[Fic] axiom of the outsider - for and_i
Title: axiom of the outsider
Author/Artist: Anonymous
Recipient: and_i
Rating: PG
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Arthur/Gwen, Gwen/Nimueh
Word Count: 3,576
Summary: Gwen learns the truth of Arthur's birth
Warning(s): Spoilers for Season 3
Notes: Thank you to my flist for their patience and putting up with my periodic absences in the duration of this writing of this fic. I promise I'll be less of a ghost now. Title stolen shamelessly from the poem of the same name by Virgil Suárez
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
The blood spills a hundred thousand souls and a shudder goes through Camelot. The sky turns dark, curls of smoke rising from the citadel like a warning, while the walls of the palace crumble inward. At the epicentre of the quake, Morgana's cries eventually soften to sobs; her grief subsides, twisting into anger.
It is dusk before the earth finally stops trembling. There is a harsh whisper, a flash of gold and then, quiet.
On the tiny isle of Avalon, there are two hearts beating.
None have the power to mirror life itself and give nothing in return.
It is Gwen who finds the cup. She doesn't know why she takes it, her hands dig through the broken stones like they are not her own. Amidst the rubble and ruin of Morgana's betrayal, the hum of magic calls; it sings beneath her fingers, the gold warm in her palm as she secrets it away from the devastation. There has not been a drop of magic blood in Gwen's family for over a century but the Old Religion works in mysterious ways.
And it has chosen.
*
Rebuilding the city will take months. Morgana's departure has damaged Uther's mind as well as his spirit and there are upstart nobles at Arthur's every turn, plotting and planning, waiting for him to release the tenuous grasp he has on the kingdom. There are not enough knights in Arthur's army and more townsfolk than Arthur can comprehend have been slaughtered in the invasion. There aren't enough labourers to restore the local town, let alone the castle, and Arthur feels the weight of it, late at night, like a crown of black shadow that grows heavier and more demanding with each passing hour.
The road to recovery will be slow, Arthur thinks, but it is possible. Civil war in Cendred's kingdom will send an influx of tradesmen into Camelot seeking work, not arms. In a month or two, it will be spring and although it will be small, the harvest will be a good one. And then, there is Gwen.
Gwen, who stays late while council rages on, to make sure the candles keep burning, her fingers lingering on his arm a moment longer than they should when she refills his glass; Gwen, who finds him asleep on a stack of parchment in his chambers, shakes him awake just in time for the next meeting, and it is Gwen who, with one smile, gives Arthur hope that one day he can make Camelot great again.
*
Gwen has trouble sleeping.
Her covers are too warm; the room is too humid, even in the midst of the winter chill outside. She asks Gaius for a sleeping draught, if only to get an hour's rest, but it cannot be helped. Even with the potion her thoughts are plagued by a hooded woman who softly takes her hand and shows her the vastness of the ocean. Gwen, who has never seen the ocean embraces her in delight and at first it is warm, a comfort to be held, but then the grip becomes tight and painful and then the woman laughs as she throws Gwen off a high cliff and into the deep black darkness below.
She wakes from these visions shaking, with no recollection of anything other than a face: wide blue eyes and the curve of a ruby red smirk.
*
Camelot is rebuilt and the walls strong are once more but still the heart of the city has not yet been restored. The number of refugees in the towns means food shortages and rationing and reports of invasion come in almost daily from the outlying villages. Windows and doors are shut well before sundown and the sound of talk or laughter in the streets is fast becoming a fading memory.
A year on and still the older councillors are refusing to acknowledge Arthur as monarch, not with Uther yet breathing, and Arthur cannot reconstruct Camelot with the shadow of Uther's madness looming over his every decision. Missives from Mercia and Northumberland arrive with promises of support in exchange for royal marriage, a thought which sets Gwen's heart at ill ease and Arthur's nerves on edge.
A celebration, the advisors agree, is in order. The anniversary of the Prince's birth will do, they can invite possible matches, play host to delegates and dispel the rumours of Camelot's impending downfall. It will encourage high spirits and good cheer, and will show both the people the neighbouring kingdoms that there is Camelot is still worthy of praise and acclaim.
Merlin mutters under his breath, something about a hat, and a giggle escapes Gwen's lips before she can help it. Arthur doesn't respond, his hand is clenched so tightly around the arm of his chair that the knuckles are white from exertion. While the councillors congratulate themselves on their brilliance, Gwen watches uneasily as Arthur's expression becomes dark and withdrawn.
Over the next week, plans are drawn and as arrangements are made, Arthur descends steadily into what must be the worst mood Gwen has ever seen anyone have in her life. He snaps at the grooms and pushes his knights until they almost cannot stand from hours of drills. His appetite disappears completely and despite all his hours training in the sun, his skin remains pale and sickly. Even Merlin, who can coax Arthur from the darkest of humours on his worst days, skulks around the castle, whispering to himself in corners and flinching at his master's raised voice.
In the bustle of organising the celebration, no one notices that the prince seldom eats, or that he has no interest in conversations regarding his birthday feast. Merlin avoids Gwen's gaze when she questions him about Arthur's strange mood, There is something he is refusing to say, something deeper than sulking or a bad temper. So, due to frustration as much as a concern for his wellbeing, Gwen seeks out Arthur to obtain the truth herself.
She cajoles and she pleads and she threatens but the haunted look that sometimes clouds his gaze has grown into a vast chasm which shrouds him entirely. Even with her most earnest attempt, she still can only get once sentence from him, and the defeated look in his eyes as he admits it is one which chills Gwen to her very core.
'I should never have been born,' he says.
Once you enter into this bargain, it cannot be undone.
That night, Gwen dreams.
She tosses and turns for hours, until her eyelids are too weary to stay open and then the inky darkness spreads through her mind like a spill. The sound of her heartbeat is joined by a pulsating rhythm; one which she does not know comes from the object hidden in a box beneath the mattress of her bed. Through the quilt and feathers, she cannot feel its warmth or see its peculiar glow but as the night wears on, a golden mist envelopes her.
*
There is a passage. The woman is cloaked, but Gwen can see wisps of dark hair, unrestrained by the hood and in her hands is a golden cup, filled to the brim with water. The passage is one Gwen is well acquainted with; she has walked it a thousand times. It is a hallway in Camelot, whole and unbroken, just as it was before the destruction. Something about the woman's figure seems oddly familiar, it tugs at her memory but before Gwen can contemplate this, the woman has disappeared around the corner.
She descends a staircase and emerges in the throne room. Two men stand there, the low rumble of their voices betraying a tension in their quiet conversation. Gwen retreats to the shadows, afraid to be seen, for as the clouds reveal the soft glow of moonlight, she finds herself in the presence of Gaius and the King.
The woman throws back her hood and Gwen almost gasps. At first, she thought the woman could almost be Morgana: the dark hair, the pale skin, the haughty look on her face was all familiar enough, but the piercing blue eyes give her away. Gwen is frozen, as though she has been caught in the middle of a crime, and not a muscle in her face moves as the conversation begins.
'It is done,' the woman says, placing the cup on Uther's throne. She draws a vial from within her cloak and delicately scoops a few drops from the water before handing it to the king.
'Are you sure your majesty?' Gaius asks the worry clear on his face. 'The ancient magic is not to be meddled with lightly.' He turns to the woman, pleading. 'You know the power of the ancients is fickle Nimueh, this will not be as simple as it seems.'
Uther has already reached for the vial. His fingers are clasped around it before Nimueh can even replace the stopper. She smiles at this.
'He understands a price must be paid,' she answers.
'He does not understand how high,' Gaius begins, but the King interrupts.
'No price is too high to secure Camelot's future,' Uther says harshly. 'We need an heir or it is all for naught. The city will fall into disarray as soon as I am dead.'
'Which will not be for some years yet,' Gaius hurries to add. 'But there are other-'
'Enough Gaius,' the king interrupts again, his hand raised like it is poised to strike. Gaius concedes, grudgingly, and takes the vial. 'I shall take it to her majesty directly.'
To Gwen's astonishment, Uther clasps Nimueh's hand and graces her with a smile. 'Thank you,' he says in the most heartfelt voice Gwen has ever heard him use. 'You do not know how much this means to us, to Camelot.'
Nimueh bobs a curtsey as the king sweeps out of the room, a strange bounce to his step, and Gwen watches in confusion as Gaius shuffles after him. Before he reaches the exit, he stops for a moment.
'You don't know what you have done,' Gaius says without turning, and closes the door behind him.
'Oh, I do,' is Nimueh's almost inaudible reply, a touch of sadness in her voice. She swivels abruptly and Gwen swiftly finds herself face to face with the woman who haunts her dreams.
'But you don't, do you Guinevere?'
Gwen jumps and unexpectedly finds Nimueh is right in front of her, the hem of her cloak barely rippling from the sudden movement, and Gwen feels hot and cold simultaneously.
'Don't be afraid, my dear,' the other woman whispers, her breath a warm hiss across Gwen's frozen features. Too frightened to even blink, she is motionless as Nimueh moves closer still, tracing a line down her cheek with fingers as cold as ice.
'The truth is a complicated thing'
She doesn't flinch as Nimueh's lips murmur against her own, the taste of her sweet and soothing, nothing like the bite of her words.
Her body feels like it can no longer contain her. She flushes with an unnamable desire, not lust or hate but something infinitely deeper, like Nature itself has pulled her apart and remade her with chaos in her veins. When Nimueh releases her, there isn't so much a weakening of her knees as the feeling of every bone in her body dissolving into liquid, as every particle of her being slumps with relief.
'This is only the beginning darling.'
Gwen closes her eyes and leans back in.
To save a life, a life must be taken.
Gwen takes a breath, deep and burning, and realises that there is salt in the air.
When she opens her eyes, she finds a castle: remote and isolasurrounded by sea on three sides. Only a narrow bridge of land connects it to the coastline and the entire structure is dark, save for a tower overhanging the ocean, where a solitary window glows with firelight. Around her the night is quiet; the only sounds are waves breaking against rock. Nimueh is gone, and all Gwen can feel is a lingering trickle of sensation in her fingertips. As she wonders at this, Gwen feels a gust of wind and suddenly she is swept inside the tower room.
The air is thick and hot and filled with thick panic. Two serving girls stand at a bed are mopping the brow of a woman in bed and there is blood all over the sheets, far too much for a normal birth. Even though Gwen has never seen her before, she is sure the woman is Arthur's mother; their eyes are exactly the same colour and shape. The woman's cries are soft and stifled. It is clear from the expressions on the faces of all in the room that it has been a number of hours. Having witnessed her fair share of births, Gwen can tell that it is not going well.
The door to the chamber is open and through it Gwen can see a young midwife having a harried conversation with the king. There is gesturing and pointing and Uther's face is looking more thunderous by the second. No one seems to have noticed she is there so Gwen steps closer to the argument, just as the midwife slumps against the wall in defeat. Exhaustion is evident on her face and she says in a tired voice that carries into the room, 'we cannot save both of them.'
The king's face crumples and he takes one look at his wife, sweat dripping down her brow and their baby alive and kicking in her stomach, a world of pain written across her lovely features. She calls, her voice thin and fatigued, but Uther stares as though he cannot see or hear her. He turns, and Gwen follows him through the empty corridors of the castle, the roar of the ocean getting louder and louder, until they emerge in an open courtyard that faces the sea.
A white marble basin sits in the middle of the empty space. Grass seems to have sprouted from the stone circle around it, an oasis of beauty in the middle of this dark and forbidding place. Water laps gently against the curved rim of the basin, mirroring the waves which crash against the fortress walls. Uther rests his weight against the marble, his head bowed. For a moment she thinks he may cry, but to Gwen's complete surprise, he instead takes an amber stone from within his cloak and drops it into the water. The stone sinks with barely a ripple.
There is a humming in Gwen's mind, a force that is not hers which pushes her forward, and something inside her finally clicks: this must be sorcery. She takes a few halted steps forward and peers into the basin, her heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest. The water is calming, thickening, a sliver of gold weaving its way through the liquid until a face appears.
It is Nimueh.
'Save her,' Uther says in a broken voice.
Up close, Gwen can see how much younger Uther looks, with only the beginnings of grey hair at his temple, the weight of a kingdom yet to take its toll. Nimueh's disembodied voice float up between them, calm and unwavering.
'You know I cannot. A choice must be made. A life for a life, Uther. That is the price.'
'No, you cannot take her from me.' Uther's voice is quiet with fear and the pain in it makes Gwen's heart twinge with the knowledge of what is to come.
'The ancient magic does what it will,' Nimueh says. 'It has delivered you a child and now the balance must be restored.'
The marble shakes with the force of the king's fist. Water sloshes over the side and for the first time, Gwen notices the faces carved into the marble. Their features are all warped and twisted in, she can't help thinking, what looks like pain.
'You will save her! You will save her and the child or it will be you and your kind which suffers!' he explodes and Gwen steps back, flinching at his ferocity.
'It is not for you to decide how the laws of ancient magic will bend,' Nimueh says, a definite chill to her voice. 'I have granted you your wish, you shall have your heir, and now you have been given a choice.'
Her voice is calm and deadly as she says, 'if you will not choose, then I shall choose for you.'
There is a flash of gold and then the basin is empty. The furious noise that escapes the king's lips is something between and growl and a roar and taking the amber stone from the bottom of the dish, he hurls it against the marble with such force that it cracks the basin in two.
In the distance, a woman's cry can be heard and the fury slides from Uther's face, to be replaced with a look of utter desperation.
A price will be asked.
'A son my lord,' the midwife says as Uther enters the room, but the king brushes past the nurse and babe to his wife. Ygraine's eyes are closed, her breathing shallow and laboured but she smiles as Uther takes her hand.
Gwen stands at the nurse's side, watches as the baby becomes more and more still, and the silence in the room becomes heavy with apprehension. As Uther clutches his dying wife's hand, she opens her eyes and sighs, her blue eyes clear like a summer morning.
'Arthur,' she says, her voice ragged from yelling, 'we'll name him Arthur.'
Uther says nothing, just rests his head against her palm and closes his eyes. Ygraine's gaze roams the room. It softens as she sees the bundle of blanket that is her son and the midwife approaches, placing the unmoving child gently in it's mother's arms. Then, to Gwen's amazement, the queen looks up and directly at her.
'Be kind to him,' she says softly. 'He is destined for a hard life.'
Before Gwen can nod or curtsey or reply, Ygraine's eyes flutter closed. The room is quiet for one heartbeat. And another. And another.
Then, the child begins to cry.
*
There is silence in the room. The baby is swaddled and a nursemaid has been summoned but no one else seems to be paying much attention. All the servants are trying to escape the scene, tiptoeing their way around the queen's bedside, where the king has thrown himself onto his knees and is weeping openly.
Despite all that Uther has done: to her, to her father, to Morgana even, Gwen's heart is pained at his grief.
The moment quickly passes though, when Arthur begins to cry and the king barely even looks at him.
'Take the child away,' he says in a rough voice and with horror, Gwen finally understands.
*
She finds herself on a battlement overlooking the ocean. Removed from the grief stricken king and the confines of the tower room, Gwen finds that she still cannot comprehend the twenty years of punishment that have fallen on innocent people. And Arthur. Her heart aches for him, for the years of guilt and the burden of blame for an event he could not possibly have controlled. The injustice of it makes Gwen want to break things, to scream, to take Uther by the throat and-
'Go ahead,' a voice at her side prompts.
Before she even turns, Gwen knows it is Nimueh. She feels the other woman's presence acutely, the feeling of both comfort and terror that has been plaguing her dreams for so long now.
'Why did you bring me here,' she asks stiffly. That tingling has returned to her fingertips and Gwen balls her hands into fists, more out of restraint than fear.
'I am a creature of the Old Religion,' Nimueh says. 'The cup of life and death is ingrained with centuries of sorcery; it decides its own path. I am simply a pawn for its design.'
A chilly finger caresses the side of her cheek and Gwen feels the strangest urge to lean into it, rather than shudder. Nimueh rests her arms gently on Gwen's shoulders, turning her away from the sea.
'You, my dear, you are a vessel for mine.'
'What do you want from me?'
'I want nothing from you that you do not want for yourself,' she says and Gwen has a sudden vision of being seated at Arthur's feet, smiling up at him as he crowns her his queen.
The detail is so vibrant that she takes a step backwards, the blood draining from her face as her heart beats erratic and wild. Gentle hands steady her and Nimueh smiles fondly, leaning forward to kiss the colour back into her lips. Gwen feels a rush of warmth rush over her, like the sun has just appeared, although the night is still dark and the ocean beating like a drum beneath them.
Nimueh's lips flutter against Gwen's ear as she embraces her. 'For one to live, another must die,' she whispers, and throws Gwen over the edge.
The balance of the world must be restored.
Gwen wakes in her bed just as the sun emerges from the horizon.
There is no hum, no soothing song under her fingers as she slips into the castle with her prize, nothing but the memory of that last vision:
Arthur's face, free of guilt and shame, the haunted look finally gone from his eyes.
In the evening, the city bells toll the death of a king.
Author/Artist: Anonymous
Recipient: and_i
Rating: PG
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Arthur/Gwen, Gwen/Nimueh
Word Count: 3,576
Summary: Gwen learns the truth of Arthur's birth
Warning(s): Spoilers for Season 3
Notes: Thank you to my flist for their patience and putting up with my periodic absences in the duration of this writing of this fic. I promise I'll be less of a ghost now. Title stolen shamelessly from the poem of the same name by Virgil Suárez
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
The blood spills a hundred thousand souls and a shudder goes through Camelot. The sky turns dark, curls of smoke rising from the citadel like a warning, while the walls of the palace crumble inward. At the epicentre of the quake, Morgana's cries eventually soften to sobs; her grief subsides, twisting into anger.
It is dusk before the earth finally stops trembling. There is a harsh whisper, a flash of gold and then, quiet.
On the tiny isle of Avalon, there are two hearts beating.
None have the power to mirror life itself and give nothing in return.
It is Gwen who finds the cup. She doesn't know why she takes it, her hands dig through the broken stones like they are not her own. Amidst the rubble and ruin of Morgana's betrayal, the hum of magic calls; it sings beneath her fingers, the gold warm in her palm as she secrets it away from the devastation. There has not been a drop of magic blood in Gwen's family for over a century but the Old Religion works in mysterious ways.
And it has chosen.
*
Rebuilding the city will take months. Morgana's departure has damaged Uther's mind as well as his spirit and there are upstart nobles at Arthur's every turn, plotting and planning, waiting for him to release the tenuous grasp he has on the kingdom. There are not enough knights in Arthur's army and more townsfolk than Arthur can comprehend have been slaughtered in the invasion. There aren't enough labourers to restore the local town, let alone the castle, and Arthur feels the weight of it, late at night, like a crown of black shadow that grows heavier and more demanding with each passing hour.
The road to recovery will be slow, Arthur thinks, but it is possible. Civil war in Cendred's kingdom will send an influx of tradesmen into Camelot seeking work, not arms. In a month or two, it will be spring and although it will be small, the harvest will be a good one. And then, there is Gwen.
Gwen, who stays late while council rages on, to make sure the candles keep burning, her fingers lingering on his arm a moment longer than they should when she refills his glass; Gwen, who finds him asleep on a stack of parchment in his chambers, shakes him awake just in time for the next meeting, and it is Gwen who, with one smile, gives Arthur hope that one day he can make Camelot great again.
*
Gwen has trouble sleeping.
Her covers are too warm; the room is too humid, even in the midst of the winter chill outside. She asks Gaius for a sleeping draught, if only to get an hour's rest, but it cannot be helped. Even with the potion her thoughts are plagued by a hooded woman who softly takes her hand and shows her the vastness of the ocean. Gwen, who has never seen the ocean embraces her in delight and at first it is warm, a comfort to be held, but then the grip becomes tight and painful and then the woman laughs as she throws Gwen off a high cliff and into the deep black darkness below.
She wakes from these visions shaking, with no recollection of anything other than a face: wide blue eyes and the curve of a ruby red smirk.
*
Camelot is rebuilt and the walls strong are once more but still the heart of the city has not yet been restored. The number of refugees in the towns means food shortages and rationing and reports of invasion come in almost daily from the outlying villages. Windows and doors are shut well before sundown and the sound of talk or laughter in the streets is fast becoming a fading memory.
A year on and still the older councillors are refusing to acknowledge Arthur as monarch, not with Uther yet breathing, and Arthur cannot reconstruct Camelot with the shadow of Uther's madness looming over his every decision. Missives from Mercia and Northumberland arrive with promises of support in exchange for royal marriage, a thought which sets Gwen's heart at ill ease and Arthur's nerves on edge.
A celebration, the advisors agree, is in order. The anniversary of the Prince's birth will do, they can invite possible matches, play host to delegates and dispel the rumours of Camelot's impending downfall. It will encourage high spirits and good cheer, and will show both the people the neighbouring kingdoms that there is Camelot is still worthy of praise and acclaim.
Merlin mutters under his breath, something about a hat, and a giggle escapes Gwen's lips before she can help it. Arthur doesn't respond, his hand is clenched so tightly around the arm of his chair that the knuckles are white from exertion. While the councillors congratulate themselves on their brilliance, Gwen watches uneasily as Arthur's expression becomes dark and withdrawn.
Over the next week, plans are drawn and as arrangements are made, Arthur descends steadily into what must be the worst mood Gwen has ever seen anyone have in her life. He snaps at the grooms and pushes his knights until they almost cannot stand from hours of drills. His appetite disappears completely and despite all his hours training in the sun, his skin remains pale and sickly. Even Merlin, who can coax Arthur from the darkest of humours on his worst days, skulks around the castle, whispering to himself in corners and flinching at his master's raised voice.
In the bustle of organising the celebration, no one notices that the prince seldom eats, or that he has no interest in conversations regarding his birthday feast. Merlin avoids Gwen's gaze when she questions him about Arthur's strange mood, There is something he is refusing to say, something deeper than sulking or a bad temper. So, due to frustration as much as a concern for his wellbeing, Gwen seeks out Arthur to obtain the truth herself.
She cajoles and she pleads and she threatens but the haunted look that sometimes clouds his gaze has grown into a vast chasm which shrouds him entirely. Even with her most earnest attempt, she still can only get once sentence from him, and the defeated look in his eyes as he admits it is one which chills Gwen to her very core.
'I should never have been born,' he says.
Once you enter into this bargain, it cannot be undone.
That night, Gwen dreams.
She tosses and turns for hours, until her eyelids are too weary to stay open and then the inky darkness spreads through her mind like a spill. The sound of her heartbeat is joined by a pulsating rhythm; one which she does not know comes from the object hidden in a box beneath the mattress of her bed. Through the quilt and feathers, she cannot feel its warmth or see its peculiar glow but as the night wears on, a golden mist envelopes her.
*
There is a passage. The woman is cloaked, but Gwen can see wisps of dark hair, unrestrained by the hood and in her hands is a golden cup, filled to the brim with water. The passage is one Gwen is well acquainted with; she has walked it a thousand times. It is a hallway in Camelot, whole and unbroken, just as it was before the destruction. Something about the woman's figure seems oddly familiar, it tugs at her memory but before Gwen can contemplate this, the woman has disappeared around the corner.
She descends a staircase and emerges in the throne room. Two men stand there, the low rumble of their voices betraying a tension in their quiet conversation. Gwen retreats to the shadows, afraid to be seen, for as the clouds reveal the soft glow of moonlight, she finds herself in the presence of Gaius and the King.
The woman throws back her hood and Gwen almost gasps. At first, she thought the woman could almost be Morgana: the dark hair, the pale skin, the haughty look on her face was all familiar enough, but the piercing blue eyes give her away. Gwen is frozen, as though she has been caught in the middle of a crime, and not a muscle in her face moves as the conversation begins.
'It is done,' the woman says, placing the cup on Uther's throne. She draws a vial from within her cloak and delicately scoops a few drops from the water before handing it to the king.
'Are you sure your majesty?' Gaius asks the worry clear on his face. 'The ancient magic is not to be meddled with lightly.' He turns to the woman, pleading. 'You know the power of the ancients is fickle Nimueh, this will not be as simple as it seems.'
Uther has already reached for the vial. His fingers are clasped around it before Nimueh can even replace the stopper. She smiles at this.
'He understands a price must be paid,' she answers.
'He does not understand how high,' Gaius begins, but the King interrupts.
'No price is too high to secure Camelot's future,' Uther says harshly. 'We need an heir or it is all for naught. The city will fall into disarray as soon as I am dead.'
'Which will not be for some years yet,' Gaius hurries to add. 'But there are other-'
'Enough Gaius,' the king interrupts again, his hand raised like it is poised to strike. Gaius concedes, grudgingly, and takes the vial. 'I shall take it to her majesty directly.'
To Gwen's astonishment, Uther clasps Nimueh's hand and graces her with a smile. 'Thank you,' he says in the most heartfelt voice Gwen has ever heard him use. 'You do not know how much this means to us, to Camelot.'
Nimueh bobs a curtsey as the king sweeps out of the room, a strange bounce to his step, and Gwen watches in confusion as Gaius shuffles after him. Before he reaches the exit, he stops for a moment.
'You don't know what you have done,' Gaius says without turning, and closes the door behind him.
'Oh, I do,' is Nimueh's almost inaudible reply, a touch of sadness in her voice. She swivels abruptly and Gwen swiftly finds herself face to face with the woman who haunts her dreams.
'But you don't, do you Guinevere?'
Gwen jumps and unexpectedly finds Nimueh is right in front of her, the hem of her cloak barely rippling from the sudden movement, and Gwen feels hot and cold simultaneously.
'Don't be afraid, my dear,' the other woman whispers, her breath a warm hiss across Gwen's frozen features. Too frightened to even blink, she is motionless as Nimueh moves closer still, tracing a line down her cheek with fingers as cold as ice.
'The truth is a complicated thing'
She doesn't flinch as Nimueh's lips murmur against her own, the taste of her sweet and soothing, nothing like the bite of her words.
Her body feels like it can no longer contain her. She flushes with an unnamable desire, not lust or hate but something infinitely deeper, like Nature itself has pulled her apart and remade her with chaos in her veins. When Nimueh releases her, there isn't so much a weakening of her knees as the feeling of every bone in her body dissolving into liquid, as every particle of her being slumps with relief.
'This is only the beginning darling.'
Gwen closes her eyes and leans back in.
To save a life, a life must be taken.
Gwen takes a breath, deep and burning, and realises that there is salt in the air.
When she opens her eyes, she finds a castle: remote and isolasurrounded by sea on three sides. Only a narrow bridge of land connects it to the coastline and the entire structure is dark, save for a tower overhanging the ocean, where a solitary window glows with firelight. Around her the night is quiet; the only sounds are waves breaking against rock. Nimueh is gone, and all Gwen can feel is a lingering trickle of sensation in her fingertips. As she wonders at this, Gwen feels a gust of wind and suddenly she is swept inside the tower room.
The air is thick and hot and filled with thick panic. Two serving girls stand at a bed are mopping the brow of a woman in bed and there is blood all over the sheets, far too much for a normal birth. Even though Gwen has never seen her before, she is sure the woman is Arthur's mother; their eyes are exactly the same colour and shape. The woman's cries are soft and stifled. It is clear from the expressions on the faces of all in the room that it has been a number of hours. Having witnessed her fair share of births, Gwen can tell that it is not going well.
The door to the chamber is open and through it Gwen can see a young midwife having a harried conversation with the king. There is gesturing and pointing and Uther's face is looking more thunderous by the second. No one seems to have noticed she is there so Gwen steps closer to the argument, just as the midwife slumps against the wall in defeat. Exhaustion is evident on her face and she says in a tired voice that carries into the room, 'we cannot save both of them.'
The king's face crumples and he takes one look at his wife, sweat dripping down her brow and their baby alive and kicking in her stomach, a world of pain written across her lovely features. She calls, her voice thin and fatigued, but Uther stares as though he cannot see or hear her. He turns, and Gwen follows him through the empty corridors of the castle, the roar of the ocean getting louder and louder, until they emerge in an open courtyard that faces the sea.
A white marble basin sits in the middle of the empty space. Grass seems to have sprouted from the stone circle around it, an oasis of beauty in the middle of this dark and forbidding place. Water laps gently against the curved rim of the basin, mirroring the waves which crash against the fortress walls. Uther rests his weight against the marble, his head bowed. For a moment she thinks he may cry, but to Gwen's complete surprise, he instead takes an amber stone from within his cloak and drops it into the water. The stone sinks with barely a ripple.
There is a humming in Gwen's mind, a force that is not hers which pushes her forward, and something inside her finally clicks: this must be sorcery. She takes a few halted steps forward and peers into the basin, her heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest. The water is calming, thickening, a sliver of gold weaving its way through the liquid until a face appears.
It is Nimueh.
'Save her,' Uther says in a broken voice.
Up close, Gwen can see how much younger Uther looks, with only the beginnings of grey hair at his temple, the weight of a kingdom yet to take its toll. Nimueh's disembodied voice float up between them, calm and unwavering.
'You know I cannot. A choice must be made. A life for a life, Uther. That is the price.'
'No, you cannot take her from me.' Uther's voice is quiet with fear and the pain in it makes Gwen's heart twinge with the knowledge of what is to come.
'The ancient magic does what it will,' Nimueh says. 'It has delivered you a child and now the balance must be restored.'
The marble shakes with the force of the king's fist. Water sloshes over the side and for the first time, Gwen notices the faces carved into the marble. Their features are all warped and twisted in, she can't help thinking, what looks like pain.
'You will save her! You will save her and the child or it will be you and your kind which suffers!' he explodes and Gwen steps back, flinching at his ferocity.
'It is not for you to decide how the laws of ancient magic will bend,' Nimueh says, a definite chill to her voice. 'I have granted you your wish, you shall have your heir, and now you have been given a choice.'
Her voice is calm and deadly as she says, 'if you will not choose, then I shall choose for you.'
There is a flash of gold and then the basin is empty. The furious noise that escapes the king's lips is something between and growl and a roar and taking the amber stone from the bottom of the dish, he hurls it against the marble with such force that it cracks the basin in two.
In the distance, a woman's cry can be heard and the fury slides from Uther's face, to be replaced with a look of utter desperation.
A price will be asked.
'A son my lord,' the midwife says as Uther enters the room, but the king brushes past the nurse and babe to his wife. Ygraine's eyes are closed, her breathing shallow and laboured but she smiles as Uther takes her hand.
Gwen stands at the nurse's side, watches as the baby becomes more and more still, and the silence in the room becomes heavy with apprehension. As Uther clutches his dying wife's hand, she opens her eyes and sighs, her blue eyes clear like a summer morning.
'Arthur,' she says, her voice ragged from yelling, 'we'll name him Arthur.'
Uther says nothing, just rests his head against her palm and closes his eyes. Ygraine's gaze roams the room. It softens as she sees the bundle of blanket that is her son and the midwife approaches, placing the unmoving child gently in it's mother's arms. Then, to Gwen's amazement, the queen looks up and directly at her.
'Be kind to him,' she says softly. 'He is destined for a hard life.'
Before Gwen can nod or curtsey or reply, Ygraine's eyes flutter closed. The room is quiet for one heartbeat. And another. And another.
Then, the child begins to cry.
*
There is silence in the room. The baby is swaddled and a nursemaid has been summoned but no one else seems to be paying much attention. All the servants are trying to escape the scene, tiptoeing their way around the queen's bedside, where the king has thrown himself onto his knees and is weeping openly.
Despite all that Uther has done: to her, to her father, to Morgana even, Gwen's heart is pained at his grief.
The moment quickly passes though, when Arthur begins to cry and the king barely even looks at him.
'Take the child away,' he says in a rough voice and with horror, Gwen finally understands.
*
She finds herself on a battlement overlooking the ocean. Removed from the grief stricken king and the confines of the tower room, Gwen finds that she still cannot comprehend the twenty years of punishment that have fallen on innocent people. And Arthur. Her heart aches for him, for the years of guilt and the burden of blame for an event he could not possibly have controlled. The injustice of it makes Gwen want to break things, to scream, to take Uther by the throat and-
'Go ahead,' a voice at her side prompts.
Before she even turns, Gwen knows it is Nimueh. She feels the other woman's presence acutely, the feeling of both comfort and terror that has been plaguing her dreams for so long now.
'Why did you bring me here,' she asks stiffly. That tingling has returned to her fingertips and Gwen balls her hands into fists, more out of restraint than fear.
'I am a creature of the Old Religion,' Nimueh says. 'The cup of life and death is ingrained with centuries of sorcery; it decides its own path. I am simply a pawn for its design.'
A chilly finger caresses the side of her cheek and Gwen feels the strangest urge to lean into it, rather than shudder. Nimueh rests her arms gently on Gwen's shoulders, turning her away from the sea.
'You, my dear, you are a vessel for mine.'
'What do you want from me?'
'I want nothing from you that you do not want for yourself,' she says and Gwen has a sudden vision of being seated at Arthur's feet, smiling up at him as he crowns her his queen.
The detail is so vibrant that she takes a step backwards, the blood draining from her face as her heart beats erratic and wild. Gentle hands steady her and Nimueh smiles fondly, leaning forward to kiss the colour back into her lips. Gwen feels a rush of warmth rush over her, like the sun has just appeared, although the night is still dark and the ocean beating like a drum beneath them.
Nimueh's lips flutter against Gwen's ear as she embraces her. 'For one to live, another must die,' she whispers, and throws Gwen over the edge.
The balance of the world must be restored.
Gwen wakes in her bed just as the sun emerges from the horizon.
There is no hum, no soothing song under her fingers as she slips into the castle with her prize, nothing but the memory of that last vision:
Arthur's face, free of guilt and shame, the haunted look finally gone from his eyes.
In the evening, the city bells toll the death of a king.