chivalry

The story of a wolf-girl who traveled south-and the story of her beloved companions, strange adventures and opulent pleasures.

"I didn't do it for you." “Of course not,” Merlin agreed mildly. “You just happened to challenge him to a duel a few seconds after he hit me. Obviously a total coincidence.” Inspired by Camelot Drabble Prompt #230: Heat of the Moment.

Penelope tried to escape from her family alone. Anthony finds her while he is attempting to escape thoughts of Siena. Penelope succeeds, Anthony does not.

Written for a kinkmeme prompt for Clint desperately wanting the traditional dominant Alpha and feeling stupid to have a crush on Phil, who is Sensitive New Age Alpha.

“Chivalry does not imply that women are powerless. On the contrary, chivalry is an admission of women’s superiority.“ —Beth Fantaskey Only Jorah could bring that fantastical, Westerosi idea of chivalry to the great grass sea, in the midst of a Dothraki horde.

“I am waiting,” Gawain said, trembling afresh, “for your answer.” Bertilak draped the girdle aside casually, looking Gawain square in the eyes. “I have given it,” he said steadily. “This pleases me, Gawain.” The knight flinched at the sound of his name, though not in fear. His apprehension had begun to fade, drifting like smoke to the high-arched ceiling. “Then you were not serious downstairs when—” “I am rarely serious,” Bertilak said, and smiled.

A tug at [Gawain's] sleeve returned him to earth again, tumbling him out of his thoughts. "Like you this chapel?" asked the lord, too loudly, slapping the pew with a smile. "Yes," said Gawain, glancing once more at the altar. "Truly, I stand in amazement." "Come, then, you and your amazement both," replied the lord, "and sit."

It lies buried beneath the trees, cracked, its two halves barely touching. One day, when a team of scholars with tools pries it from shady, earthy oblivion, they will remark upon its brokenness in hushed, hopeful tones. Next, they will remark upon its whiteness, and someone in the company who cannot dig, but who is there because she knows the words, will say that west and slightly south lies a tomb carved of the same brightness: a sarcophagus for two, unsplit and unopened. With great strain, she will take the heavy halves in her hands and pray. Wind will rush in from the sea, down the passes: the memory of a blade. And the stone, pieces fitted, will catch the lamp's flame in the sun.