'This Ancient House' - Merlin - Pendragons - poem

[whynot]

Blame it on the vile and despicable influence of gid_hanasheh and motherlessguns, but when camelot_fleet threw a still-ongoing poetry jam, I ended up writing pre-series Pendragons fanpoetry. idek. The Noble and Ancient House of Pendragon, man! Powerful families full of hubris, doomed to fall, tugging you into a position where the only right choice is betrayal. <3333 Pendragonnnnsssss

Yeah, I dunno. I don't usually write poems, so maybe this is just a fic with weird line breaks, idk. I'm kinda nervous about it, ngl. Two poem recs before we get going: "How to Tell a Story" by Shira Erlichman is about the storytelling and appropriation discussions fandom's been having. "Ginsberg" by Julia Vinograd is about how Allen Ginsberg is a dick.

Okay.


This Ancient House
Merlin. Arthur, Morgana, Uther. G. Warnings for Arthur being a transparent douche.


count them: one two three et cetera
all these men lined up in neat rows, they would
fight for you. they would die.
your sister says they wear red to hide the blood.
they swear their allegiance because they
have nothing else. what does your sister know of war?
what does she know of victory? at your young age
she is taller than you
she holds you down and twists your ear
the wicked grin on her face -- do you submit?
and you just hope your father doesn't turn the corner
until the situation is resolved.

blade in hand and lacquered in armor, you are one
of many, and you treasure the thought that you're just like them;
they, just like you. soldiers are brothers,
and your sister doesn't understand this. because she is a girl.
strike and parry, these are the gauntlets, this is a hauberk
and how silly she looks (you tell her) how silly, with your helm
on her head, with your sword
in her hand, and her oh, look at me, i will save you
giggling and lithe. she pokes you with the scabbard and asks
how many dragons shall i slay for you today? but she isn't capable
of slaying anyone. you know this because once, you saw her
dry her eyes after your father touched your face and clasped your shoulder
my son, he said
and your sister, oh, her hands curled into fists and
father, you said. and how can she save anyone when she's
as soft as this? the last time you cried, you
were ten. you were scolded for it
whatever it was, you never did it again.

she favors purple. these days you close your eyes and see candlelight
gilding her pale neck, candles and lanterns glinting off your wine, hinting at
the restlessness in you both. she is a woman. your father tells
you this with a quirk of his mouth.
she doesn't tell you anything, not anymore.
you listen to the rise and fall of satin skirts, you read
the angle of her chin when she feigns modesty. your father looms
behind you both, so tall he is, and casting shadows everywhere.
he addresses your sister with a gentleness
that he withholds from you. she is your sister, and surely her thoughts
are as uncharitable as yours.

-- what are you hiding?
-- what am i hiding?
-- if red hides the blood, what does purple hide?
-- evening skies. wildflowers, amethysts.
a bruise. hold me up against the twilight, brother; i
would disappear.

so you do. you frame her in a window when the last of the sun
is sapped from the sky and
you're still here, you say, and your hands are still
on her shoulders. she replies, for now.
her hands touching your wrists, her smile hidden, for now.