Cycles of Love (Second Cycle: Bleed)
Title: Love's Second Cycle-Bleed
Rating:PG13 some disturbing elements again
Characters: For the second cycle: Arthur, Gwen, Merlin, Lancelot, Ysmay (original) and minor others (Centered mostly on Arthur)
Spoilers: Season 1&2, but not beyond. This one continues the AU elment strongly as it goes futher than the show has gone.
Disclaimer: I disclaim. Merlin is the property of the BBC/Shine. For: camelot_love 's 14 days of love. This story uses multiple prompts and will be posted in 3 cycles, many parts. Love's Second Cyle uses this quote, prompted by jeyla4ever
M-8: "Love is a friend, a fire, a hell,
Where pleasure, pain and repentance dwell."
~Richard Barnfield
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Bleed Part III
“Love is a friend, a fire, a hell
Where pleasure, pain and repentance dwell.”
~Richard Barnfield
-><-
Love’s innocence abused…
Choked by the secrecy of lies, shaking fears
And jealousy’s lame excuse.
The heart is pricked
The soul ripped.
For love now dwells in no whispering sweetness.
But…
Instead…
Screeches
Within
The strangling
Clench of
Hell.
-><-
“ARTHUR!”
The servant ran across the courtyard, frantically calling out.
“Arthur?
Arthur…”
The man didn’t hear.
Hell’s grasp was already too near.
-><-
“I’ve been told I am…here because of you.”
A room just steps away in simultaneous time, a woman lifted heavy eyes.
The man sitting at her side smiled quietly with relief.
Her hand, flawed by the fire’s flames, reached out.
Beyond, unbeknownst to them, the fallen man was being tended to.
“Thank you Lancelot.”
As the situation grew more urgent outside, inside he gave silent thanks. She had finally parted her lovely dark eyes just precious moments ago. With her voice still heavily raspy and her body only beginning to recover, Lancelot intended to keep the talking to a minimum.
Gwen was not in horrid pain, despite her severe injuries and prevalent discomfort, lying within a thick blanket atop the same cot she had tended to Merlin years ago, in the same room of Gaius’s workplace and home quarters. Lifting tired eyes, she could just make out the light of day coming through the window. Confusing, since her last memory she could recall was of night.
Her expression a bit vague now, Lancelot guessed Gwen’s mind was murky about the past events. Gaius had said it was understandable, that time would uncover more, but possibly not every detail…ever.
Gwen turned away from the window, focusing now again instead on the chisel faced man before her. It was mostly a year since she had seen him last, just receding the second dragon’s fiery attacks, and the departure of Arthur, Merlin and a group of Camelot’s fierce knights to finally put an end to the beast.
Days after their absence, the already weakened kingdom had been startled by surprise hostile attacks from the far eastern borders, where throne related conflicts were commencing. With half the knights of Camelot gone on the mission with Arthur and Merlin, others injured by the second dragon’s attacks, and some only newly trained, Camelot was decidedly vulnerable.
It was during this precarious time, he returned to keep her safe, her knight in theory.
Lancelot.
After the danger was over, or at least temporarily halted, the new crop of knights and the small group of veterans actually having been able to defend against the shock of attacks, Lancelot decided his assistance was no longer needed. She disagreed, quietly pleading for him to stay, as simultaneously she prayed for her prince’s return.
Perhaps reluctantly, he relented.
The threats of before no longer a concern, but the healing of the kingdom from the dragon’s attacks still in progress, Gwen had been thankful for Lancelot’s assisting presence. After her long days of tending to the injured he would visit, giving her head rest on his shoulder. They would talk sometimes intimately; other times simply sit in mostly peaceful silence.
Thus in those weeks that neared a month’s time, their relationship was allowed to blossom far enough to an evening kiss.
As fate would have it though, the night of their shared affections under a quaking moon, their fingers clinging at each others’ cheeks, their mouths tasting…
He…
Returned.
They had been seconds away from parting lips, not hearing the prior announcement at the palace’s gates, as the prince and Merlin arrived near her little home. Later she would find out it had been on purpose. The prince had wanted to see her…
First.
Witnessing what he did though, the prince made no admittance of such that night, his eyes for a second widening with surprise, before they blinked it all away. Accompanied by a firm set to his jaw, they hardened quickly to sword tip gleam, before total disdain.
And yet that flashing moment of vulnerability had been long enough for her to read the questions of hurt. Starkly she realized it then with finality. The games could not go on. She couldn’t bear it any longer, nor was it right to make him suffer through it. Everything about them was simply façade. A waiting joust that would only end with misery, for she was nothing more than a lowly handmaiden, no matter how highly she regarded her work and readily accepted her position, and he was the most noble, a prince soon to be king, a man growing to a destiny that she could never…
Ever…
Be part of.
There was more too of course, even if in the past he had tried to pretend it wasn’t there, wasn’t an issue. It materialized quickly that night, making his expression change to smirking satisfaction.
Pretend?
Maybe.
But real enough to the king and so right enough for his son’s kingdom he would one day take ownership of. Ysmay that night sauntered to her prince. That prince warmly kissed her on the cheek before touching at her lips with his, looking away from the woman who…
Nights after that, a night that was intended in full celebration, Gwen made good on her thought to end the suffering of them both.
She freed her prince. Angered him. Baffled him. Hurt him.
Left him.
Left him to his…
Destiny.
For after all, she would never be anything more than a handmaiden, a servant expected to fall to her knees in the company of those she served. He would never be anything less than…
Royalty.
The man who would order her to her knees.
Lancelot observed Gwen’s focused silence now. She seemed deep in thought. He wondered a bit idly if she was thinking of the last time they saw each other, nearly a year ago, during the time of those surprise attacks. Concerned for her welfare then, he had stuck close by, even spending some nights at the tavern nearby. She had actually pleaded for him to not leave. Days later, weeks gone by, one moon filled evening they kissed in surrounding shadows of the castle’s outer towers in front of her house, not realizing their tiny little audience until it was already done.
The prince’s reaction had not been easy to read, quickly changing, but it was there for a quivering second, shock. Per usual though of course his words were flippant, his flat line mouth changed to careless smirk. Just like it had been with the rescuing of her from Hengist, the prince pretended no care. Lancelot knew though the truth, that the prince had rushed to rescue her then, and so he couldn’t help but wonder that night, if once again the prince had rushed to see her first, only to be jarred by his…
Competition?
Lancelot wasn’t entirely sure. Gwen’s innermost feelings had yet to be revealed to either it seemed. Perhaps with a touch of gallantry, but mostly feeling three was a crowd, he departed soon after.
It was strange though, Lancelot reflected, turning away from his thoughts regarding Gwen for a moment. The prince had shown no knowledge of Merlin’s abilities then, and yet after the earthquake just last night, it was obvious that Arthur not only knew about it, but fully accepted it, encouraged its use even…in secret.
Less than a year ago, that night, nothing had given to that.
Something else was given though. She seemed terribly fond of him, the Lady Ysmay, and the prince seemed to return some of that outward display with an arguably chaste kiss, perhaps a reaction of pure jealousy. Lancelot wasn’t sure, although it was obvious how well the king responded to the interaction, as Gwen’s face showed simply hurt.
Lancelot had mused about it all as he rode away late into the night after the prince’s return, once again secretly, shamefully not saying goodbye to Gwen.
Oh how he had hated leaving her in such way, but there was no place for him in Camelot, not with her prince returned especially.
Maybe the presence of Lady Ysmay had meant an opening for him…
Still he couldn’t walk into it. It was wrong. Showed no gallantry.
The type he fought to be…honorable. Respectful.
And yet now, here he was. Back again. Everything changed.
This time he would not leave.
Not yet anyway. Not so easily. Not so trusting.
He gave the prince his chance then.
Seemed he failed.
Failed to save her.
Failed to…
God…
Heaven…whatever it be…
If he hadn’t come…
No.
He had left that night, but didn’t depart as far away as he had the first time. This time he had found a home much closer to the palace, to Gwen. Taking a menial job serving a noble of a neighboring kingdom, Lancelot was able to keep a closer eye on the happenings of Camelot. Thus, he was near enough last night to feel the quake’s beginning rumbles, in close enough proximity to race forward on horseback. Then by foot he had rushed through the somewhat familiar high ceiling hallways to the in-normal-times smoldering kitchen area.
Only last night the smolders had escaped the ruined doorway, monsterishly out of control, flames of the most sinister being.
Stopping with already choking breaths, the smoke torturously heavily thick, in the black fiery haze he was just able to spot it, ravaged folds of lavender. It innocently peeked through the red blood spiked orange flames, half mottled by soot.
Gasping, forsaking his own safety in what was most definitely a treacherous situation, Lancelot dove through a pocket of flames, feeling it only singe at his long sleeves, before he pushed them back fiercely, no longer allowing the dancing fires to catch. Coughing more as his being became fully enmeshed in the fiery grave hell was producing, he pulled at the lavender with desperate fingers. Pulled until the softness of her luscious body was against his hardened one, whipped at the threatening flames already mauling her dress with his coat. Then bringing her against his chest, her legs hanging over his embracing arms, he slid across the floor, doing his best to avoid the screeching embers above. So fast he moved, he did not witness the carnage heavily of those she had tried to save.
Once out, he choked, collapsed upon already lowered knees. He knew he could not stay though. The fire was too out of control. Looking down upon her face, he saw no recognition of his deed, no answer to his pleads of her name. There was a slight breath though at least escaping the beat of her chest. She was alive…if only just so.
As he had hurried down the hallways, he lost his way, in between the rumbling tumbling shocks that followed the quake. He fell a few times at first from the tickles of soot that stained his throat. It was why he had not seen Merlin come down. With no clear direction, the shaking sometimes continuing, the castle so immense and littered with quake damage, he wandered too long, if maybe in real time only a few precious moments.
Finally rounding back out to the kitchen, he heard the yell, more like scream from the depths of purgatory. He knew which man it came from. Finding them at the kitchen’s entrance on their knees, the fire miraculously out now…must have been Merlin…he informed them that who they mourned…
Still breathed.
If only just a bit.
He never wanted to let her go, almost ignored the prince’s hard edged sarcasm about who should hold her, because she just felt too precious in his arms. She had nearly…
Oh God. Or Gods. Or magical beings. Whatever it was.
He was no deeply spiritual man, only simple, honorable, and at that moment, desperate. She had pierced his heart without her knowing the moment he had felt her hands measure at his sides for his knight’s uniform those years ago.
The woman he loved.
Who loved another.
Who another loved.
Complicated Purgatory. It held no mercy.
Less than a year’s time ago, he left. This time, he had yet to depart.
If ever.
He had claimed he was her prince, prince of his people, and yet where was he?
Lancelot could only shudder in the fact that if he had not chosen a place nearby to live, maybe…
He still had not left yet.
He would not until…
What he was doing was right, just, protecting her.
Protecting her even from inconvenient truths.
Secrets that perhaps he had no right…
To hold?
He did not know, maybe did not care, that around, above, Heaven frowned heavily.
No good can come from this.
But no good either could have come from those flames that had been licking at her skin being allowed to turn her to ash. He had thrust his coat down upon them with haste, hitting, smothering til they faded away, leaving ugly burned scarring.
And yet nothing could ever make her not beautiful.
Nothing could make him leave her side.
Not even the man who was called her…
Prince.
The servant hurriedly entered now, beyond the fallen form of his master.
She turned with notice, wincing at the slight discomfort it brought, but she was determined to see. It was Merlin. He was gesturing to Gaius anxiously, getting the man to follow him out of the room.
Why?
Merlin’s distress usually meant…
The fallen prince outside heard none of her inner concerns, felt none of her nearby presence asking in heart of his missed presence. Instead beyond his heavily closed eyes he drifted to the outskirts of the most sinful desert, bringing to his mind a thousand screeching nightmares of her death…before his heart blazed back that no she was alive.
But never his…
Hell hissed.
Never.
“Lancelot?”
Leaving all his conflicted thought, Lancelot followed the lead of her eyes, suddenly wondering too.
“Merlin seems worried about something…what is it?”
He was the gallant one. Hah. The noble hero Lancelot.
With the most thorned secret. One he hated keeping, and yet selfishly, protectively, would not divulge.
Only his answer now was at least complete truth. He was just as confused as her by Merlin’s sudden hasty actions.
“I do not know.”
The answer was unsatisfactory, bringing to her mind the beginning year. She recalled now the worst night of the dragon’s attacks. She had rushed across the flaming courtyard, until he called out, grabbed at her arm.
Then under a rapidly thrown blanket, he almost bruisingly pressed his lips to her own, before they magically softened under soft lavas of heat, making her feel she was gloriously melting, before protocol hissed at her enough.
Two men had kissed her, of significance beyond young flirtations of a simple girl’s road in life. Two men ever so different that even the moisture of their lips were as contrary as breakfast to dinner meal.
One had dark rough locks of steel brushed hair, chisel so manly, wide eyes tumbling through the night’s calling, but then a voice in sweet softness, almost naïve. He fought like a warrior, and yet when his hand enclosed hers, it did with a gentility that made her knees weaken to stumbling ecstasy.
The other had golden waves of silk soft hair that ruffled in the wind playfully, eyes as vivid as daytime sky, a look so deceivingly innocent at times that it hid the rough timbre of his voice when angry, when commanding with a confidence that could astonish. He fought like a king, regally brutally graceful, and yet when his fingers brushed by her cheek, they heated it to the warmest rapture.
Two men so different so of course the feel of their mouths pressed to hers was contrary too, but she had yet to say which she favored most.
She had yet to reveal if she even had a clear answer to that inquiry…love an emotion she felt for…
Both men.
Simple Hell.
Her worry climbed through her unsteady heart now, past choked stained lungs still wearied by the flames of the night before.
She thought of it fiercely, how she had spoken to Merlin, Lancelot too of course, knew every fate but…
One.
Maybe that was why her voice trembled beyond just tiredness as too dry lips parted to ask.
“Where is he?”
As her heart tremored unsteadily like the earth still every wry moment gave a little unwelcome shake.
“Who?”
Lancelot asked too innocently, too pretending to be misunderstanding, too much not wanting now to think of who else she had feelings for, that as much the other didn’t understand his, he didn’t understand that other’s.
In her midnight eyes flashed unresolved fear.
“Arthur…”
Outside…
Gaius and Merlin hurried after the helping knights, tending to their most distinguished leader who was exhausted to sickness. Behind closed eyes smothered into a hell where she endlessly died in his far too reaching arms.
Inside…
“Where is he Lancelot?
Where is Arthur?”
Trickle
Trickle…
Hearts leaked.
Hell was the most repellent dwelling.
Clawing at its acidic magma walls,
Love searched a way…
OUT
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Continued here