The Sum of Their Parts
Title: The Sum of Their Parts.
Rating: PG
Pairings: Gwen/Lancelot; Arthur/Gwen.
Spoilers: 204. General Arthurian legend.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Angsty future hints and triangular shenanigans as Gwen feels doom upon her on the ride back from Hengist's.
Their wild fleeing from Hengist’s castle and their furious pursuers lasts three hours. As the night grows darker and the surrounding woodland more untamed, the bandits are forced to eventually reluctantly abandon their quarry and Gwen, tucked neatly behind Lancelot on the horse he has somehow commandeered, is in a near catatonic stupor due to their crazed ride. Merlin, she notices, is in much the same state as she - after falling off his horse while traversing a particularly difficult river crossing, Arthur has tied him to the bridle in a messy tangle of leather, where he now lies, slumped over the reins in his weariness.
Gwen, unfortunately, does not have that luxury. Lancelot occasionally squeezes the hands that are wrapped around his waist to make sure she’s still awake and the cold chainmail covering his back does not make a comfortable pillow anyway. He makes light conversation to cover the eerie silence of the dark forest, but she knows that the uneasiness in his demeanour is not caused by the quiet night, but the prince that can be discerned in the distance.
Arthur has elected to ride ahead to ensure that nothing dangerous lurks in their path, and makes a strange, other-worldly figure in the thin threads of moonlight that penetrate the thick forest foliage. A flash of silver here and there, an ethereal ghost amongst the trees - and he is gone again, disappeared in the darkness with the practised ease of a hunter.
The night deepens, and Gwen finds herself wondering when - dear God when - they will make camp. It is more than difficult travelling in the dark; it is dangerous. And with each branch their horse disturbs and each snort Merlin makes as he slips in and out of sleep, Gwen’s fear deepens. Was not the Lady Morgana stolen away by Druids in the night? And she herself was kidnapped, and that was in daylight. She dare not make her anxieties known to Arthur, who earlier seemed to take some sort of savage pleasure in denying her half-hearted request to take rest for Merlin’s sake.
“By all means, Guinevere, if you want us to be re-captured by those bandits again.”
It was the most he had said to her all journey. Indeed, after he’d made the remark he’d seemed to have drifted into a sort of confused silence, ignoring the probing stare of Merlin and Lancelot’s surprise.
And this is what she had wanted yes - to be rescued, to have past and present (and future) loves not misunderstanding, not leaving, not letting go but all allying in her aid, for Arthur’s admiration for Lancelot to be rekindled and another offer of a position at Camelot to be extended, for Lancelot to smile (he smiles far too little for her liking) as Arthur relives the rescue in gruesome detail, for Merlin to gently tease her and, in return, for Arthur to playfully ridicule him.
Not this - not this tense, smothering silence that seems to thicken the air when all four ride together. Not this delicate, fragile, thorny thing that seems to dangle between them all, suspicions and secrets and surreptitious glances that threaten to explode into something - again, she’s not sure what - should someone dare to speak freely, dare to acknowledge the strange awkwardness that seems to have enveloped them all.
Not what she wanted at all, but then a lifetime as a servant has taught her to never hope for her wishes to be granted. The night has not gone to Merlin’s way either, by the way he worriedly eyes Arthur, and Lancelot too seems put out by something, his hands occasionally holding hers too tight, turning to look at her as if to make sure she’s still there, glancing at her with a sort of saddened resignation she does not understand. And Arthur's desires have most definitely been denied, she knows, by the petulant pout on his face and the way he glares at her as if he suspects her of gossiping about him when his back’s turned.
And hadn’t she been the one to first introduce the strange sensation of wanting to Arthur at all? No noblewoman had caught his fancy enough for him to enquire after them, while servants were quickly used and discarded away - but she, she had been a rude interruption in his previously simple system of want and receive. And behind the brooding and silent treatment, she knew that base want was still there, lurking somewhere in the depths of his wounded stare, occasionally emerging to linger on her form before he would spur his horse and ride faster and harder, as if to banish such thoughts from his mind.
But how - how - did it get to this point? There was death and despair and Lancelot’s comforting hand clasped around hers, him whispering words in her ear as the beast approached them - and then Arthur was there, charging through and pulling them from death’s jaws and throwing her behind him. Him looking at her later in the tunnel, while Lancelot and Merlin were attempting to keep the beast and Hengists’ men at bay, and that lopsided grin on his face as examined her, expecting her to joyfully throw herself into his arms at his coming, to cry tearfully in relief at her rescue.
But there could be no joy or relief when Lancelot, determined to martyr himself to his Saint Guinevere, once again attempted to sacrifice himself at her altar. There could be no joy when Arthur ignored her and forcibly pulled her from the man who was so fixed on dying for her. There could be nothing when all she felt was a shiver of anxiety when she noticed Arthur’s shattered gaze as she took Lancelot’s proffered hand.
And she had felt, whether it was seer-blood, plain premonition or women’s intuition, that something had happened, that this was not a planned part of the hero and his sidekick’s evening performance. A scene had somehow been forgotten, a cue missed, someone had charged the stage. Something strange and pivotal had happened, and after years of serving the fatalistic Lady Morgana, Gwen had felt again, rather than knew, that this was the moment in the play when Helen first meets Paris or Cassandra has made an ignored prophecy - and nothing would be the same again.
Strange, Gwen thinks. When life begins to imitate art, when it begins to mimic the tales of playwrights and poets, it does not grip and enthrall us like it does in the theatre. When peculiar parallels and curious coincidences begin to intrude in our lives and bring us closer to the fated figures of literature, it only unnerves and frightens. That can be the only reason why Arthur is acting so oddly - he is out of his comfort zone, yes, but it cannot be for Lancelot. Sweet, disarming Lancelot. And it cannot be for her, whom he holds no claim to.
So it must be this - this strange feeling that seems to grip at her very heart that this night is bigger than them all. That these small moments, they are part of a greater whole. But her mind cannot decipher these complexities - she is no Morgana when it comes to her unerring ability to know the future - so Gwen instead flounders to make sense of it all: add a Knight and a handmaiden, throw in a prince, multiply by several near-death experiences, take away understanding and carry over the jealousy - well, what did it equal? What was the answer to that puzzling sum?
Rating: PG
Pairings: Gwen/Lancelot; Arthur/Gwen.
Spoilers: 204. General Arthurian legend.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Angsty future hints and triangular shenanigans as Gwen feels doom upon her on the ride back from Hengist's.
Their wild fleeing from Hengist’s castle and their furious pursuers lasts three hours. As the night grows darker and the surrounding woodland more untamed, the bandits are forced to eventually reluctantly abandon their quarry and Gwen, tucked neatly behind Lancelot on the horse he has somehow commandeered, is in a near catatonic stupor due to their crazed ride. Merlin, she notices, is in much the same state as she - after falling off his horse while traversing a particularly difficult river crossing, Arthur has tied him to the bridle in a messy tangle of leather, where he now lies, slumped over the reins in his weariness.
Gwen, unfortunately, does not have that luxury. Lancelot occasionally squeezes the hands that are wrapped around his waist to make sure she’s still awake and the cold chainmail covering his back does not make a comfortable pillow anyway. He makes light conversation to cover the eerie silence of the dark forest, but she knows that the uneasiness in his demeanour is not caused by the quiet night, but the prince that can be discerned in the distance.
Arthur has elected to ride ahead to ensure that nothing dangerous lurks in their path, and makes a strange, other-worldly figure in the thin threads of moonlight that penetrate the thick forest foliage. A flash of silver here and there, an ethereal ghost amongst the trees - and he is gone again, disappeared in the darkness with the practised ease of a hunter.
The night deepens, and Gwen finds herself wondering when - dear God when - they will make camp. It is more than difficult travelling in the dark; it is dangerous. And with each branch their horse disturbs and each snort Merlin makes as he slips in and out of sleep, Gwen’s fear deepens. Was not the Lady Morgana stolen away by Druids in the night? And she herself was kidnapped, and that was in daylight. She dare not make her anxieties known to Arthur, who earlier seemed to take some sort of savage pleasure in denying her half-hearted request to take rest for Merlin’s sake.
“By all means, Guinevere, if you want us to be re-captured by those bandits again.”
It was the most he had said to her all journey. Indeed, after he’d made the remark he’d seemed to have drifted into a sort of confused silence, ignoring the probing stare of Merlin and Lancelot’s surprise.
And this is what she had wanted yes - to be rescued, to have past and present (and future) loves not misunderstanding, not leaving, not letting go but all allying in her aid, for Arthur’s admiration for Lancelot to be rekindled and another offer of a position at Camelot to be extended, for Lancelot to smile (he smiles far too little for her liking) as Arthur relives the rescue in gruesome detail, for Merlin to gently tease her and, in return, for Arthur to playfully ridicule him.
Not this - not this tense, smothering silence that seems to thicken the air when all four ride together. Not this delicate, fragile, thorny thing that seems to dangle between them all, suspicions and secrets and surreptitious glances that threaten to explode into something - again, she’s not sure what - should someone dare to speak freely, dare to acknowledge the strange awkwardness that seems to have enveloped them all.
Not what she wanted at all, but then a lifetime as a servant has taught her to never hope for her wishes to be granted. The night has not gone to Merlin’s way either, by the way he worriedly eyes Arthur, and Lancelot too seems put out by something, his hands occasionally holding hers too tight, turning to look at her as if to make sure she’s still there, glancing at her with a sort of saddened resignation she does not understand. And Arthur's desires have most definitely been denied, she knows, by the petulant pout on his face and the way he glares at her as if he suspects her of gossiping about him when his back’s turned.
And hadn’t she been the one to first introduce the strange sensation of wanting to Arthur at all? No noblewoman had caught his fancy enough for him to enquire after them, while servants were quickly used and discarded away - but she, she had been a rude interruption in his previously simple system of want and receive. And behind the brooding and silent treatment, she knew that base want was still there, lurking somewhere in the depths of his wounded stare, occasionally emerging to linger on her form before he would spur his horse and ride faster and harder, as if to banish such thoughts from his mind.
But how - how - did it get to this point? There was death and despair and Lancelot’s comforting hand clasped around hers, him whispering words in her ear as the beast approached them - and then Arthur was there, charging through and pulling them from death’s jaws and throwing her behind him. Him looking at her later in the tunnel, while Lancelot and Merlin were attempting to keep the beast and Hengists’ men at bay, and that lopsided grin on his face as examined her, expecting her to joyfully throw herself into his arms at his coming, to cry tearfully in relief at her rescue.
But there could be no joy or relief when Lancelot, determined to martyr himself to his Saint Guinevere, once again attempted to sacrifice himself at her altar. There could be no joy when Arthur ignored her and forcibly pulled her from the man who was so fixed on dying for her. There could be nothing when all she felt was a shiver of anxiety when she noticed Arthur’s shattered gaze as she took Lancelot’s proffered hand.
And she had felt, whether it was seer-blood, plain premonition or women’s intuition, that something had happened, that this was not a planned part of the hero and his sidekick’s evening performance. A scene had somehow been forgotten, a cue missed, someone had charged the stage. Something strange and pivotal had happened, and after years of serving the fatalistic Lady Morgana, Gwen had felt again, rather than knew, that this was the moment in the play when Helen first meets Paris or Cassandra has made an ignored prophecy - and nothing would be the same again.
Strange, Gwen thinks. When life begins to imitate art, when it begins to mimic the tales of playwrights and poets, it does not grip and enthrall us like it does in the theatre. When peculiar parallels and curious coincidences begin to intrude in our lives and bring us closer to the fated figures of literature, it only unnerves and frightens. That can be the only reason why Arthur is acting so oddly - he is out of his comfort zone, yes, but it cannot be for Lancelot. Sweet, disarming Lancelot. And it cannot be for her, whom he holds no claim to.
So it must be this - this strange feeling that seems to grip at her very heart that this night is bigger than them all. That these small moments, they are part of a greater whole. But her mind cannot decipher these complexities - she is no Morgana when it comes to her unerring ability to know the future - so Gwen instead flounders to make sense of it all: add a Knight and a handmaiden, throw in a prince, multiply by several near-death experiences, take away understanding and carry over the jealousy - well, what did it equal? What was the answer to that puzzling sum?