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rareslashTitle: Catechism
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
arjuna74
Fandom: Becket/The Lion in Winter
Pairing: Richard/Philip, Henry/Thomas
Rating: G
Warning: Angst, unbeta'ed
Only God or Satan knew why he loved John and hated Richard. There was no logic in his verdict; the feelings he bore for his brood had always been stained with both suspicion and disappointment. He supposed such a fate had cursed every king that had ever walked upon the earth. Not one of his three sons had been gifted with virtues he held in high esteem. Richard shared his fighting instinct, but bestowed the act of killing with a grotesque romanticism. The thought made Henry taste bile; he had no stomach for mixing the sacred with the profane.
Geoffrey had no soul, no imagination. He feasted upon his machinations but had little to recommend him as a person of quality. Henry could appreciate his frigid intellect; but nothing good ever came of a first-class mind untempered by passion. He had only known one man in his life possessing of both attributes, and that man would never be equaled.
John had enough sense to hide what brains he had. Eleanor had rejected him along with the afterbirth. In her cruel strength, she estimated him to be unworthy of her; he would forever be crowned the runt of the litter. As a child, he watched with bitter jealousy as she doted upon Richard, the robust one, the consecrated. Henry could understand the boy's pain. The she-wolf was so skilled at parsing it out. John had decided long ago that it would benefit him more not to overtly compete with his favored brother, so he hid behind his jester mask and studied the court with hungry eyes.
Contemplating such thoughts in lonely, wind-chilled corridors, Henry observed that his distaste for Richard grew in inverse proportion to Eleanor's love for him. Despite this, the brute did have some admirable qualities. He wielded his stylus with more devastating beauty than any of his swords. Tidal storms of emotion churned behind his stony eyes. Henry knew it was love that seeded the those rumbling clouds. Only at daybreak, with the sun-streaked sky and God as his witness, could he admit to himself that he resented Richard this.
True love. It was a pleasure so simple, yet it could tear a man limb-from-limb with its elemental force. As a child, Henry had studied it in writings both ancient and contemporary. He had once been blessed enough to taste it - pure, sanctified - but he had thrown it away like so much detritus. The memory of his youthful arrogance, his willful blindness, conjured anguish so acute that he had long ago stamped it into dust. Even saying his true love's name stung him like the edge of a blade. And when she presumed to utter it, he had to leave the room for fear of what his hands would do to her.
In a merciless twist of fate, it seemed both father and son were condemned to crave the forbidden. Henry had been struck dumb at the vicious revelation, and not for the reasons that Philip had doubtlessly intended. Never in his most private of contemplations had he entertained the possibility of Richard inheriting his wicked vice. It was more than just a preference for the masculine form. He had instantly recognized the raw agony contorting Richard's normally placid face as his beloved expertly filleted him. Once upon a time, the young men had whispered pledges of devotion to each other in the night. Richard possessed the courage to speak his heart's desire aloud, caring not that one day it might wither and die. It was a crucible that Henry had never passed. A long dormant self-hatred had propelled him from Philip's bedchambers as he screamed virulent words of rejection at everyone but himself.
He had stumbled down the stairs, clawing at the walls to gain purchase. He felt sick with disgust at his terrible weakness and Richard's strength. He slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, and summoned the discarded memories of his past. Thomas stared back at him, mouth curved in the haughty, playful manner that had always driven Henry to distraction. A heavy arm curled around his shoulders, and their heads pressed together in moment of chaste intimacy. Thomas had loved him in his own way. He had loved Thomas with an intensity that terrified him. They could have found happiness together if Henry had been able to accept it. A gust of wind billowed through the hall and Thomas' specter scattered like particles of dust. Ashes to ashes. Alone in the twilight of his years, Henry was finally able to confront his greatest regret. He would give his kingdom to be back on those sandy shores. If he had given Thomas a different answer, heaven would have been denied a saint, but he would still be whole.
FIN
Author:
arjuna74Fandom: Becket/The Lion in Winter
Pairing: Richard/Philip, Henry/Thomas
Rating: G
Warning: Angst, unbeta'ed
Only God or Satan knew why he loved John and hated Richard. There was no logic in his verdict; the feelings he bore for his brood had always been stained with both suspicion and disappointment. He supposed such a fate had cursed every king that had ever walked upon the earth. Not one of his three sons had been gifted with virtues he held in high esteem. Richard shared his fighting instinct, but bestowed the act of killing with a grotesque romanticism. The thought made Henry taste bile; he had no stomach for mixing the sacred with the profane.
Geoffrey had no soul, no imagination. He feasted upon his machinations but had little to recommend him as a person of quality. Henry could appreciate his frigid intellect; but nothing good ever came of a first-class mind untempered by passion. He had only known one man in his life possessing of both attributes, and that man would never be equaled.
John had enough sense to hide what brains he had. Eleanor had rejected him along with the afterbirth. In her cruel strength, she estimated him to be unworthy of her; he would forever be crowned the runt of the litter. As a child, he watched with bitter jealousy as she doted upon Richard, the robust one, the consecrated. Henry could understand the boy's pain. The she-wolf was so skilled at parsing it out. John had decided long ago that it would benefit him more not to overtly compete with his favored brother, so he hid behind his jester mask and studied the court with hungry eyes.
Contemplating such thoughts in lonely, wind-chilled corridors, Henry observed that his distaste for Richard grew in inverse proportion to Eleanor's love for him. Despite this, the brute did have some admirable qualities. He wielded his stylus with more devastating beauty than any of his swords. Tidal storms of emotion churned behind his stony eyes. Henry knew it was love that seeded the those rumbling clouds. Only at daybreak, with the sun-streaked sky and God as his witness, could he admit to himself that he resented Richard this.
True love. It was a pleasure so simple, yet it could tear a man limb-from-limb with its elemental force. As a child, Henry had studied it in writings both ancient and contemporary. He had once been blessed enough to taste it - pure, sanctified - but he had thrown it away like so much detritus. The memory of his youthful arrogance, his willful blindness, conjured anguish so acute that he had long ago stamped it into dust. Even saying his true love's name stung him like the edge of a blade. And when she presumed to utter it, he had to leave the room for fear of what his hands would do to her.
In a merciless twist of fate, it seemed both father and son were condemned to crave the forbidden. Henry had been struck dumb at the vicious revelation, and not for the reasons that Philip had doubtlessly intended. Never in his most private of contemplations had he entertained the possibility of Richard inheriting his wicked vice. It was more than just a preference for the masculine form. He had instantly recognized the raw agony contorting Richard's normally placid face as his beloved expertly filleted him. Once upon a time, the young men had whispered pledges of devotion to each other in the night. Richard possessed the courage to speak his heart's desire aloud, caring not that one day it might wither and die. It was a crucible that Henry had never passed. A long dormant self-hatred had propelled him from Philip's bedchambers as he screamed virulent words of rejection at everyone but himself.
He had stumbled down the stairs, clawing at the walls to gain purchase. He felt sick with disgust at his terrible weakness and Richard's strength. He slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, and summoned the discarded memories of his past. Thomas stared back at him, mouth curved in the haughty, playful manner that had always driven Henry to distraction. A heavy arm curled around his shoulders, and their heads pressed together in moment of chaste intimacy. Thomas had loved him in his own way. He had loved Thomas with an intensity that terrified him. They could have found happiness together if Henry had been able to accept it. A gust of wind billowed through the hall and Thomas' specter scattered like particles of dust. Ashes to ashes. Alone in the twilight of his years, Henry was finally able to confront his greatest regret. He would give his kingdom to be back on those sandy shores. If he had given Thomas a different answer, heaven would have been denied a saint, but he would still be whole.
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no subject
Date: 2009-03-08 08:06 pm (UTC)Great story. I'm going to rec this in my next pimp post.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-09 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-10 04:15 am (UTC)Anyway, now that I have my brains back - I adore this; so true to both stories, and the way you have Henry looking at his son and remembering Becket? *sobs*
Absolutely gorgeous, sweetie! ♥
no subject
Date: 2009-03-10 04:19 am (UTC)Thank so much for the comment - I always appreciate it when people take the time to do so, even if it's just a couple of words. I'm so glad you liked it, and thank you for noticing those details. *grin*