Work Text:
Sacred Inspiration
by Anne Marsh
danakszoul@yahoo.com
He spoke in a reverent whisper, barely louder than the rustle of a turning page. It could have been a holy text, instead of just a storybook tale.
I hung on his every word, starving for them, eyes zeroed in as he licked his lips. His eyes flickered across the page and mine flickered across him.
By the end, he was crying, silently, his voice barely wavering as he read. Maybe I had never read it before, or maybe, in my usual way, I had done so thoughtlessly. When he read it, I felt the sadness of the girl locked away from companionship, from the spectacle and glory and the chance of love, whose brief infatuation with a handsome knight killed her.
In the book, the illuminated illustration showed the procession down to Camelot. I always figured Lancelot for a blond, but here they painted him with coal black hair and sky-colour eyes.
"He looks like you." He said, then looked away shyly.
I didn't know what to say, and he blushed.
"I don't look like anyone." He continued, but if there ever was a picture like him I'd be parked in front of it all day...
I traced a finger over the girl in the boat. "You really get her, don't you? I mean, I can tell the way you read it."
Another blush, soft and sweet, his eyelashes dipping down to kiss his cheeks. "I know what it's like to be seperate. And to be cursed."
"Yeah, well, but you wouldn't go mooning over any Sir Lancelot."
"I might." He shrugged, bold streak coming out. When I leaned in, he didn't pull back.