Final Chapter: Alone With You - And So the Lamb (Part 2/2)
Title: And So the Lamb
Author: imigination
Rating: PG
Word Count: 10600
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Morgana, OCs
Disclaimer: I don’t own Merlin.
Summary: For every end, there is a beginning.
A/N: The final chapter. When I began this story back in October, I had no idea that it would be such a massive undertaking, nor that it would take me so long to finish. Thank you so much to those of you who’ve kept to speed with it … and I sincerely hope that those of you who are just beginning enjoy the journey. Thank you to the lovely felix-aeternus for her contribution to building this world, and a special thanks to a wonderful advisor, the inimitable threemeows. The cut quote comes from a song by The Zombies.
Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight
Should I try to hide
the way I feel inside
my heart, for you?
It was Arthur through the door first, modesty be damned. Rather against her wishes, he had not disregarded her disappearing act, slipping away from court on his lunch in order to check up on her … hardly expecting to see Gwen crumpled in the tub, recovering from a shockingly painful contraction.
To her credit, Rosaline was steps behind, clutching an old, ill-fitting dressing gown, more likely than not affronted that the king had barreled in upon her mistress undressed. And so Gwen sat, sopping wet - no doubt showing through the sheer white fabric - perched on a nearby trunk until she regained her strength … and Arthur loosened his grip on her wrist.
The commotion left Gwen feeling more foolish than ever, though she herself could not deny the fear that had coursed through her upon seeing blood in the bath. “I’m fine,” she insisted to no one with less conviction than ever. Beside her, Arthur - leg bouncing uncomfortably against her knee - ignored her claim, preoccupied with watching Gwen’s handmaiden scramble for some sense of stability.
Rosaline darted about, half-heartedly wiping up spilt water, gathering Gwen’s abandoned garment from earlier, picking through freshly laundered clothes each time she passed the basket by the door.
The tight set of his lips gave it all away, and as best she could, Gwen focused on reassuring him for the moment. “Arthur,” she murmured, squeezing his hand, “I said I’m all right-”
“Like hell you are,” he grunted in response. His hold on her arm lessened infinitesimally, just enough to allow a little more movement … and hardly enough to be described as anything less than ‘clinging.’
He was a lost cause. Instead, Gwen turned silent attention to her body, listening as best she could to the aftereffects of the tremor that had just rocked her. This particular tightness passed quickly, despite its violence. And what unease it left in its wake was not a labor pain; no, this particular tightness was the grip of embarrassment and terror on her stomach, bringing about a long forgotten feeling of nausea. With effort, Gwen extracted her arm from her husband’s grip and cradled her belly.
Untethered from Guinevere, Arthur shot to his feet and began to pace impatiently. “Where is the physician?” he demanded roughly, halting Rosaline in her tracks.
Gwen’s servant paused, bent over the spilt bathwater. “… I sent for the midwife, my lord. She should be here any moment-“
“‘Any moment’ is not now.”
The heat of frustration flooded Gwen’s cheeks. “There’s no need to be rough with her, Arthur.”
Arthur’s will was typically no match for Gwen’s correction, at least when it came to personal matters. But his shoulders remained tense and his voice cool. “I see sufficient cause.”
“Oh, stop.”
“You were screaming, Gwen.”
“I was not!” she hissed impatiently. Truth was, she couldn’t quite remember.
Before he could mount further counter-argument, the door burst open once more. Gwen clutched at her breast, managing to cover very little of what showed through her damp dress.
The midwife entered first, wild-eyed but with a purposeful stride, wrapping her hair up in a cloth as she walked. Hannah followed close behind, wringing her hands in an unusual display of nerves. … Four steps behind, a messy cacophony of paws moving in an indistinguishable pattern, bounded in the dog, tongue lolling. Happily, he sniffed the floor and wound between the two women. Of all the recent intrusions, Gwen was at least grateful for his. He entered her chambers devoid of anxiety or fear … sniffing at his master’s feet and brushing Gwen’s leg with his hind leg before fixing his senses upon the puddle of water that desperately needed lapping up.
There was brief silence as the chorus of women drew a deep, collective breath. Only Arthur remained rigid, unaffected by the midwife’s appearance.
“Your majesties,” she bowed stiffly and cast an eye over to the tub, “What’s all the commotion?”
Before Gwen could begin to formulate a response, or call upon her calmest voice, Rosaline butted in. “There was blood in the water,” she blurted, still knee-deep in panic.
“Hmm.” The midwife leaned over the edge and shook her head. “But not too much, my lady?”
“No,” admitted Gwen softly, rubbing her tingling stomach. “But … enough that I could see.”
Behind the elder woman, Hannah nodded knowingly. After another moment of examination, the midwife straightened and offered a rare, reassuring smile. “It’s to be expected.”
“Before what?” demanded Arthur.
“Before the baby’s time.” Without asking, she pressed approached with arm extended, pressing a worn hand to the low slope of Gwen’s abdomen. “Have you been having the pains?”
All eyes - Arthur’s included - fell upon her. She could not lie … not about this and not now, but she was not sure how her information would be taken. “… For a few weeks now.”
They were not touching, but even feet apart, Gwen could feel her husband go rigid at her admission. “What kind of pains,” he asked quietly, his voice testy.
She was in no mood for a row, not on this and not now. Gwen, too, could bristle. “Nothing troubling.”
“Labor pains,” supplemented the midwife, feeling a little lower on Gwen’s stomach. “But … they were not close together, surely?”
“Not until today.”
Arthur remained incredulous. “Labor … as in … birth.”
Gwen nodded.
“For weeks.”
“Only a few.”
“That’d be normal,” agreed the midwife. She glanced over at Rosaline. “Well, hurry up. She’ll need something else to wear-”
Gwen’s eyes went wide. “So … it’s right … now?”
Not unlike Cookie, the midwife’s face was creased and schooled enough to avoid giving much in the way of feeling away. It was a technique Hannah was already beginning to master, one Gwen vaguely wondered if she one day would. But there was no mistaking the hint of blush beneath the midwife’s dusky olive skin. “Well, when the king gives us leave, I’ll be able to better check, but the baby has dropped-”
“How can you know if this has been happening for weeks?” asked Arthur, his voice low with the sting of apparent betrayal.
Gwen fixed him with a stern glare. She could not deal with such childish petulance now. “Arthur-”
But he met her gaze straight on. “How could you not tell me?”
“It was not important.”
His jaw fell open, affronted. “Don’t be ridiculous-”
“Ridiculous? You’re offended over what I didn’t know,” she snapped. She swallowed her sudden anger, focusing instead of the truth of the moment. Gwen raised her head as she rarely was called upon to do, summoning what air of finality she could from within her. “… And now you’re in the way.”
The set of her brow was challenging, just as the set of his lips was unmistakable. Once more - as happened ever so often - they were not king and queen, but children … playing adulthood, a young man and a young woman in way over their heads.
Everyone else in the room had strategically - and wisely - focused their attention elsewhere, looking conspicuously away from the tiff their sovereigns were in the midst of sharing.
Arthur took a long look around. Clearly outnumbered, and apparently out of place, the young king stood with what remained of his dignity. “Fine,” he snipped, standing slowly. As best he could muster, he gazed upon Gwen with equanimity. “I’ll … just be in the hall, if … I’m needed. Ever.”
Still stung, Gwen nodded curtly and looked away. “My lord.”
Rosaline, Hannah and the midwife curtsied deeply, eyes fixed on the floor. The dog stared up at him from above the mess on the floor. “You’re with me,” grunted Arthur, giving a little wave that typically would’ve sent the overgrown puppy running. Instead, their dog’s gaze remained blank. It was hardly possible for Arthur to look more betrayed, and so he simply sagged his shoulders. “Fine,” he mumbled, and with shoulders sagged and a sour look fixed upon his face, he stalked out the room.
Gwen could not help herself. She sagged back onto the mattress, heavy and tired. And this is only the beginning …
Above her, the three women exchanged looks. In unison, they began to bustle about again, charitably ignoring the tense moment that had just passed before them.
“Shall I fetch the Lady Morgana?” asked Hannah, reaching over the collapsed queen for the empty bedside pitcher.
Rosaline laid out a fresh dress beside Gwen’s crumpled, cross form. “Perhaps you’d like something dry, Lady Gwen.”
But the midwife held court here. “Let’s go about this in proper order and see if you really intend on having this baby at all.”
***
It was her intention, and that much was clear, but the prince seemed in no rush to arrive.
All semblance of dignity and propriety cast aside, Gwen rested her chin on folded arms, her nose pressed to the glass as she stared out the window just above haze left by her breath at the sill.
The sun was setting in the most glorious array of gold she’d witnessed months, since the late autumn subdued Camelot with its cool gray skies and bitter cold. Mid-afternoon, sun had broken through for an unexpected appearance. But it, too, prepared to abandon her as it sank beneath the distant horizon, off to other worlds while Gwen saw her deed through to completion.
It was hours later, and she ached all over. From head to toe, her body throbbed between intermittent contractions, each of which seized her brutally … but refused to come too close to the next lest she actually give birth. It hardly surprised her that the act would be uncooperative in this manner; as unexpected this child had been was a difficult labor expected. There was no reward without trial.
So she remained, hunched uncomfortably over with the fastenings of her robe hanging open, shielding her progress from the room’s many observers.
The midwife, at least, kept Gwen’s help occupied. Out the corner of her eye, she could see her bed, stripped of its usual luxurious linens in favor of plain white, crisp cotton. Beside it, Rosaline placed freshly torn strips of fabric to wrap the baby in; the number she’d reached so far already seemed excessive, but something to distract was better than nothing. The dog, ever loyal, held his place beside her, curled into a ball at her swollen feet.
The hand on her lower back, warm with fingers splayed wide, made her flinch. Morgana stepped into the periphery of her vision, cradling a small mortar with pestle still buried deep in whatever substance it held.
Gwen rolled her cheek onto her wrist, looking up at her friend. “I hope you found time to eat-”
“Hush,” Morgana interrupted gently, gesturing to the bed.
Her smile quickly gave way to the pull of pain. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly against it, digging her nails into stone.
“It would be better if you did not hold your breath, my lady,” called the midwife lazily. Gwen turned in time to see the woman seated with her back to her, as she poured milk into a large pewter bowl.
Damn her. The words were on Gwen’s lips, but even in pain she did not have the heart to utter them.
It did not matter evidently; above her, Morgana grinned, well aware of Guinevere’s inner dialogue.
With a great effort, Gwen pushed off the ledge and stood at her full height … rocking so far backward that she had put her hands on her lower back to catch herself. “What’s that?” she murmured, glancing at the mortar again.
Morgana’s hand curled around Gwen’s arm, guiding her gently back to the prepared bed. “A gift,” the sorceress replied as she helped ease her into a good position at the end of the bed.
Gwen leaned back, falling gingerly upon the pillows stacked on her side of the bed. Normally, when she assumed this position, the baby kicked furiously at her, assaulting her stomach or her spine mercilessly until she shifted to her side. Now, nothing but heaviness between her legs and a chest heaving in anticipation.
Once she’d caught her breath, she glanced back up at Morgana, who stared down at her with utmost sympathy and something a little like amusement.
Guinevere needed nothing to reminder her of how cross she’d felt … even after all these hours. Between Arthur’s stupidity and so many days of discomfort, the slightest hint of teasing was enough to set her off. “There’s only one solution to this ailment,” she mumbled, reaching in vain for the pillow farthest behind her.
Kindly, Morgana tugged at the pillow that needed shifting, until Gwen was in a better position. Ignoring her queen’s retort, Morgana turned and silently summoned a chair from across the room, until it slid neatly behind her knees. “Merlin found the remedy, but I prepared it myself.”
“What’s it for?” asked Gwen, weary.
“It’s herbal … no different than anything you could find at the apothecary. … Albeit a tad stronger.” Morgana sat and held it up for Gwen to smell. “… For the pain. In your back.”
The scent of mint had her turning onto her side before she could object. “There is no pain in my back,” mumbled Gwen.
Blessedly, Morgana took no note of the lie. Gwen closed her eyes as Morgana’s own hand worked the bitter cool salve into exposed skin as Gwen buried her face into the blanket, staring through the darkening room at a candle flickering on the opposite side of the bed.
“Is Merlin here?” asked Gwen softly into the sheet she clutched, curling her toes as another pain overcame her.
Her ministrations were rhythmic and constant. “Nearby,” she replied quietly.
Another pair of hands slid into place … smaller fingers, with worn fingertips moved in circles at Gwen’s waist, and the chair shifted behind her.
“He departed only to find food. But he’s there with them all. … A small congregation, in your name.”
The thought of anyone waiting on news from her, especially when she remained so unable to provide it, only made Gwen’s stomach churn worse. “In the hall?”
Morgana’s shadow fell upon the bed as she made her way around to the other side, flicking untouched candles alight with an amber of her eye. The smile on her lips fell not to something like sadness, but reverence. “… Outside.”
She could not help herself again. Gwen moaned, loudly, as she pulled away from Rosaline’s hands and rocked onto her back once more, covering her face with her palms. Surely she did not need an audience; this was a trial she preferred to manage in peace.
Already, hours had gone by, her progress minimal. Another contraction came and went, but the midwife barely flinched where she worked, paying her queen no mind.
The swell of regret was immediate. Regret for everything and nothing. Less than halfway there and Gwen was beyond tired.
She did not feel good.
Propping herself up on her elbows, Gwen cast a weary eye about the room. Doing so, she felt squeezed, sweaty, and short of breath … but it hardly mattered. “Is Arthur there?”
Morgana sank into his spot on the bed, but Guinevere’s eye remained fixed on the door. “I have not seen him in hours.”
No matter. “I’ll go find him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
At the foot of her bed, Hannah began to rise. “Let me fetch him, my lady.”
“Oh, stop. I-” her breath hitched on another remarkably painful pain, even as she twisted round to sit up straight, sliding her feet over the edge of the bed until the pressed flat against the floor.
The magnitude of the situation had hit her at once, and there were things that needed to be dealt with. Gwen had always been a woman of purpose, of duty, and she would set things as right as she could before the imminent undertaking.
… That, and she’d been less frightened to marry him, her a commoner and he a princ.
Her jaw clenched under the force of her contraction - fingers bearing into her mattress until her knuckles ached - and she stared at a fixed point on the opposite wall until she could speak again.
“… I can do this myself,” Gwen gasped finally, standing with a great effort. Morgana, Hannah and the midwife sucked air in all at once, no doubt readying their objections. It mattered not to her, and in a rare gesture, she held her hand up, finished with the debate. “And I’ll hear no more on it.”
Prepared to take the first of many, many steps out to find her husband, Gwen tensed … only to hold in place.
A light knock came at the door, silencing her with her jaw held open. The dog lifted onto all fours immediately and sounded a warning bark.
Glancing down briefly at her attire - the back of her dressing gown was open, but her back remained to the wall - Gwen pursed her lips. “Come in.”
The door clicked open, just enough to allow a man to slip in. Arthur held his head high, one hand tucked neatly behind his waist while the other awkwardly clutched a book to his stomach. He looked a good deal more kingly than he had when he retreated earlier, as a scorned child.
Gwen’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and somewhere nestled where he could barely shift, the baby moved.
Before she could speak, Arthur took two authoritative steps inward. “Leave us,” he commanded evenly, eyes inscrutable even as he looked upon his wife.
Rosaline and Hannah dashed out immediately, heads bowed. The midwife cast an uneasy glance back at her, no doubt an objection ready at her lips … but she thought the better of it and too, took her leave. Morgana lingered just long enough to fix him with a sour look.
“Come to cause more trouble?” she muttered, standing but making no move toward the door.
At least with her, Arthur was deferent … if a bit defeated. He sighed tiredly. “Morgana, please. A moment.”
She cast a glance over shoulder back at Gwen before nodding. “I’ll be just outside the door.”
Gwen’s cheeks were flushed, and a wave of nausea coursed up her throat and into her mouth … the sign of another contraction to come. With a rigid back, she sank onto the bed with a hand extended behind her. Brow knitted, she waited for him to speak.
Arthur walked around the four-poster until he stood before her, spine equally rigid as he prepared himself. He cleared his throat once, glanced at the floor, and then lifted his chin.
“… Now seems like the appropriate time to apologize.”
Even mid-contraction, Gwen could not help but fix him with a skeptical look. “‘Appropriate’?”
“’Good’ time,” amended Arthur. Though he did not crack a smile, his eyes were open, beseeching. “The proper time.”
Guinevere blushed - then winced. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Without warning, he hurried forth, closing the distance between them as he sank onto one knee. “I was … hasty. Earlier. You … didn’t need that.” He glanced up from the worn binding in his hands to her pale expression. “I’m sorry.”
Moments earlier, Gwen had had an apology of her own prepared. But in this instance, it felt better to simply forgive. She nodded wordlessly, unable to deny the wave of relief that swept through her, and smiled.
“So,” continued Arthur, “… I took the liberty of visiting Geoffrey. And while he is generally useless-”
“Arthur-”
“-He did produce these records very quickly, and I was … grateful. And wanted to show you.”
Gwen rubbed her stomach as Arthur flicked about midway through, turning it until it balanced awkwardly on what remained of Gwen’s lap. For the first time in hours, she laughed as he made to catch the pages that slid out of the binding.
“What’s this?” Gwen murmured, watching as he traced his finger up and down the near-indecipherable scrawl that took up most of the page.
… And without warning, he stopped. Gwen leaned forward, arching her neck to read. His finger hovered just above those familiar letters … resting on a name she hadn’t heard in ages, but bore more weight than most.
Arthur cleared his throat. “I know we still had not settled on a name.”
“And You like it?” she asked softly, biting down on her bottom lip. By the upturn of his lips, Guinevere needed no answer.
“… The wardrobe too - the wardrobe, don’t make me say it twice! -- … and the window, get the window.” … The midwife paused, still bent over at the waist as she watched the women stumble about, a fury of unlocking hands, working as fast as they could … and not nearly fast enough for her liking.
Rosaline blanched as her hands settled upon a vanity drawer. “But this one doesn’t unlock!”
“Of course it does,” snapped Hannah, shoving her out the way with one hip. A little jiggling … a forceful jerk, and the temperamental drawer opened as the rest did, yanked wide open until a few of Gwen’s most prized positions spilled over the sides and onto the floor.
She paid them no mind, eyes fixed resolutely on a spot just above the midwife’s head as she hovered near Gwen’s planted feet. She could barely look at the woman at the moment … what peace had been left in the wake of Arthur’s departure was interrupted with a declaration that the time had come. The dog - barking more than he ever had in his short life - was forced out by Morgana’s magic when no one’s will seemed to supercede his own.
Her hands clutched the cloth beside her as she breathed, exhaling slowly … or as slowly she could manage while flexing every muscle in her body, willing herself to wait just a bit longer … a little longer.
“I’ll need you, yes, you-… heaven help me and tell me that’s not a knot I see in your dress right there-”
Rosaline froze mid-step as she trailed Hannah closer to Gwen’s bed, her hands coming to rest at the back of her apron. “Of course it is!” she gasped, affronted.
The midwife outdid her in that regard, flabbergasted that such a thing could persist in her presence. “Undo it immediately, unless you wish more toil upon your lady than necessary-”
“I adore Lady Guinevere … But,” she sputtered, clearly shocked at the request. “It’s an apron!”
Morgana was not a woman of superstition; that much was clear from the way she disregarded the midwife’s cry that all the doors in sight be opened as Gwen began to whimper and resist the urge to push. But even she cast a dark eye up to the young maid. “Undo it!” she snapped impatiently, lowering herself into the seat beside Gwen once more.
Rosaline bristled angrily. “I can’t be much help if I’m going to get messy-”
The midwife, as she crouched onto her stool, froze, turning an ice-cold glare up at her youngest assistant. “You’ll save those complaints if you know what’s good for you.”
Gwen gasped; scrunching her features tight as her worst contraction yet overtook her, she drew her knees up toward her chest. Her hands reached out wildly, grabbing her own exposed thigh as she held on for purchase on the bed. “… Just …” Gwen ground her teeth, tucking her chin into her chest the heaviness slid lower, until it ached.
Four pairs of eyes watched in silence as Gwen yelped silently, unable to breathe and unable to keep herself from squeezing something forth from deep within her.
There were no words for the pain that overcame her as she shook, red-faced and sweating … only words for everyone else present. “Stop it!” she shouted, unexpected and angrily once she finally caught her breath.
… In truth, the words were as much for the boy bearing down between her hips as it was for the bickering playing out before her. She’d had enough of all of it.
She could not say all the things she wanted to say. She could not shriek that the opening knots did not matter, that Hannah should hold her steady, that she did not care about Rosaline’s apron. She did not have the breath to cry that she did not feel ready, that she did not want to begin, that this was all too soon, sooner than she’d decided she needed to think everything through by and it would be nice to wait just a little while.
“I … have … to push,” she moaned finally, dropping her head back onto her pillow. She’d put off the moment as long as she could … but her body was prepared to do what her mind insisted she wait upon.
Someone’s hand smoothed back her hair. Another pair held the leg that she could not clutch herself.
Through bleary vision, she could see the midwife. Her head was bent low … peeking up Gwen’s skirt and into her before nodding in agreement.
“Indeed my lady.”
***
It was hard to know, from this vantage point, what was memory and what was dust, fairy tale and folklore from her father. Years ago, she remained more than certain about what she knew; she held the fragments of Eleanor close to her chest, tenuous threads to such a vital and missing mother. But with every day that passed … as a wife and a queen and a woman herself, Guinevere’s grasp on such things slipped, and distinctions seemed less and less important. The feeling would have to count.
That, at least, was her justification for holding so tightly to the earliest. It was a tall order, to adamantly call it a memory when it happened so long ago, but on this point Gwen would not waver.
Gwen was rarely ill. She counted this among her father’s blessings; like Tom, the blacksmith’s daughter had lugs as strong as her hands, energy for days and a will to work. Eleanor shared that will with her husband and daughter, but never had the health to match. What Gwen remembered of her was a woman often relegated to the bed while she completed the housework in her stead.
At least once it was not this way.
As Gwen had for so many others, Eleanor tended to her daughter’s fever with a cool compress. The damn fabric pressed stray curls into her forehead and the cloth was itchy where her mother left it to rest, but in her mind’s eye, her younger self felt too small and too tired to do anything about it. What had begun as a fun day outside quickly turned to a place on her parents’ cot, beneath the blankets and shivering.
There had been no words to exchange, or if there were, they were lost to the ages. Nor did Eleanor have eyes in this particular recollection … her expression remained too far outside Gwen’s bleary, sick gaze.
There was only the feeling of her mother’s hands upon her, stroking her only daughter’s features tenderly … touching cheeks to feel their warmth, cooling chapped lips with water on her own fingertips … the pad of her thumb stroking Gwen’s small wrist.
The dream - memory … fantasy - remained short. And it always ended the same.
Gwen whimpers, and it’s not a word, just a weak protest.
Eleanor’s actions are immediate: in the firelight, mother, exhausted with worry but devoid of real fear, pulls her daughter up off the bed, swaddling her small frame in the quilt. Gwen shifts ever so slightly in her mum’s grip. Even a four year old knows the best spot to hear her mother’s heart.
***
There were many, many reasons to miss her mother, but on this particular occasion, it was simply because there had been no one to tell her that pushing felt like forever. Poor Hannah, anchored against the bed, held onto her lady for dear life as Gwen’s legs shook from the exertion … as every part of her body clenched and she screamed silently through her leather strap to push, push!
‘I can’t,’ were words unfamiliar to Gwen’s vocabulary, but had she the breath, she would’ve uttered them then.
She collapsed back again, able to see nothing through the darkness: not the concern in Morgana’s face, nor the determination in the midwife’s. She could see nothing illuminated by the flickering candle in her room, could see nothing but her own face reflected back to her - broken, exhausted, spent.
Her chest heaved as she set her hands down again. Just outside the door, the dog howled with unmatched fury, scratching at the bottom of the door.
Gwen’s head fell to one side, collapsing against her bedspread. Though she shed no tears, inside she wept for sleep … not that the weight threatening to split her open would allow it. She could no more sleep than she could get this baby out on her own.
While one generous hand dabbed her forehead with a lukewarm compress, another found her ankle, stroking gently.
Her eyes fluttered open at the midwife’s touch. “He is right there, my queen,” she murmured gently.
For a moment, there was silence. Once again, eyes were upon her, awaiting her next move … her next gesture.
And though it was fear that stilled her, Gwen knew. This was her burden, and on her life, she would not give up.
“Guinevere.”
She pushed. Pushed all her weight down, bearing hard and fast within herself until everything inside her screamed ‘out, out!’ and all she heard was a high-pitched wail in her ears … the collective cry of three women in unison as she panted and pushed and opened up.
… And Amhar. Amhar fell through, scrunched limbs and tiny lungs.
It was a fright and delightful all at once; Gwen gazed just past her navel to see a glimpse of flesh that was - for once - not her own. The midwife gave a firm tug, pulling the limp little body free of its mother.
Gwen’s chest heaved as she watched, still pushing on instinct even as she stared, trembling as she waited for some sound. Like any woman experienced in her trade, the midwife worked furiously, tipping Amhar up and onto his stomach in the darkness, until his head was lower than his rear and he was balanced precariously on her palm. Though her mouth moved, the queen could only watch … overcome with terror in a new way, more real than any of the anxiety she’d encountered in life yet.
The third pat was firm enough. Soaking wet, cold and thoroughly distressed, Amhar wailed … unappreciative of being handled thus.
A cry. Gwen collapsed under the weight of it.
***
Even encased in darkness, Gwen could feel the fingers on her … not the precise, diligent strokes of Morgana tending to her, but a heavier hand, familiar with the set of her brow and the arch of her forehead, tracing an uneven pattern into her scalp.
Guienvere opened her eyes to the room, still dark, but a good deal more crowded than before. She blinked to take in the scene; beneath her legs, the bed was still damp, but some kind soul had the presence of mind to tuck extra, fresh linens beneath her as others poured in at Amhar’s grand entrance.
“Where is he?” mumbled Gwen, quiet but insistent, pushing up from her place against the pillows.
Arthur squeezed her fingers gently, burying his hand in her hair as he pressed a kiss into the bridge of her nose. “Don’t worry,” he mumbled into her skin, still slick from the exertion. As best she could, Gwen relaxed into the comfort of her bed.
There was the sound of splashing water, and little lungs cried out again. Gwen twisted just in time to catch sight of the midwife pulling her baby’s body out of milk-white water. Little limbs flexed and stretched, dripping and demonstrating their force in a way that forced a smile to Gwen’s lips even as exhausted as she was.
“She’s quite well, my lady,” murmured the midwife.
A beat. “She,” whispered Gwen, her eyebrows knitting together as she turned her gaze just briefly upon Arthur.
His mouth fell to her knuckes, smiling against her hand. “It seems we bet wrong,” he mumbled.
“You’re not …” Gwen trailed off, too tired to put concern into words. Arthur caught her eye and smiled. He was no disappointed than she.
Her mind swam as she watched. A little foot caught the light, hands reached for purchase as Hannah and the midwife together swaddled her in the torn cloths, binding her secure as she had been for so many months in Gwen’s womb.
A new kind of fear overtook her as the pair of ladies approached … a faces - familiar and not quite so - flooded in, quietly reverent in the new baby’s presence.
Gwen’s mouth felt dry as she searched for the proper thing to say, looking up at the small brown and pink child in the cradled protectively to the midwife’s chest. “… She’s so small.”
Hannah chuckled sweetly, dabbing Amhar’s forehead once more with a damp cloth, wiping away what red remained. “Well, my lady, that’s how they come.”
She wanted so desperately to reach up. But her exhaustion was real. For every bit of her that saw the baby immediately in her arms, another part knew … ached.
With a small smile, Guinevere tipped her chin toward the silent king beside her. “Go ahead,” whispered Gwen gently, even managing to chuckle at his mouth suddenly agape.
“Are you certain?” Arthur glanced between the midwife’s arms and Gwen’s own smile. He leaned in, until their faces were inches apart.
Her nod was … far more certain than she initially believed. “It’s been her and I for months,” murmured Gwen, bringing his hand to her cheek. “It can be your turn.”
Chuffed, Arthur could do nothing but nod. And when she prepared to release him, to watch this first remarkable event, he surprised her by leaning in and catching her lips in his … kissing her as he never had before. His breath came roughly as he lingered as long as he could manage. And once released by her, with blessing, he stood, tense, and took the baby into his arms.
Amhar - so named for Gwen’s mother’s’ father - did not miss a beat. She whined quite promptly in the less secure hold of her father, until Arthur adjusted enough to curl her small body into his chest properly.
Gwen watched from her vantage point on the bed, catching his eye as he shifted to show her off. “This about right?” he asked in earnest, raising his elbow.
Beaming, Gwen shrugged her shoulders. “… Haven’t the slightest.”
Arthur grinned.
He lowed carefully into the seat beside her, bringing the little girl’s unobstructed face into view, inches away from Gwen’s face. With a shaking hand, Gwen reached out to tuck back the fabric cocoon.
There was a little nose. Little, and red … recently squished on passage out. Eyes of undetermined color, for they remained closed … even as Arthur laid the baby upon Gwen’s chest. In the light, dusky skin glistened and sank into shadow. Lips that harkened back to her father pursed and began to suckle on nothing. And what little hair she had swept into a wave across her forhead: early evidence of a curl.
Such a perfect thing, inside Gwen all along. Outside, the people sang her praises.
Inside, Guinevere wept.
Author: imigination
Rating: PG
Word Count: 10600
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Morgana, OCs
Disclaimer: I don’t own Merlin.
Summary: For every end, there is a beginning.
A/N: The final chapter. When I began this story back in October, I had no idea that it would be such a massive undertaking, nor that it would take me so long to finish. Thank you so much to those of you who’ve kept to speed with it … and I sincerely hope that those of you who are just beginning enjoy the journey. Thank you to the lovely felix-aeternus for her contribution to building this world, and a special thanks to a wonderful advisor, the inimitable threemeows. The cut quote comes from a song by The Zombies.
Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight
Should I try to hide
the way I feel inside
my heart, for you?
It was Arthur through the door first, modesty be damned. Rather against her wishes, he had not disregarded her disappearing act, slipping away from court on his lunch in order to check up on her … hardly expecting to see Gwen crumpled in the tub, recovering from a shockingly painful contraction.
To her credit, Rosaline was steps behind, clutching an old, ill-fitting dressing gown, more likely than not affronted that the king had barreled in upon her mistress undressed. And so Gwen sat, sopping wet - no doubt showing through the sheer white fabric - perched on a nearby trunk until she regained her strength … and Arthur loosened his grip on her wrist.
The commotion left Gwen feeling more foolish than ever, though she herself could not deny the fear that had coursed through her upon seeing blood in the bath. “I’m fine,” she insisted to no one with less conviction than ever. Beside her, Arthur - leg bouncing uncomfortably against her knee - ignored her claim, preoccupied with watching Gwen’s handmaiden scramble for some sense of stability.
Rosaline darted about, half-heartedly wiping up spilt water, gathering Gwen’s abandoned garment from earlier, picking through freshly laundered clothes each time she passed the basket by the door.
The tight set of his lips gave it all away, and as best she could, Gwen focused on reassuring him for the moment. “Arthur,” she murmured, squeezing his hand, “I said I’m all right-”
“Like hell you are,” he grunted in response. His hold on her arm lessened infinitesimally, just enough to allow a little more movement … and hardly enough to be described as anything less than ‘clinging.’
He was a lost cause. Instead, Gwen turned silent attention to her body, listening as best she could to the aftereffects of the tremor that had just rocked her. This particular tightness passed quickly, despite its violence. And what unease it left in its wake was not a labor pain; no, this particular tightness was the grip of embarrassment and terror on her stomach, bringing about a long forgotten feeling of nausea. With effort, Gwen extracted her arm from her husband’s grip and cradled her belly.
Untethered from Guinevere, Arthur shot to his feet and began to pace impatiently. “Where is the physician?” he demanded roughly, halting Rosaline in her tracks.
Gwen’s servant paused, bent over the spilt bathwater. “… I sent for the midwife, my lord. She should be here any moment-“
“‘Any moment’ is not now.”
The heat of frustration flooded Gwen’s cheeks. “There’s no need to be rough with her, Arthur.”
Arthur’s will was typically no match for Gwen’s correction, at least when it came to personal matters. But his shoulders remained tense and his voice cool. “I see sufficient cause.”
“Oh, stop.”
“You were screaming, Gwen.”
“I was not!” she hissed impatiently. Truth was, she couldn’t quite remember.
Before he could mount further counter-argument, the door burst open once more. Gwen clutched at her breast, managing to cover very little of what showed through her damp dress.
The midwife entered first, wild-eyed but with a purposeful stride, wrapping her hair up in a cloth as she walked. Hannah followed close behind, wringing her hands in an unusual display of nerves. … Four steps behind, a messy cacophony of paws moving in an indistinguishable pattern, bounded in the dog, tongue lolling. Happily, he sniffed the floor and wound between the two women. Of all the recent intrusions, Gwen was at least grateful for his. He entered her chambers devoid of anxiety or fear … sniffing at his master’s feet and brushing Gwen’s leg with his hind leg before fixing his senses upon the puddle of water that desperately needed lapping up.
There was brief silence as the chorus of women drew a deep, collective breath. Only Arthur remained rigid, unaffected by the midwife’s appearance.
“Your majesties,” she bowed stiffly and cast an eye over to the tub, “What’s all the commotion?”
Before Gwen could begin to formulate a response, or call upon her calmest voice, Rosaline butted in. “There was blood in the water,” she blurted, still knee-deep in panic.
“Hmm.” The midwife leaned over the edge and shook her head. “But not too much, my lady?”
“No,” admitted Gwen softly, rubbing her tingling stomach. “But … enough that I could see.”
Behind the elder woman, Hannah nodded knowingly. After another moment of examination, the midwife straightened and offered a rare, reassuring smile. “It’s to be expected.”
“Before what?” demanded Arthur.
“Before the baby’s time.” Without asking, she pressed approached with arm extended, pressing a worn hand to the low slope of Gwen’s abdomen. “Have you been having the pains?”
All eyes - Arthur’s included - fell upon her. She could not lie … not about this and not now, but she was not sure how her information would be taken. “… For a few weeks now.”
They were not touching, but even feet apart, Gwen could feel her husband go rigid at her admission. “What kind of pains,” he asked quietly, his voice testy.
She was in no mood for a row, not on this and not now. Gwen, too, could bristle. “Nothing troubling.”
“Labor pains,” supplemented the midwife, feeling a little lower on Gwen’s stomach. “But … they were not close together, surely?”
“Not until today.”
Arthur remained incredulous. “Labor … as in … birth.”
Gwen nodded.
“For weeks.”
“Only a few.”
“That’d be normal,” agreed the midwife. She glanced over at Rosaline. “Well, hurry up. She’ll need something else to wear-”
Gwen’s eyes went wide. “So … it’s right … now?”
Not unlike Cookie, the midwife’s face was creased and schooled enough to avoid giving much in the way of feeling away. It was a technique Hannah was already beginning to master, one Gwen vaguely wondered if she one day would. But there was no mistaking the hint of blush beneath the midwife’s dusky olive skin. “Well, when the king gives us leave, I’ll be able to better check, but the baby has dropped-”
“How can you know if this has been happening for weeks?” asked Arthur, his voice low with the sting of apparent betrayal.
Gwen fixed him with a stern glare. She could not deal with such childish petulance now. “Arthur-”
But he met her gaze straight on. “How could you not tell me?”
“It was not important.”
His jaw fell open, affronted. “Don’t be ridiculous-”
“Ridiculous? You’re offended over what I didn’t know,” she snapped. She swallowed her sudden anger, focusing instead of the truth of the moment. Gwen raised her head as she rarely was called upon to do, summoning what air of finality she could from within her. “… And now you’re in the way.”
The set of her brow was challenging, just as the set of his lips was unmistakable. Once more - as happened ever so often - they were not king and queen, but children … playing adulthood, a young man and a young woman in way over their heads.
Everyone else in the room had strategically - and wisely - focused their attention elsewhere, looking conspicuously away from the tiff their sovereigns were in the midst of sharing.
Arthur took a long look around. Clearly outnumbered, and apparently out of place, the young king stood with what remained of his dignity. “Fine,” he snipped, standing slowly. As best he could muster, he gazed upon Gwen with equanimity. “I’ll … just be in the hall, if … I’m needed. Ever.”
Still stung, Gwen nodded curtly and looked away. “My lord.”
Rosaline, Hannah and the midwife curtsied deeply, eyes fixed on the floor. The dog stared up at him from above the mess on the floor. “You’re with me,” grunted Arthur, giving a little wave that typically would’ve sent the overgrown puppy running. Instead, their dog’s gaze remained blank. It was hardly possible for Arthur to look more betrayed, and so he simply sagged his shoulders. “Fine,” he mumbled, and with shoulders sagged and a sour look fixed upon his face, he stalked out the room.
Gwen could not help herself. She sagged back onto the mattress, heavy and tired. And this is only the beginning …
Above her, the three women exchanged looks. In unison, they began to bustle about again, charitably ignoring the tense moment that had just passed before them.
“Shall I fetch the Lady Morgana?” asked Hannah, reaching over the collapsed queen for the empty bedside pitcher.
Rosaline laid out a fresh dress beside Gwen’s crumpled, cross form. “Perhaps you’d like something dry, Lady Gwen.”
But the midwife held court here. “Let’s go about this in proper order and see if you really intend on having this baby at all.”
***
It was her intention, and that much was clear, but the prince seemed in no rush to arrive.
All semblance of dignity and propriety cast aside, Gwen rested her chin on folded arms, her nose pressed to the glass as she stared out the window just above haze left by her breath at the sill.
The sun was setting in the most glorious array of gold she’d witnessed months, since the late autumn subdued Camelot with its cool gray skies and bitter cold. Mid-afternoon, sun had broken through for an unexpected appearance. But it, too, prepared to abandon her as it sank beneath the distant horizon, off to other worlds while Gwen saw her deed through to completion.
It was hours later, and she ached all over. From head to toe, her body throbbed between intermittent contractions, each of which seized her brutally … but refused to come too close to the next lest she actually give birth. It hardly surprised her that the act would be uncooperative in this manner; as unexpected this child had been was a difficult labor expected. There was no reward without trial.
So she remained, hunched uncomfortably over with the fastenings of her robe hanging open, shielding her progress from the room’s many observers.
The midwife, at least, kept Gwen’s help occupied. Out the corner of her eye, she could see her bed, stripped of its usual luxurious linens in favor of plain white, crisp cotton. Beside it, Rosaline placed freshly torn strips of fabric to wrap the baby in; the number she’d reached so far already seemed excessive, but something to distract was better than nothing. The dog, ever loyal, held his place beside her, curled into a ball at her swollen feet.
The hand on her lower back, warm with fingers splayed wide, made her flinch. Morgana stepped into the periphery of her vision, cradling a small mortar with pestle still buried deep in whatever substance it held.
Gwen rolled her cheek onto her wrist, looking up at her friend. “I hope you found time to eat-”
“Hush,” Morgana interrupted gently, gesturing to the bed.
Her smile quickly gave way to the pull of pain. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly against it, digging her nails into stone.
“It would be better if you did not hold your breath, my lady,” called the midwife lazily. Gwen turned in time to see the woman seated with her back to her, as she poured milk into a large pewter bowl.
Damn her. The words were on Gwen’s lips, but even in pain she did not have the heart to utter them.
It did not matter evidently; above her, Morgana grinned, well aware of Guinevere’s inner dialogue.
With a great effort, Gwen pushed off the ledge and stood at her full height … rocking so far backward that she had put her hands on her lower back to catch herself. “What’s that?” she murmured, glancing at the mortar again.
Morgana’s hand curled around Gwen’s arm, guiding her gently back to the prepared bed. “A gift,” the sorceress replied as she helped ease her into a good position at the end of the bed.
Gwen leaned back, falling gingerly upon the pillows stacked on her side of the bed. Normally, when she assumed this position, the baby kicked furiously at her, assaulting her stomach or her spine mercilessly until she shifted to her side. Now, nothing but heaviness between her legs and a chest heaving in anticipation.
Once she’d caught her breath, she glanced back up at Morgana, who stared down at her with utmost sympathy and something a little like amusement.
Guinevere needed nothing to reminder her of how cross she’d felt … even after all these hours. Between Arthur’s stupidity and so many days of discomfort, the slightest hint of teasing was enough to set her off. “There’s only one solution to this ailment,” she mumbled, reaching in vain for the pillow farthest behind her.
Kindly, Morgana tugged at the pillow that needed shifting, until Gwen was in a better position. Ignoring her queen’s retort, Morgana turned and silently summoned a chair from across the room, until it slid neatly behind her knees. “Merlin found the remedy, but I prepared it myself.”
“What’s it for?” asked Gwen, weary.
“It’s herbal … no different than anything you could find at the apothecary. … Albeit a tad stronger.” Morgana sat and held it up for Gwen to smell. “… For the pain. In your back.”
The scent of mint had her turning onto her side before she could object. “There is no pain in my back,” mumbled Gwen.
Blessedly, Morgana took no note of the lie. Gwen closed her eyes as Morgana’s own hand worked the bitter cool salve into exposed skin as Gwen buried her face into the blanket, staring through the darkening room at a candle flickering on the opposite side of the bed.
“Is Merlin here?” asked Gwen softly into the sheet she clutched, curling her toes as another pain overcame her.
Her ministrations were rhythmic and constant. “Nearby,” she replied quietly.
Another pair of hands slid into place … smaller fingers, with worn fingertips moved in circles at Gwen’s waist, and the chair shifted behind her.
“He departed only to find food. But he’s there with them all. … A small congregation, in your name.”
The thought of anyone waiting on news from her, especially when she remained so unable to provide it, only made Gwen’s stomach churn worse. “In the hall?”
Morgana’s shadow fell upon the bed as she made her way around to the other side, flicking untouched candles alight with an amber of her eye. The smile on her lips fell not to something like sadness, but reverence. “… Outside.”
She could not help herself again. Gwen moaned, loudly, as she pulled away from Rosaline’s hands and rocked onto her back once more, covering her face with her palms. Surely she did not need an audience; this was a trial she preferred to manage in peace.
Already, hours had gone by, her progress minimal. Another contraction came and went, but the midwife barely flinched where she worked, paying her queen no mind.
The swell of regret was immediate. Regret for everything and nothing. Less than halfway there and Gwen was beyond tired.
She did not feel good.
Propping herself up on her elbows, Gwen cast a weary eye about the room. Doing so, she felt squeezed, sweaty, and short of breath … but it hardly mattered. “Is Arthur there?”
Morgana sank into his spot on the bed, but Guinevere’s eye remained fixed on the door. “I have not seen him in hours.”
No matter. “I’ll go find him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
At the foot of her bed, Hannah began to rise. “Let me fetch him, my lady.”
“Oh, stop. I-” her breath hitched on another remarkably painful pain, even as she twisted round to sit up straight, sliding her feet over the edge of the bed until the pressed flat against the floor.
The magnitude of the situation had hit her at once, and there were things that needed to be dealt with. Gwen had always been a woman of purpose, of duty, and she would set things as right as she could before the imminent undertaking.
… That, and she’d been less frightened to marry him, her a commoner and he a princ.
Her jaw clenched under the force of her contraction - fingers bearing into her mattress until her knuckles ached - and she stared at a fixed point on the opposite wall until she could speak again.
“… I can do this myself,” Gwen gasped finally, standing with a great effort. Morgana, Hannah and the midwife sucked air in all at once, no doubt readying their objections. It mattered not to her, and in a rare gesture, she held her hand up, finished with the debate. “And I’ll hear no more on it.”
Prepared to take the first of many, many steps out to find her husband, Gwen tensed … only to hold in place.
A light knock came at the door, silencing her with her jaw held open. The dog lifted onto all fours immediately and sounded a warning bark.
Glancing down briefly at her attire - the back of her dressing gown was open, but her back remained to the wall - Gwen pursed her lips. “Come in.”
The door clicked open, just enough to allow a man to slip in. Arthur held his head high, one hand tucked neatly behind his waist while the other awkwardly clutched a book to his stomach. He looked a good deal more kingly than he had when he retreated earlier, as a scorned child.
Gwen’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and somewhere nestled where he could barely shift, the baby moved.
Before she could speak, Arthur took two authoritative steps inward. “Leave us,” he commanded evenly, eyes inscrutable even as he looked upon his wife.
Rosaline and Hannah dashed out immediately, heads bowed. The midwife cast an uneasy glance back at her, no doubt an objection ready at her lips … but she thought the better of it and too, took her leave. Morgana lingered just long enough to fix him with a sour look.
“Come to cause more trouble?” she muttered, standing but making no move toward the door.
At least with her, Arthur was deferent … if a bit defeated. He sighed tiredly. “Morgana, please. A moment.”
She cast a glance over shoulder back at Gwen before nodding. “I’ll be just outside the door.”
Gwen’s cheeks were flushed, and a wave of nausea coursed up her throat and into her mouth … the sign of another contraction to come. With a rigid back, she sank onto the bed with a hand extended behind her. Brow knitted, she waited for him to speak.
Arthur walked around the four-poster until he stood before her, spine equally rigid as he prepared himself. He cleared his throat once, glanced at the floor, and then lifted his chin.
“… Now seems like the appropriate time to apologize.”
Even mid-contraction, Gwen could not help but fix him with a skeptical look. “‘Appropriate’?”
“’Good’ time,” amended Arthur. Though he did not crack a smile, his eyes were open, beseeching. “The proper time.”
Guinevere blushed - then winced. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Without warning, he hurried forth, closing the distance between them as he sank onto one knee. “I was … hasty. Earlier. You … didn’t need that.” He glanced up from the worn binding in his hands to her pale expression. “I’m sorry.”
Moments earlier, Gwen had had an apology of her own prepared. But in this instance, it felt better to simply forgive. She nodded wordlessly, unable to deny the wave of relief that swept through her, and smiled.
“So,” continued Arthur, “… I took the liberty of visiting Geoffrey. And while he is generally useless-”
“Arthur-”
“-He did produce these records very quickly, and I was … grateful. And wanted to show you.”
Gwen rubbed her stomach as Arthur flicked about midway through, turning it until it balanced awkwardly on what remained of Gwen’s lap. For the first time in hours, she laughed as he made to catch the pages that slid out of the binding.
“What’s this?” Gwen murmured, watching as he traced his finger up and down the near-indecipherable scrawl that took up most of the page.
… And without warning, he stopped. Gwen leaned forward, arching her neck to read. His finger hovered just above those familiar letters … resting on a name she hadn’t heard in ages, but bore more weight than most.
Arthur cleared his throat. “I know we still had not settled on a name.”
“And You like it?” she asked softly, biting down on her bottom lip. By the upturn of his lips, Guinevere needed no answer.
“… The wardrobe too - the wardrobe, don’t make me say it twice! -- … and the window, get the window.” … The midwife paused, still bent over at the waist as she watched the women stumble about, a fury of unlocking hands, working as fast as they could … and not nearly fast enough for her liking.
Rosaline blanched as her hands settled upon a vanity drawer. “But this one doesn’t unlock!”
“Of course it does,” snapped Hannah, shoving her out the way with one hip. A little jiggling … a forceful jerk, and the temperamental drawer opened as the rest did, yanked wide open until a few of Gwen’s most prized positions spilled over the sides and onto the floor.
She paid them no mind, eyes fixed resolutely on a spot just above the midwife’s head as she hovered near Gwen’s planted feet. She could barely look at the woman at the moment … what peace had been left in the wake of Arthur’s departure was interrupted with a declaration that the time had come. The dog - barking more than he ever had in his short life - was forced out by Morgana’s magic when no one’s will seemed to supercede his own.
Her hands clutched the cloth beside her as she breathed, exhaling slowly … or as slowly she could manage while flexing every muscle in her body, willing herself to wait just a bit longer … a little longer.
“I’ll need you, yes, you-… heaven help me and tell me that’s not a knot I see in your dress right there-”
Rosaline froze mid-step as she trailed Hannah closer to Gwen’s bed, her hands coming to rest at the back of her apron. “Of course it is!” she gasped, affronted.
The midwife outdid her in that regard, flabbergasted that such a thing could persist in her presence. “Undo it immediately, unless you wish more toil upon your lady than necessary-”
“I adore Lady Guinevere … But,” she sputtered, clearly shocked at the request. “It’s an apron!”
Morgana was not a woman of superstition; that much was clear from the way she disregarded the midwife’s cry that all the doors in sight be opened as Gwen began to whimper and resist the urge to push. But even she cast a dark eye up to the young maid. “Undo it!” she snapped impatiently, lowering herself into the seat beside Gwen once more.
Rosaline bristled angrily. “I can’t be much help if I’m going to get messy-”
The midwife, as she crouched onto her stool, froze, turning an ice-cold glare up at her youngest assistant. “You’ll save those complaints if you know what’s good for you.”
Gwen gasped; scrunching her features tight as her worst contraction yet overtook her, she drew her knees up toward her chest. Her hands reached out wildly, grabbing her own exposed thigh as she held on for purchase on the bed. “… Just …” Gwen ground her teeth, tucking her chin into her chest the heaviness slid lower, until it ached.
Four pairs of eyes watched in silence as Gwen yelped silently, unable to breathe and unable to keep herself from squeezing something forth from deep within her.
There were no words for the pain that overcame her as she shook, red-faced and sweating … only words for everyone else present. “Stop it!” she shouted, unexpected and angrily once she finally caught her breath.
… In truth, the words were as much for the boy bearing down between her hips as it was for the bickering playing out before her. She’d had enough of all of it.
She could not say all the things she wanted to say. She could not shriek that the opening knots did not matter, that Hannah should hold her steady, that she did not care about Rosaline’s apron. She did not have the breath to cry that she did not feel ready, that she did not want to begin, that this was all too soon, sooner than she’d decided she needed to think everything through by and it would be nice to wait just a little while.
“I … have … to push,” she moaned finally, dropping her head back onto her pillow. She’d put off the moment as long as she could … but her body was prepared to do what her mind insisted she wait upon.
Someone’s hand smoothed back her hair. Another pair held the leg that she could not clutch herself.
Through bleary vision, she could see the midwife. Her head was bent low … peeking up Gwen’s skirt and into her before nodding in agreement.
“Indeed my lady.”
***
It was hard to know, from this vantage point, what was memory and what was dust, fairy tale and folklore from her father. Years ago, she remained more than certain about what she knew; she held the fragments of Eleanor close to her chest, tenuous threads to such a vital and missing mother. But with every day that passed … as a wife and a queen and a woman herself, Guinevere’s grasp on such things slipped, and distinctions seemed less and less important. The feeling would have to count.
That, at least, was her justification for holding so tightly to the earliest. It was a tall order, to adamantly call it a memory when it happened so long ago, but on this point Gwen would not waver.
Gwen was rarely ill. She counted this among her father’s blessings; like Tom, the blacksmith’s daughter had lugs as strong as her hands, energy for days and a will to work. Eleanor shared that will with her husband and daughter, but never had the health to match. What Gwen remembered of her was a woman often relegated to the bed while she completed the housework in her stead.
At least once it was not this way.
As Gwen had for so many others, Eleanor tended to her daughter’s fever with a cool compress. The damn fabric pressed stray curls into her forehead and the cloth was itchy where her mother left it to rest, but in her mind’s eye, her younger self felt too small and too tired to do anything about it. What had begun as a fun day outside quickly turned to a place on her parents’ cot, beneath the blankets and shivering.
There had been no words to exchange, or if there were, they were lost to the ages. Nor did Eleanor have eyes in this particular recollection … her expression remained too far outside Gwen’s bleary, sick gaze.
There was only the feeling of her mother’s hands upon her, stroking her only daughter’s features tenderly … touching cheeks to feel their warmth, cooling chapped lips with water on her own fingertips … the pad of her thumb stroking Gwen’s small wrist.
The dream - memory … fantasy - remained short. And it always ended the same.
Gwen whimpers, and it’s not a word, just a weak protest.
Eleanor’s actions are immediate: in the firelight, mother, exhausted with worry but devoid of real fear, pulls her daughter up off the bed, swaddling her small frame in the quilt. Gwen shifts ever so slightly in her mum’s grip. Even a four year old knows the best spot to hear her mother’s heart.
***
There were many, many reasons to miss her mother, but on this particular occasion, it was simply because there had been no one to tell her that pushing felt like forever. Poor Hannah, anchored against the bed, held onto her lady for dear life as Gwen’s legs shook from the exertion … as every part of her body clenched and she screamed silently through her leather strap to push, push!
‘I can’t,’ were words unfamiliar to Gwen’s vocabulary, but had she the breath, she would’ve uttered them then.
She collapsed back again, able to see nothing through the darkness: not the concern in Morgana’s face, nor the determination in the midwife’s. She could see nothing illuminated by the flickering candle in her room, could see nothing but her own face reflected back to her - broken, exhausted, spent.
Her chest heaved as she set her hands down again. Just outside the door, the dog howled with unmatched fury, scratching at the bottom of the door.
Gwen’s head fell to one side, collapsing against her bedspread. Though she shed no tears, inside she wept for sleep … not that the weight threatening to split her open would allow it. She could no more sleep than she could get this baby out on her own.
While one generous hand dabbed her forehead with a lukewarm compress, another found her ankle, stroking gently.
Her eyes fluttered open at the midwife’s touch. “He is right there, my queen,” she murmured gently.
For a moment, there was silence. Once again, eyes were upon her, awaiting her next move … her next gesture.
And though it was fear that stilled her, Gwen knew. This was her burden, and on her life, she would not give up.
“Guinevere.”
She pushed. Pushed all her weight down, bearing hard and fast within herself until everything inside her screamed ‘out, out!’ and all she heard was a high-pitched wail in her ears … the collective cry of three women in unison as she panted and pushed and opened up.
… And Amhar. Amhar fell through, scrunched limbs and tiny lungs.
It was a fright and delightful all at once; Gwen gazed just past her navel to see a glimpse of flesh that was - for once - not her own. The midwife gave a firm tug, pulling the limp little body free of its mother.
Gwen’s chest heaved as she watched, still pushing on instinct even as she stared, trembling as she waited for some sound. Like any woman experienced in her trade, the midwife worked furiously, tipping Amhar up and onto his stomach in the darkness, until his head was lower than his rear and he was balanced precariously on her palm. Though her mouth moved, the queen could only watch … overcome with terror in a new way, more real than any of the anxiety she’d encountered in life yet.
The third pat was firm enough. Soaking wet, cold and thoroughly distressed, Amhar wailed … unappreciative of being handled thus.
A cry. Gwen collapsed under the weight of it.
***
Even encased in darkness, Gwen could feel the fingers on her … not the precise, diligent strokes of Morgana tending to her, but a heavier hand, familiar with the set of her brow and the arch of her forehead, tracing an uneven pattern into her scalp.
Guienvere opened her eyes to the room, still dark, but a good deal more crowded than before. She blinked to take in the scene; beneath her legs, the bed was still damp, but some kind soul had the presence of mind to tuck extra, fresh linens beneath her as others poured in at Amhar’s grand entrance.
“Where is he?” mumbled Gwen, quiet but insistent, pushing up from her place against the pillows.
Arthur squeezed her fingers gently, burying his hand in her hair as he pressed a kiss into the bridge of her nose. “Don’t worry,” he mumbled into her skin, still slick from the exertion. As best she could, Gwen relaxed into the comfort of her bed.
There was the sound of splashing water, and little lungs cried out again. Gwen twisted just in time to catch sight of the midwife pulling her baby’s body out of milk-white water. Little limbs flexed and stretched, dripping and demonstrating their force in a way that forced a smile to Gwen’s lips even as exhausted as she was.
“She’s quite well, my lady,” murmured the midwife.
A beat. “She,” whispered Gwen, her eyebrows knitting together as she turned her gaze just briefly upon Arthur.
His mouth fell to her knuckes, smiling against her hand. “It seems we bet wrong,” he mumbled.
“You’re not …” Gwen trailed off, too tired to put concern into words. Arthur caught her eye and smiled. He was no disappointed than she.
Her mind swam as she watched. A little foot caught the light, hands reached for purchase as Hannah and the midwife together swaddled her in the torn cloths, binding her secure as she had been for so many months in Gwen’s womb.
A new kind of fear overtook her as the pair of ladies approached … a faces - familiar and not quite so - flooded in, quietly reverent in the new baby’s presence.
Gwen’s mouth felt dry as she searched for the proper thing to say, looking up at the small brown and pink child in the cradled protectively to the midwife’s chest. “… She’s so small.”
Hannah chuckled sweetly, dabbing Amhar’s forehead once more with a damp cloth, wiping away what red remained. “Well, my lady, that’s how they come.”
She wanted so desperately to reach up. But her exhaustion was real. For every bit of her that saw the baby immediately in her arms, another part knew … ached.
With a small smile, Guinevere tipped her chin toward the silent king beside her. “Go ahead,” whispered Gwen gently, even managing to chuckle at his mouth suddenly agape.
“Are you certain?” Arthur glanced between the midwife’s arms and Gwen’s own smile. He leaned in, until their faces were inches apart.
Her nod was … far more certain than she initially believed. “It’s been her and I for months,” murmured Gwen, bringing his hand to her cheek. “It can be your turn.”
Chuffed, Arthur could do nothing but nod. And when she prepared to release him, to watch this first remarkable event, he surprised her by leaning in and catching her lips in his … kissing her as he never had before. His breath came roughly as he lingered as long as he could manage. And once released by her, with blessing, he stood, tense, and took the baby into his arms.
Amhar - so named for Gwen’s mother’s’ father - did not miss a beat. She whined quite promptly in the less secure hold of her father, until Arthur adjusted enough to curl her small body into his chest properly.
Gwen watched from her vantage point on the bed, catching his eye as he shifted to show her off. “This about right?” he asked in earnest, raising his elbow.
Beaming, Gwen shrugged her shoulders. “… Haven’t the slightest.”
Arthur grinned.
He lowed carefully into the seat beside her, bringing the little girl’s unobstructed face into view, inches away from Gwen’s face. With a shaking hand, Gwen reached out to tuck back the fabric cocoon.
There was a little nose. Little, and red … recently squished on passage out. Eyes of undetermined color, for they remained closed … even as Arthur laid the baby upon Gwen’s chest. In the light, dusky skin glistened and sank into shadow. Lips that harkened back to her father pursed and began to suckle on nothing. And what little hair she had swept into a wave across her forhead: early evidence of a curl.
Such a perfect thing, inside Gwen all along. Outside, the people sang her praises.
Inside, Guinevere wept.