fic: The Blacksmith's Daughter
Hi. *waves nervously* First post to this comm (and to any comm, actually), as I'm sure Uther/Gwen wouldn't fit in anywhere else. Kudos to this comm and its variety!
Title: The Blacksmith's Daughter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Uther/Gwen
Spoilers: For To Kill the King; set post-episode.
Disclaimer: As much as it pains me, I own nothing to do with Merlin.
Summary: Uther just wants to know her name.
Word Count: ~1500
A/N: Thanks to ctkelly for encouraging me to post this, though after people read it they may not agree. I apologise for its probable pretentiousness and OOC-ness. Oh, and for the record, I'm terrible at titles.
The girl wandered about the castle in a daze, performing her duties quickly and efficiently but with her eyes somehow vacant. Uther had seen Morgana's worried looks, the alacrity with which she would go to her maidservant and ask how she was coping if the girl- what was her name?- seemed to falter.
Uther would turn away then; he had not felt guilty over an execution before, and he would not begin just for this servant's father.
*
The first time Uther dreamed of the blacksmith's daughter, her smile was wide and loving and the sound of a body falling to the ground thudded in his ears.
*
He found it strange that the girl didn't seem to hate him. Almost everyone else did; the whole atmosphere of the castle had changed. Servants scurried out of his path in hallways and the guards slumped like defeated men when they thought he wasn't looking, as though still ashamed that they had killed the smith they way they did.
It was so pervasive that Uther half-wondered if Tom had helped deliver each maid's infant or saved each guard's son from death. The man had been as popular as he had been dimwitted.
His son and ward were not unaffected. It was usual for Morgana to be defiant and too proud, though now she sometimes threw Uther a look of pity that irritated him no end but evidently meant she recalled his words by her father's cairn. Arthur, however, eyed him with a shrewdness he had not reckoned for and it unsettled him.
Even Arthur's whelp of a manservant radiated resentment and hostility in Uther's presence, although- luckily, for his sake- the boy hid it well enough.
*
She was as polite as before, if a little subdued. One day, she wished him a good morn as he passed her in a corridor. His hands ached to slap her.
*
The girl wore yellow often, Uther noticed, and he decided she carried it well. The colour was welcome in the sea of red cloaks and metal links eddying within the castle walls.
He looked for her at court and in banquets, where she waited on Morgana without error or complaint. Compared to the dunces that served him... Uther was sure that she would be prompt in refilling his goblet, even before it was dry; he was certain that she would never presume to try and take his plate before he had finished.
Uther glared at the servant until the young man withdrew his hand like he had been burnt, babbling an apology. Uther muttered something about idiots and incompetence, but at least his wine was brought to him soon after.
The liquid swirled into his mouth fragrant and smooth, heavy on his tongue. Uther's eyes swept across the room, committing to memory the gaiety, the laughter, the girl's smile as she talked with Merlin.
The small part of him that envied Morgana grew a fraction larger within his chest.
*
The world turned dark and light as he climaxed, his mouth opening to honour a name he did not know. Ignorance made him jolt awake and survey his own weakness with a helplessness he was unused to.
*
Uther tried and failed to think of a way to talk to the girl without attracting gossip or suspicion. At the very least, he wanted to know who she was.
He went to Morgana's room without a premise and hoped he would glean something from the visit, but his ward was in a talkative mood, her focus switching between Uther's upcoming birthday feast and the unfair treatment of a miller's family, amongst other things.
Not once did Morgana mention her maidservant, but then she had no reason to. Uther nodded and responded appropriately; finally, he extended an arm and invited Morgana to stroll with him around the castle.
To his relief, Morgana declined and he smiled and turned to leave. He noticed too late that the blacksmith's daughter was right behind him and he bumped into her, knocking the bunch of flowers from her hands. She didn't allow him to help her pick them up, stumbling over her words as she hastily apologised.
Uther watched her enter Morgana's room before he walked away. He was dimly aware that Morgana had at some point greeted the girl by name, but in the confusion and over the roaring in his ears, Uther had not heard it.
*
He came across her weeping softly in a window alcove. He withdrew before she saw him and waited, watched her hiccough back to composure. Blood pooled from his bitten lip into his mouth, acrid and warm.
*
Did servants usually travel in packs? Uther had never noticed such a gaggle of young women, mainly maids and seamstresses, before. They did not notice him then as they hurried down to the workers' meals hall, standing as he was, half-obscured by a pillar, and he supposed that was their recompense.
Tired feet pattered with a final purpose, high voices as light and neat as the work they had completed that day.
He spotted her amongst them, as a god amongst men, stray locks of hair curling onto her forehead, tumbling down the back of her slender neck. His decision was made before he had considered it fully.
Her gaze caught his and he saw her pause mid-sentence. He inclined his head and she excused herself, reaching where he stood when the area was clear of her peers.
"Sire," she said, voice shaking, head bowed.
"What is your name, girl?" Uther asked. His detached tone sounded false even to himself.
"Gwen, sire. It's actually Guinevere, but all my friends call me Gwen," she replied.
Guinevere. Gwen. That was the word he had been missing. Uther could have laughed aloud; though he had not fully realised it had been askew, the world had realigned.
He noticed that she was still speaking and turned his gaze back onto her.
"Not that I'm saying you're not my friend, sire. Well, obviously you're not my friend, and why would you want to be, but... I just, I didn't mean to be rude, or, or anything... Please call me Gwen?"
He nodded and she relaxed, although she still seemed wary and he really couldn't blame her.
They stood for a moment, Gwen anxious and him triumphant, until she said, "Sire?" and his heart raced.
"I'm sorry," he said without thinking, and her head flew up. Her face displayed a seething mass of emotions of which Uther could only identify two. Shock, complete and utter. Gratitude, pure.
The width of his throat seemed to tighten and a thrill of panic trickled down his spine. A king could not apologise, not for anything, least of all to a servant. A king could not acknowledge his mistakes, however grave. Such admissions paved the road to a kingdom's destruction.
Uther did not feel guilty. He would not.
Her dark brown eyes were over-bright and his chest clenched as he forced a light cough.
"I can't imagine how I forgot it, for Morgana mentions you often. She obviously holds you in high regard," he said.
Gwen's wide mouth opened slightly and he fought not to copy the action. She recoiled a little, blinking needlessly, the knuckles of her clasped hands whitening just slightly. Uther could see the renewed hurt, the realisation dawn on her face as she understood what he had done, that he had refuted her father's death.
He expected hatred. He wanted hatred.
She smiled and it was too knowing.
"It's alright, sire. Sometimes I forget your name too." She bobbed a curtsy and walked away.
Uther realised that he had just been teased. Perhaps it was the inevitable result of a king's decision to let a servant become one of his concerns.
*
The sun had not fully risen when Uther left the castle but the half-light suited him. He made his way to a clearing he knew of, a field within the forest. At this time the area would be filled with flowers, wild and beautiful.
The stagnant mist did not hamper his hand as he reached for blooms in every shade of the sun.
*
Morgana rose to answer the door when the knock sounded, motioning to Gwen to stay put and continue her sewing.
"Uther," she exclaimed once she'd opened it.
"You usually answer the door yourself?" the King said, disapproval evident.
"I am capable of walking two paces," she snapped. "Unlike some, apparently."
Uther ignored her and thrust a very yellow, somewhat garish bouquet of flowers at her. "Here."
"Erm. Thank you?"
"They aren't for you." He bowed, almost mocking, and left.
Morgana stood gawping after him for an instant before she slammed the door shut and whirled around.
"Can you believe what just happened?" She tossed the flowers onto the bed and flounced over to where Gwen was trying to repair the hem of a dress. "I was right. This proves it. Uther is mad."
"Completely, my lady," Gwen agreed absently.
Morgana glanced at her. Gwen's eyes stayed on her work but her fingers were somewhat less deft than before.
*
She wound around him without his noticing, insidious, and it was just like a servant to be invisible until the day you realise you need them more than they ever need you.
Title: The Blacksmith's Daughter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Uther/Gwen
Spoilers: For To Kill the King; set post-episode.
Disclaimer: As much as it pains me, I own nothing to do with Merlin.
Summary: Uther just wants to know her name.
Word Count: ~1500
A/N: Thanks to ctkelly for encouraging me to post this, though after people read it they may not agree. I apologise for its probable pretentiousness and OOC-ness. Oh, and for the record, I'm terrible at titles.
The girl wandered about the castle in a daze, performing her duties quickly and efficiently but with her eyes somehow vacant. Uther had seen Morgana's worried looks, the alacrity with which she would go to her maidservant and ask how she was coping if the girl- what was her name?- seemed to falter.
Uther would turn away then; he had not felt guilty over an execution before, and he would not begin just for this servant's father.
*
The first time Uther dreamed of the blacksmith's daughter, her smile was wide and loving and the sound of a body falling to the ground thudded in his ears.
*
He found it strange that the girl didn't seem to hate him. Almost everyone else did; the whole atmosphere of the castle had changed. Servants scurried out of his path in hallways and the guards slumped like defeated men when they thought he wasn't looking, as though still ashamed that they had killed the smith they way they did.
It was so pervasive that Uther half-wondered if Tom had helped deliver each maid's infant or saved each guard's son from death. The man had been as popular as he had been dimwitted.
His son and ward were not unaffected. It was usual for Morgana to be defiant and too proud, though now she sometimes threw Uther a look of pity that irritated him no end but evidently meant she recalled his words by her father's cairn. Arthur, however, eyed him with a shrewdness he had not reckoned for and it unsettled him.
Even Arthur's whelp of a manservant radiated resentment and hostility in Uther's presence, although- luckily, for his sake- the boy hid it well enough.
*
She was as polite as before, if a little subdued. One day, she wished him a good morn as he passed her in a corridor. His hands ached to slap her.
*
The girl wore yellow often, Uther noticed, and he decided she carried it well. The colour was welcome in the sea of red cloaks and metal links eddying within the castle walls.
He looked for her at court and in banquets, where she waited on Morgana without error or complaint. Compared to the dunces that served him... Uther was sure that she would be prompt in refilling his goblet, even before it was dry; he was certain that she would never presume to try and take his plate before he had finished.
Uther glared at the servant until the young man withdrew his hand like he had been burnt, babbling an apology. Uther muttered something about idiots and incompetence, but at least his wine was brought to him soon after.
The liquid swirled into his mouth fragrant and smooth, heavy on his tongue. Uther's eyes swept across the room, committing to memory the gaiety, the laughter, the girl's smile as she talked with Merlin.
The small part of him that envied Morgana grew a fraction larger within his chest.
*
The world turned dark and light as he climaxed, his mouth opening to honour a name he did not know. Ignorance made him jolt awake and survey his own weakness with a helplessness he was unused to.
*
Uther tried and failed to think of a way to talk to the girl without attracting gossip or suspicion. At the very least, he wanted to know who she was.
He went to Morgana's room without a premise and hoped he would glean something from the visit, but his ward was in a talkative mood, her focus switching between Uther's upcoming birthday feast and the unfair treatment of a miller's family, amongst other things.
Not once did Morgana mention her maidservant, but then she had no reason to. Uther nodded and responded appropriately; finally, he extended an arm and invited Morgana to stroll with him around the castle.
To his relief, Morgana declined and he smiled and turned to leave. He noticed too late that the blacksmith's daughter was right behind him and he bumped into her, knocking the bunch of flowers from her hands. She didn't allow him to help her pick them up, stumbling over her words as she hastily apologised.
Uther watched her enter Morgana's room before he walked away. He was dimly aware that Morgana had at some point greeted the girl by name, but in the confusion and over the roaring in his ears, Uther had not heard it.
*
He came across her weeping softly in a window alcove. He withdrew before she saw him and waited, watched her hiccough back to composure. Blood pooled from his bitten lip into his mouth, acrid and warm.
*
Did servants usually travel in packs? Uther had never noticed such a gaggle of young women, mainly maids and seamstresses, before. They did not notice him then as they hurried down to the workers' meals hall, standing as he was, half-obscured by a pillar, and he supposed that was their recompense.
Tired feet pattered with a final purpose, high voices as light and neat as the work they had completed that day.
He spotted her amongst them, as a god amongst men, stray locks of hair curling onto her forehead, tumbling down the back of her slender neck. His decision was made before he had considered it fully.
Her gaze caught his and he saw her pause mid-sentence. He inclined his head and she excused herself, reaching where he stood when the area was clear of her peers.
"Sire," she said, voice shaking, head bowed.
"What is your name, girl?" Uther asked. His detached tone sounded false even to himself.
"Gwen, sire. It's actually Guinevere, but all my friends call me Gwen," she replied.
Guinevere. Gwen. That was the word he had been missing. Uther could have laughed aloud; though he had not fully realised it had been askew, the world had realigned.
He noticed that she was still speaking and turned his gaze back onto her.
"Not that I'm saying you're not my friend, sire. Well, obviously you're not my friend, and why would you want to be, but... I just, I didn't mean to be rude, or, or anything... Please call me Gwen?"
He nodded and she relaxed, although she still seemed wary and he really couldn't blame her.
They stood for a moment, Gwen anxious and him triumphant, until she said, "Sire?" and his heart raced.
"I'm sorry," he said without thinking, and her head flew up. Her face displayed a seething mass of emotions of which Uther could only identify two. Shock, complete and utter. Gratitude, pure.
The width of his throat seemed to tighten and a thrill of panic trickled down his spine. A king could not apologise, not for anything, least of all to a servant. A king could not acknowledge his mistakes, however grave. Such admissions paved the road to a kingdom's destruction.
Uther did not feel guilty. He would not.
Her dark brown eyes were over-bright and his chest clenched as he forced a light cough.
"I can't imagine how I forgot it, for Morgana mentions you often. She obviously holds you in high regard," he said.
Gwen's wide mouth opened slightly and he fought not to copy the action. She recoiled a little, blinking needlessly, the knuckles of her clasped hands whitening just slightly. Uther could see the renewed hurt, the realisation dawn on her face as she understood what he had done, that he had refuted her father's death.
He expected hatred. He wanted hatred.
She smiled and it was too knowing.
"It's alright, sire. Sometimes I forget your name too." She bobbed a curtsy and walked away.
Uther realised that he had just been teased. Perhaps it was the inevitable result of a king's decision to let a servant become one of his concerns.
*
The sun had not fully risen when Uther left the castle but the half-light suited him. He made his way to a clearing he knew of, a field within the forest. At this time the area would be filled with flowers, wild and beautiful.
The stagnant mist did not hamper his hand as he reached for blooms in every shade of the sun.
*
Morgana rose to answer the door when the knock sounded, motioning to Gwen to stay put and continue her sewing.
"Uther," she exclaimed once she'd opened it.
"You usually answer the door yourself?" the King said, disapproval evident.
"I am capable of walking two paces," she snapped. "Unlike some, apparently."
Uther ignored her and thrust a very yellow, somewhat garish bouquet of flowers at her. "Here."
"Erm. Thank you?"
"They aren't for you." He bowed, almost mocking, and left.
Morgana stood gawping after him for an instant before she slammed the door shut and whirled around.
"Can you believe what just happened?" She tossed the flowers onto the bed and flounced over to where Gwen was trying to repair the hem of a dress. "I was right. This proves it. Uther is mad."
"Completely, my lady," Gwen agreed absently.
Morgana glanced at her. Gwen's eyes stayed on her work but her fingers were somewhat less deft than before.
*
She wound around him without his noticing, insidious, and it was just like a servant to be invisible until the day you realise you need them more than they ever need you.