sense, had made the prince feel encouraged, and reassured. He would know. He had to.  |
Replies:
- él se fue con el invierno. - By mallos September 20, 2012 at 11:46:40 PM
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