[Fic] Stay - for eviinsanemonkey
Title: Stay
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: eviinsanemonkey
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Gwen.
Warnings: References to character death.
Spoilers: Spoilers up to 2x08 Sins of the Father.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 3,351.
Summary: “Can’t you be a little flawed for me? I’d like that.”
Author's Note: Thank you so much to heather11483 for being an awesome beta! eviinsanemonkey, I hope this fic pleases you. ♥
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 storm swells dark and wet on the horizon. Gwen feels the first spatters of rain on the back of her hands as she works the lever of the water pump. When she looks up, considering the sky, she notices the rolling clouds: the way they’re bleeding colour, grey dripping into pitch black.
Those are ominous clouds. If Gwen were a child her father would be here, holding her hand; he’d be tugging her back home, preparing to close the shutters, lock the door. Storms are bad luck. They mean drowned crops and fires and mud too thick for carts to move through. They mean bad business.
Gwen won’t be able to make it home with her bucket of water before the real downpour begins, so she doesn’t bother to hurry.
The lever creaks. Her eyes, sticky with tiredness, welcome the sting of the rain.
She’s shivering by the time she gets home, bucket covered by her cloak. She lights the hearth fire as soon as she enters, then strips off her damp clothes and changes into a lighter shift that sometimes serves as her nightdress. Her hands shake from cold. Her breath mists the air. Always the practical one, she puts some water into the pot to boil and sits by the hearth, chopping vegetables into a bowl she sets on the floor by her feet. The warmth of the fire gets her sluggish blood moving again, but her hands keep shaking. She throws the chopped vegetables into the pot and rubs her palms together to warm them. It helps a little.
Too tired to attempt anything complicated, she eats her boiled vegetables with a hunk of unbuttered bread, washes her hands and face in some of the remaining water, and curls up in her bed. But she can’t sleep. The wooden frame is old and creaks when she shifts. She traces the edges of the neat stitching over an old tear in her pillow with her fingernail, watching the shadow of her fingertip shift and melt in the firelight.
She sold her father’s bed after his death. His bed was larger, sturdier and more comfortable. It occurs to her that she should have kept it and sold this one instead. Silly of her not to have thought that through.
Her head aches. She closes her eyes. For a long time she does nothing but listen to the rain beating against the roof. Eventually she sleeps.
When she wakes up again, disorientated, it’s clear that no more than a few hours have passed. There are still embers burning brightly in the hearth. Over the heavy, endless roar of the rain she can hear someone banging on the door. She clambers to her feet - thinks about putting her cloak on for the sake of modesty, even though it’s still soaked through - and settles on hastily tucking an old shawl around her shoulders instead.
“I’m coming,” she calls out when the knocking doesn’t stop. She fumbles with the door handles. “If you just give me a second - ”
The door swings open. It’s Arthur standing there. She blinks at him dumbly, her mouth parting in a silent exhalation of surprise. It can’t be him. Not in this weather, and at this time of night. She was expecting it to be one of her neighbours: Maybe Jenny, the tailor’s new wife, or old Mairead who has just scattered her youngest son’s ashes after a bout of fever no one had had the gold to buy a cure for. But there’s no mistaking that this is Arthur. Her heart gives a funny leap, half joy and half crippling grief.
He’s in his best clothes - the gold-trimmed jacket, those polished leather boots - but they’re so wet that it looks like he dunked himself fully dressed into a river. Gwen thinks of how long it will take for Merlin to return those clothes to their normal state and winces internally.
Arthur is looking at her expectantly, head tilted forward to bring them to eye level. But she has nothing to say. She shifts on her bare feet, the cold creeping back into her sleep-numb skin oh so slowly. In the end he’s forced to break the silence.
“Gwen,” Arthur says, an awkward attempt at a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. His face is flushed red with cold and his hair is plastered to his forehead. He must be freezing but he isn’t shivering. But she already knows how much he hates showing weakness. “Can I come inside?”
She bites her lip, restraining the inappropriate urge to laugh. Here she is, dressed in nothing but a ratty shawl and her old shift, and Arthur - who shared her home, who kissed her once, so sweet and chaste, who left her to keep her safe - is asking her if he can come into her home. Anyone could walk by now and see him; anyone could recognise him. Knowing Camelot (and if there’s one thing Gwen knows about, it’s her people), the gossip could be all over the city in moments. All it would take is one set of particularly watchful eyes.
It’s so hysterical she could cry.
Suddenly thankful for the vicious storm, Gwen says ungraciously, “If you like.” She takes a step back, letting Arthur step inside. Either by accident or design he brushes against her, and she can smell him. He’s all metallic rainwater and salt clean skin and the tang of wine. She closes the door.
“Have you been drinking?” she asks, even though it isn’t quite what she wants to say. Why else would he be here, after all? This is such a mistake that it grates at her. Arthur tries not to make mistakes; she knows he tries. (But he kissed her.)
He doesn’t look at her. His takes off his jacket and holds it in his hands, holds it out in front of himself as if he has no idea what to do with it or with himself. Water drips off it into a slowly forming puddle on the floor. They both stare at the ground.
“No,” he says. Then, “Maybe a little.” His fists curl tighter, little rivulets of water glinting between his knuckles. “Father was holding a feast.”
Her stomach gives a sick lurch and she looks up despite herself. His eyes meet hers and for a something she sees something bared naked in his face, something fierce and strange that makes her eyes sting. She turns her head. The moment is lost.
“I suppose he has reason to celebrate,” she murmurs.
He says, “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t say, Don’t be. She holds out her hands. “Give me your jacket. I’ll hang it to dry.”
He hands it over and she hangs it over the hearth near her own clothes. It’s such a domestic scene: his clothes drying next to hers, the door closed, the lights dim. Flushing, she kneels down and stokes up the fire. When she turns her head to look at him she finds he’s still hovering behind her, staring at the floor.
“You can sit down,” she offers.
Arthur snorts. It’s such an inelegant, boyish sound that she almost smiles.
“And ruin your furniture? I’d rather not face your wrath again, thank you.”
He’s teasing her. Hesitantly, but nonetheless: teasing. She feels warmth spread in her belly and really does smile this time, mouth curling with joy despite all the reasons - the many, many reasons - she should be keeping him at a distance. “I don’t mind,” she says. “You’ve already ruined my floor anyway.”
“Then I’ll sit on your floor.” And before she can say a word he’s moving to sit on the ground, crossing his legs and generally making himself at home in her home. The way he’s hunching his shoulders tells her that he’s trying to take up as little space as possible; that he’s trying to give her the impression that he won’t be a bother. But he’s who he is, and inevitably the whole room feels smaller with him in it. He has that knack, whether by birth of training, of making himself the centre of people’s attention. A kind of shining light.
“Sit with me?” he asks. “Please,” he adds as an afterthought. His eyes entreat her.
There’s no reason for her to refuse. At least not one she can think of. She nods and moves to sit next to him, feet flat on the ground and her arms around her knees. She needs - she needs to hold herself in, close and tight. The solidness of him unnerves her. He’s solid like earth and rooted trees and stone: tangible things. Things you can touch. He’s real and he’s close and she wants things she can’t have. Things she can’t even articulate in her mind. Yearning hurts too much. So she holds all of herself close and doesn’t think of the small distance between them, and how easily they could breach it.
He exhales and says, “I’m so sorry, Guinevere.”
“You said that already,” she says. “It doesn’t need to be said again.”
“It does.”
“I don’t even know what you’re apologising for.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple working. The firelight makes his eyes look very dark. He looks down at her feet, not his own; she curls her toes self-consciously.
“For not being good enough,” he says finally.
Perhaps it’s the wine that has made him so much more open to her, but she doesn’t think so. The words come out of him too flat and careful. Rehearsed. She’s glad, selfishly glad, that he isn’t pouring his undiluted pain out at her. She can manage this slow, measured hurt. Handle it like a treasure.
She touches the ground between them, curling her fingers into dust. Even though she isn’t touching him, even though they’re both freezing and sitting on the ground in old clothes (hers) and ruined ones (his), he shivers. Like she crossed the unspoken line.
“I was at the feast,” he begins. She draws her hand back.
“I was watching men and women drink and laugh,” he continues, voice growing stronger. “And I was drinking and laughing with them. And then it struck me what we were celebrating, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay.” He pauses. In a different voice he says, “I thought of your father.”
“I’m glad he’s remembered,” she says mildly, and he flinches. She doesn’t understand why. It’s not as if she’s angry. She’s not angry.
(She is.)
“Arthur,” she prompts in a soft murmur. Lets her voice die out so his voice has room to fill the air.
“You saw the executions,” says Arthur.
It isn’t a question, but Gwen still shakes her head in denial. “No. I was with Morgana.”
“Morgana always watches from her window,” Arthur replies steadily. “I used to watch with her when we were children. I doubt she’s changed her habits.”
Morgana has, of course, not changed her habits, and Gwen did watch the execution from the corner of her eye as she made Morgana’s bed. She remembers the blood, and the cut off noises; the rippling roar of the crowd and the chalky colour of the sky. And she remembers Arthur, of course. And Arthur’s father.
“I’ve seen executions before,” Gwen says. Just as steadily.
“They were barely men yet,” says Arthur, who is a barely a man himself. “But at the feast I thought of… of many things that have happened to me. I thought of their families. Of their mothers and of their children. Of the children they may have had.” He swallows, mouth twisting into the parody of a smile. “My father always tells me that kings must learn to do terrible things for the sake of their people. But what does it matter, Guinevere, if I kill my people?”
“You’ll be a different king from your father.”
“You seem so sure.”
He looks at her face. She feels his eyes on her, feels the brush of his breath. She doesn’t want to look at his expression because she can already hear all she needs to know in his voice, and Arthur… Arthur has pride, just like she does. He doesn’t like to give himself away; doesn’t like to give all of himself to one person when he has so many to give to. Just like her.
So she doesn’t look. She lets that last veil of distance hang between them.
“I am,” she says simply.
“Guinevere.” He touches her cheek; another barrier broken. She looks at him because he’s tilting her head: because he wants her to see him broken open for her. His blue eyes blaze. “I will seek to be a better prince for you,” he says with exquisite formality. “And one day a good king.” He cups her cheek. “Whatever you need.”
Through the tiredness and the cold and the steady strength of his fingers, she feels it: the cold weight of another duty to pin down her soul. Because she could. She could make him a good prince and one day a good king just for her. It amazes her how much power he places her in hands. She’s been needed before, and loved and trusted by so many people. But the way Arthur looks at her is different. He looks at her like she’s aggravating and terrible and leaves him unsteady on his feet. He looks at her like she could fill a room with her light. She could make him turn to her first, in all things. She could make him a great king. She could.
But.
“No. Not for me.” She clasps his hand, twines her fingers with his and lowers their joined hands to the ground between. Shaking her head, sucking in a chill breath, she lets words spill out with all the fumbling sweetness that comes from loving him too much. “I think, like everyone else, a king has to learn to survive terrible things. And to put his people first. And you do, Arthur. You’ve saved so many people. Merlin, and the druid boy. And. And you cared for me, maybe just a little,” she says, voice wobbling on that, “but you turned away from me. Because it was right. And that’s hard. It’s hard to put duty first, but you did. You do. You’re a good ruler and a good man.” She squeezes his hand, needing to feel him. “But I don’t want you to be a good prince with me, or a dutiful man. I want - I want you to be aggravating just like you can be, sometimes, and careless and well, yourself. Can’t you be a little flawed for me? I’d like that.”
She wants to be able to kiss him again. She wants to do more than kiss him. But more than anything she wants to make him laugh and get exasperated with him and hate him and ache for him and belong to him, even if belonging means stolen moments and secrecy and hot mouths behind closed doors. And that terrifies her because Gwen isn’t like that. She shouldn’t want to spin her steady, safe world off its axis. Her small life is the only one she has. But she wants him anyway. Turns to him like he’s the sun.
Arthur is silent for a time. Then, carefully, he untangles his fingers from hers. Leans back. Her stomach swoops but she says nothing. If he turns away from her, if he shatters her, she can carry that sorrow. She’s carrying so many already. They’re as light as wings.
His expression is frozen somewhere between shuttered grief and stubborn resolution. She doesn’t let herself look away from him.
“I’m not going to risk your life,” he says, voice strangled. “Guinevere. You can’t ask me to do that.”
“It’s my life,” she says quietly. “Can’t I choose to risk it?”
“No.” He shakes his head. His jaw briefly clenches. “No. I refuse.”
Her world will remain steady then, and small. She shutters away the cold ache in her chest, that yearning, and thinks of the roar of the rain and not of the silence inside herself. “As you wish,” she murmurs, and leans forward to put more wood into the fire.
When Arthur speaks, he sounds a little put out. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
“What do you expect me to do? Run weeping into the rain?”
“Well, that would be a bit too overdramatic for you, Guinevere.”
She gives a faint smile. “I suppose you’d follow me. And sweep me into your arms.”
“I’m not that sort of person,” Arthur says.
She shakes her head, still smiling, and stares at the flames. The smoke stings her eyes and she rubs at them, at the ache that won’t abate. “Gwen,” says Arthur and she shakes her head, says, “Just a moment,” and adjusts the jacket. It’s still not dried through. Her vision is swimming - the smoke -
Her face is wet. She’s crying.
“Guinevere,” Arthur says, sounding alarmed. “What are you - ”
“I guess I am being dramatic,” she says with a trembling laugh. She sits back on her heels. “I bet this happens to you often,” she jokes, feigned lightness stretching her voice like a taut thread. “It’s fine, Arthur, you can go. I won’t blame you. I just - I’m so tired - ” her voice cracks, pouring tears.
When he reaches for her she tries to push him away. But he’s insistent. She sees the stubborn jut of his chin and the curious, broken light in his eyes through the mist of her tears and relents. He gathers her up, her body so small against his stocky, muscled frame, his legs parted to make room for her, to let her lean into him. She can feel the strength of him. The muzzy dampness of his shirt and the steady thrum of his heartbeat. She shakes through the tears. She doesn’t even know why she’s crying. It bewilders her.
“Tired,” she repeats against his shirt, trying to formulate a real excuse out of the word. Because she can’t cry. She’ll wash her strength away.
“I know,” he whispers against her hair. And for all that he’s a stubborn, sacrificing boy, for all that he is too wrapped in his destiny to see her, she feels something like calm settle over her. He’s here. He’ll pin her to the earth no matter how hard grief tries to make her fly apart. “I can be that person if you need me to,” he says. “I’ll sweep you off your feet as often as you like.” He pauses. “Although I do find that horses are more practical for travel than I am.”
“I like you as you are,” she murmurs, oh so tired. “I told you.”
“I can’t be good to you even when I try, can I?” he says.
“I suppose not,” she says, her laugh choked but real.
He strokes a hand through her hair, unravelling her curls. He’s so hesitant about touching her even though his body feels sure.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
As a love confession, it doesn’t rank up there among the greats Gwen heard in bedtime stories when she was still a child. It doesn’t even register for a few moments. When it does she feels too exhausted to truly process it. But oh, she loves him. It terrifies her and fills her up and she needs his heartbeat under her ear for a little longer, needs his hitched breath and careful hands and the earth-steady presence of him near just a little longer, a little longer.
The rain is falling and the dead are buried. And here they are, two people - not good people, although they try; not honourable people, although they’ve turned their faces away from each other time and time again - just two people who are very lonely and love each other very much.
“Then stay,” she says simply.
For once, Arthur has nothing to say. He cups her face in his hands and seals his mouth over hers in a small, exhaled promise.
Yes.
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: eviinsanemonkey
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Gwen.
Warnings: References to character death.
Spoilers: Spoilers up to 2x08 Sins of the Father.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 3,351.
Summary: “Can’t you be a little flawed for me? I’d like that.”
Author's Note: Thank you so much to heather11483 for being an awesome beta! eviinsanemonkey, I hope this fic pleases you. ♥
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 storm swells dark and wet on the horizon. Gwen feels the first spatters of rain on the back of her hands as she works the lever of the water pump. When she looks up, considering the sky, she notices the rolling clouds: the way they’re bleeding colour, grey dripping into pitch black.
Those are ominous clouds. If Gwen were a child her father would be here, holding her hand; he’d be tugging her back home, preparing to close the shutters, lock the door. Storms are bad luck. They mean drowned crops and fires and mud too thick for carts to move through. They mean bad business.
Gwen won’t be able to make it home with her bucket of water before the real downpour begins, so she doesn’t bother to hurry.
The lever creaks. Her eyes, sticky with tiredness, welcome the sting of the rain.
She’s shivering by the time she gets home, bucket covered by her cloak. She lights the hearth fire as soon as she enters, then strips off her damp clothes and changes into a lighter shift that sometimes serves as her nightdress. Her hands shake from cold. Her breath mists the air. Always the practical one, she puts some water into the pot to boil and sits by the hearth, chopping vegetables into a bowl she sets on the floor by her feet. The warmth of the fire gets her sluggish blood moving again, but her hands keep shaking. She throws the chopped vegetables into the pot and rubs her palms together to warm them. It helps a little.
Too tired to attempt anything complicated, she eats her boiled vegetables with a hunk of unbuttered bread, washes her hands and face in some of the remaining water, and curls up in her bed. But she can’t sleep. The wooden frame is old and creaks when she shifts. She traces the edges of the neat stitching over an old tear in her pillow with her fingernail, watching the shadow of her fingertip shift and melt in the firelight.
She sold her father’s bed after his death. His bed was larger, sturdier and more comfortable. It occurs to her that she should have kept it and sold this one instead. Silly of her not to have thought that through.
Her head aches. She closes her eyes. For a long time she does nothing but listen to the rain beating against the roof. Eventually she sleeps.
When she wakes up again, disorientated, it’s clear that no more than a few hours have passed. There are still embers burning brightly in the hearth. Over the heavy, endless roar of the rain she can hear someone banging on the door. She clambers to her feet - thinks about putting her cloak on for the sake of modesty, even though it’s still soaked through - and settles on hastily tucking an old shawl around her shoulders instead.
“I’m coming,” she calls out when the knocking doesn’t stop. She fumbles with the door handles. “If you just give me a second - ”
The door swings open. It’s Arthur standing there. She blinks at him dumbly, her mouth parting in a silent exhalation of surprise. It can’t be him. Not in this weather, and at this time of night. She was expecting it to be one of her neighbours: Maybe Jenny, the tailor’s new wife, or old Mairead who has just scattered her youngest son’s ashes after a bout of fever no one had had the gold to buy a cure for. But there’s no mistaking that this is Arthur. Her heart gives a funny leap, half joy and half crippling grief.
He’s in his best clothes - the gold-trimmed jacket, those polished leather boots - but they’re so wet that it looks like he dunked himself fully dressed into a river. Gwen thinks of how long it will take for Merlin to return those clothes to their normal state and winces internally.
Arthur is looking at her expectantly, head tilted forward to bring them to eye level. But she has nothing to say. She shifts on her bare feet, the cold creeping back into her sleep-numb skin oh so slowly. In the end he’s forced to break the silence.
“Gwen,” Arthur says, an awkward attempt at a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. His face is flushed red with cold and his hair is plastered to his forehead. He must be freezing but he isn’t shivering. But she already knows how much he hates showing weakness. “Can I come inside?”
She bites her lip, restraining the inappropriate urge to laugh. Here she is, dressed in nothing but a ratty shawl and her old shift, and Arthur - who shared her home, who kissed her once, so sweet and chaste, who left her to keep her safe - is asking her if he can come into her home. Anyone could walk by now and see him; anyone could recognise him. Knowing Camelot (and if there’s one thing Gwen knows about, it’s her people), the gossip could be all over the city in moments. All it would take is one set of particularly watchful eyes.
It’s so hysterical she could cry.
Suddenly thankful for the vicious storm, Gwen says ungraciously, “If you like.” She takes a step back, letting Arthur step inside. Either by accident or design he brushes against her, and she can smell him. He’s all metallic rainwater and salt clean skin and the tang of wine. She closes the door.
“Have you been drinking?” she asks, even though it isn’t quite what she wants to say. Why else would he be here, after all? This is such a mistake that it grates at her. Arthur tries not to make mistakes; she knows he tries. (But he kissed her.)
He doesn’t look at her. His takes off his jacket and holds it in his hands, holds it out in front of himself as if he has no idea what to do with it or with himself. Water drips off it into a slowly forming puddle on the floor. They both stare at the ground.
“No,” he says. Then, “Maybe a little.” His fists curl tighter, little rivulets of water glinting between his knuckles. “Father was holding a feast.”
Her stomach gives a sick lurch and she looks up despite herself. His eyes meet hers and for a something she sees something bared naked in his face, something fierce and strange that makes her eyes sting. She turns her head. The moment is lost.
“I suppose he has reason to celebrate,” she murmurs.
He says, “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t say, Don’t be. She holds out her hands. “Give me your jacket. I’ll hang it to dry.”
He hands it over and she hangs it over the hearth near her own clothes. It’s such a domestic scene: his clothes drying next to hers, the door closed, the lights dim. Flushing, she kneels down and stokes up the fire. When she turns her head to look at him she finds he’s still hovering behind her, staring at the floor.
“You can sit down,” she offers.
Arthur snorts. It’s such an inelegant, boyish sound that she almost smiles.
“And ruin your furniture? I’d rather not face your wrath again, thank you.”
He’s teasing her. Hesitantly, but nonetheless: teasing. She feels warmth spread in her belly and really does smile this time, mouth curling with joy despite all the reasons - the many, many reasons - she should be keeping him at a distance. “I don’t mind,” she says. “You’ve already ruined my floor anyway.”
“Then I’ll sit on your floor.” And before she can say a word he’s moving to sit on the ground, crossing his legs and generally making himself at home in her home. The way he’s hunching his shoulders tells her that he’s trying to take up as little space as possible; that he’s trying to give her the impression that he won’t be a bother. But he’s who he is, and inevitably the whole room feels smaller with him in it. He has that knack, whether by birth of training, of making himself the centre of people’s attention. A kind of shining light.
“Sit with me?” he asks. “Please,” he adds as an afterthought. His eyes entreat her.
There’s no reason for her to refuse. At least not one she can think of. She nods and moves to sit next to him, feet flat on the ground and her arms around her knees. She needs - she needs to hold herself in, close and tight. The solidness of him unnerves her. He’s solid like earth and rooted trees and stone: tangible things. Things you can touch. He’s real and he’s close and she wants things she can’t have. Things she can’t even articulate in her mind. Yearning hurts too much. So she holds all of herself close and doesn’t think of the small distance between them, and how easily they could breach it.
He exhales and says, “I’m so sorry, Guinevere.”
“You said that already,” she says. “It doesn’t need to be said again.”
“It does.”
“I don’t even know what you’re apologising for.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple working. The firelight makes his eyes look very dark. He looks down at her feet, not his own; she curls her toes self-consciously.
“For not being good enough,” he says finally.
Perhaps it’s the wine that has made him so much more open to her, but she doesn’t think so. The words come out of him too flat and careful. Rehearsed. She’s glad, selfishly glad, that he isn’t pouring his undiluted pain out at her. She can manage this slow, measured hurt. Handle it like a treasure.
She touches the ground between them, curling her fingers into dust. Even though she isn’t touching him, even though they’re both freezing and sitting on the ground in old clothes (hers) and ruined ones (his), he shivers. Like she crossed the unspoken line.
“I was at the feast,” he begins. She draws her hand back.
“I was watching men and women drink and laugh,” he continues, voice growing stronger. “And I was drinking and laughing with them. And then it struck me what we were celebrating, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay.” He pauses. In a different voice he says, “I thought of your father.”
“I’m glad he’s remembered,” she says mildly, and he flinches. She doesn’t understand why. It’s not as if she’s angry. She’s not angry.
(She is.)
“Arthur,” she prompts in a soft murmur. Lets her voice die out so his voice has room to fill the air.
“You saw the executions,” says Arthur.
It isn’t a question, but Gwen still shakes her head in denial. “No. I was with Morgana.”
“Morgana always watches from her window,” Arthur replies steadily. “I used to watch with her when we were children. I doubt she’s changed her habits.”
Morgana has, of course, not changed her habits, and Gwen did watch the execution from the corner of her eye as she made Morgana’s bed. She remembers the blood, and the cut off noises; the rippling roar of the crowd and the chalky colour of the sky. And she remembers Arthur, of course. And Arthur’s father.
“I’ve seen executions before,” Gwen says. Just as steadily.
“They were barely men yet,” says Arthur, who is a barely a man himself. “But at the feast I thought of… of many things that have happened to me. I thought of their families. Of their mothers and of their children. Of the children they may have had.” He swallows, mouth twisting into the parody of a smile. “My father always tells me that kings must learn to do terrible things for the sake of their people. But what does it matter, Guinevere, if I kill my people?”
“You’ll be a different king from your father.”
“You seem so sure.”
He looks at her face. She feels his eyes on her, feels the brush of his breath. She doesn’t want to look at his expression because she can already hear all she needs to know in his voice, and Arthur… Arthur has pride, just like she does. He doesn’t like to give himself away; doesn’t like to give all of himself to one person when he has so many to give to. Just like her.
So she doesn’t look. She lets that last veil of distance hang between them.
“I am,” she says simply.
“Guinevere.” He touches her cheek; another barrier broken. She looks at him because he’s tilting her head: because he wants her to see him broken open for her. His blue eyes blaze. “I will seek to be a better prince for you,” he says with exquisite formality. “And one day a good king.” He cups her cheek. “Whatever you need.”
Through the tiredness and the cold and the steady strength of his fingers, she feels it: the cold weight of another duty to pin down her soul. Because she could. She could make him a good prince and one day a good king just for her. It amazes her how much power he places her in hands. She’s been needed before, and loved and trusted by so many people. But the way Arthur looks at her is different. He looks at her like she’s aggravating and terrible and leaves him unsteady on his feet. He looks at her like she could fill a room with her light. She could make him turn to her first, in all things. She could make him a great king. She could.
But.
“No. Not for me.” She clasps his hand, twines her fingers with his and lowers their joined hands to the ground between. Shaking her head, sucking in a chill breath, she lets words spill out with all the fumbling sweetness that comes from loving him too much. “I think, like everyone else, a king has to learn to survive terrible things. And to put his people first. And you do, Arthur. You’ve saved so many people. Merlin, and the druid boy. And. And you cared for me, maybe just a little,” she says, voice wobbling on that, “but you turned away from me. Because it was right. And that’s hard. It’s hard to put duty first, but you did. You do. You’re a good ruler and a good man.” She squeezes his hand, needing to feel him. “But I don’t want you to be a good prince with me, or a dutiful man. I want - I want you to be aggravating just like you can be, sometimes, and careless and well, yourself. Can’t you be a little flawed for me? I’d like that.”
She wants to be able to kiss him again. She wants to do more than kiss him. But more than anything she wants to make him laugh and get exasperated with him and hate him and ache for him and belong to him, even if belonging means stolen moments and secrecy and hot mouths behind closed doors. And that terrifies her because Gwen isn’t like that. She shouldn’t want to spin her steady, safe world off its axis. Her small life is the only one she has. But she wants him anyway. Turns to him like he’s the sun.
Arthur is silent for a time. Then, carefully, he untangles his fingers from hers. Leans back. Her stomach swoops but she says nothing. If he turns away from her, if he shatters her, she can carry that sorrow. She’s carrying so many already. They’re as light as wings.
His expression is frozen somewhere between shuttered grief and stubborn resolution. She doesn’t let herself look away from him.
“I’m not going to risk your life,” he says, voice strangled. “Guinevere. You can’t ask me to do that.”
“It’s my life,” she says quietly. “Can’t I choose to risk it?”
“No.” He shakes his head. His jaw briefly clenches. “No. I refuse.”
Her world will remain steady then, and small. She shutters away the cold ache in her chest, that yearning, and thinks of the roar of the rain and not of the silence inside herself. “As you wish,” she murmurs, and leans forward to put more wood into the fire.
When Arthur speaks, he sounds a little put out. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
“What do you expect me to do? Run weeping into the rain?”
“Well, that would be a bit too overdramatic for you, Guinevere.”
She gives a faint smile. “I suppose you’d follow me. And sweep me into your arms.”
“I’m not that sort of person,” Arthur says.
She shakes her head, still smiling, and stares at the flames. The smoke stings her eyes and she rubs at them, at the ache that won’t abate. “Gwen,” says Arthur and she shakes her head, says, “Just a moment,” and adjusts the jacket. It’s still not dried through. Her vision is swimming - the smoke -
Her face is wet. She’s crying.
“Guinevere,” Arthur says, sounding alarmed. “What are you - ”
“I guess I am being dramatic,” she says with a trembling laugh. She sits back on her heels. “I bet this happens to you often,” she jokes, feigned lightness stretching her voice like a taut thread. “It’s fine, Arthur, you can go. I won’t blame you. I just - I’m so tired - ” her voice cracks, pouring tears.
When he reaches for her she tries to push him away. But he’s insistent. She sees the stubborn jut of his chin and the curious, broken light in his eyes through the mist of her tears and relents. He gathers her up, her body so small against his stocky, muscled frame, his legs parted to make room for her, to let her lean into him. She can feel the strength of him. The muzzy dampness of his shirt and the steady thrum of his heartbeat. She shakes through the tears. She doesn’t even know why she’s crying. It bewilders her.
“Tired,” she repeats against his shirt, trying to formulate a real excuse out of the word. Because she can’t cry. She’ll wash her strength away.
“I know,” he whispers against her hair. And for all that he’s a stubborn, sacrificing boy, for all that he is too wrapped in his destiny to see her, she feels something like calm settle over her. He’s here. He’ll pin her to the earth no matter how hard grief tries to make her fly apart. “I can be that person if you need me to,” he says. “I’ll sweep you off your feet as often as you like.” He pauses. “Although I do find that horses are more practical for travel than I am.”
“I like you as you are,” she murmurs, oh so tired. “I told you.”
“I can’t be good to you even when I try, can I?” he says.
“I suppose not,” she says, her laugh choked but real.
He strokes a hand through her hair, unravelling her curls. He’s so hesitant about touching her even though his body feels sure.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
As a love confession, it doesn’t rank up there among the greats Gwen heard in bedtime stories when she was still a child. It doesn’t even register for a few moments. When it does she feels too exhausted to truly process it. But oh, she loves him. It terrifies her and fills her up and she needs his heartbeat under her ear for a little longer, needs his hitched breath and careful hands and the earth-steady presence of him near just a little longer, a little longer.
The rain is falling and the dead are buried. And here they are, two people - not good people, although they try; not honourable people, although they’ve turned their faces away from each other time and time again - just two people who are very lonely and love each other very much.
“Then stay,” she says simply.
For once, Arthur has nothing to say. He cups her face in his hands and seals his mouth over hers in a small, exhaled promise.
Yes.