[ arthur throws her out of camelot, and elyan does nothing, nothing, nothing but that is only because gwen made him swear he wouldn't. there's no sense in plunging them both into poverty and banishment, not when elyan is a knight and happy and gwen brought this upon herself. she doesn't need anyone else dragged into it.
the cart filled with her things is heavy and gwen sits, skirts spread out amongst the flowers and she doesn't cry, she refuses to cry, but she has a moment where she'd really like to, a moment of panic as she says to the empty air, where will i go? because she honestly can't think of a place. part of her wants to go back, to push the doors to the throne room open and demand arthur see her, demand he take her back. but she thinks of his face, as if carved from stone, cold and unforgiving, and that puts an end to that. he'll not take her back. what she's done is unforgiveable, and lancelot.
well. best not to speak of it.
but she does think, at the sound of hooves and the flash of pendragon red, that perhaps this is lancelot, come to play the hero. but it's gwaine and her smile is a small sad thing but it's there all the same, widening at the proferred gift of a flower. ]
Always a charmer, Gwaine.
[ it's so reminiscent of before that her chest tightens, breath catches. but things are different in thousands of ways. she takes the flower from him, fingers brushing his and then sighs. ]
i am already thrilled by it to be honest.
the cart filled with her things is heavy and gwen sits, skirts spread out amongst the flowers and she doesn't cry, she refuses to cry, but she has a moment where she'd really like to, a moment of panic as she says to the empty air, where will i go? because she honestly can't think of a place. part of her wants to go back, to push the doors to the throne room open and demand arthur see her, demand he take her back. but she thinks of his face, as if carved from stone, cold and unforgiving, and that puts an end to that. he'll not take her back. what she's done is unforgiveable, and lancelot.
well. best not to speak of it.
but she does think, at the sound of hooves and the flash of pendragon red, that perhaps this is lancelot, come to play the hero. but it's gwaine and her smile is a small sad thing but it's there all the same, widening at the proferred gift of a flower. ]
Always a charmer, Gwaine.
[ it's so reminiscent of before that her chest tightens, breath catches. but things are different in thousands of ways. she takes the flower from him, fingers brushing his and then sighs. ]
But you should be in Camelot, not here.
[ not here with me. ]