Fic: What Grew Inside Who
Title: What Grew Inside Who (4/5)
Author: imigination
Pairings/Characters: Arthur, Gwen, Merlin, Morgana, Uther, Tom, Lancelot, Arthur/Gwen, minor Gwen/Lancelot
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 46,000
Warning: Modern AU/Canon crossover, based loosely on Lost in Austen.
Disclaimer: I have few Earthly possessions, and Merlin certainly isn’t one of them.
Summary: When a modern day Gwen takes a tumble through her crawlspace door, she discovers what truly lies on the other side of the looking glass.
Art Link: The incredibly talented shan_3414 made graphics and an accompanying fanmix for this story, and I couldn’t be more grateful. You can find them here; please, show her some love! ♥
Author’s Notes: No amount of words I could put here would do justice to the thanks that are due to so many people, so please take a moment to peek here to see those to whom I owe infinite gratitude.
Once again, the familiar pang of hunger stirred her from distraction … at the present, a book, thin and light and mostly unintelligible from the bowels of her wardrobe. Most of the words meant nothing to Gwyneth, but since rest did not come easily, it was something … a distraction where the sunrise was too slow to entertain.
She felt hunger from deep within her and turned, splayed inelegantly across her bed with the folds of her skirt flipped up around her to cast a long eye at her table’s contents. Over the course of her few days in Camelot, she’d picked through what little had been in her fruit bowl, and the empty plates from her dinner with Arthur had long disappeared. With no servant of her own, she hardly expected food to appear and disappear at her whim, but she had remained stowed away for a reason.
Uther’s apparent cordiality in conversation did nothing to dissuade her of the suspicion she saw in his eye. It served her right; self-scorn was easier to cop to than anxiety, as boredom was to fear. Without the helpful hand of someone who understood her peculiar circumstances, she could do with a little more solitude.
But the first flutter of light across her floor meant that day was only beginning. Outside her door she heard nothing: not the soft muttering of servants, or the patter of feet or the distant sounds of court being held. There was only the quiet before the dawn, and the din, and the castle’s daily business.
There was no harm in taking advantage of the hour.
Stiff from having laid still so many hours, Gwen stretched - all feline - and crawled her way to the edge of her mattress, sliding off backward to plant bare feet on cool stone. There were many things to get used to, the inconsistent and oft-alternating hot and cool of the castle among them. Rubbing tired eyes, she slipped her toes under the edge of her bed until she hooked her shoes.
Indeed, even with the sun crawling its way up over the horizon, lighting the trees and Arthur’s party graciously, the palace remained notably quiet. In the chaos of her time spent there, she had not once been caught utterly alone … even in the beginning the passing guard turned an eye upon her, or a scullery maid, or Merlin. Checking over her shoulder that Uther did not lurk behind some nearby post, she began her descent with the vaguest impression of the castle plan in mind.
Just follow the smell of baking bread, Gwyneth, she reminded herself playfully as soon as her nose caught the blessed scent. It did waft from somewhere … somewhere to the right, and she followed it, like a cloud in the air that beckoned to her, passing things she was beginning to recognize as familiar: the great statue of a griffon, the tarp of what must’ve been the household crest, this one faded and a little frayed in a spot that she doubted Uther or Arthur ever noticed.
She descended staircase after staircase, until she knew, though there were no windows to affirm her belief, that she was passing lower than the banquet hall, or the council chambers, or the courtyard. As the smell grew stronger the warm swaddle of darkness once again enveloped her. The dim and narrow stairwell ended in a light that ended like a beacon, bright and welcoming.
The light revealed a trio of small shoulders sloped in deference to an older woman at the hearth. Nothing about their conversation, the energy of their speech or the speed of their hands as they cooked suggested early morning. No, though the kitchen was not quite as bustling with life as she imagined the staff of a castle this size might require, there was already laughter and the hum of approval as the matron ticked off a mixture of gossip and sound wisdom.
“… Hi,” piped up Gwen after a few moments of eavesdropping, feeling at once like an old friend and a terribly offensive guest for listening in on what was not her conversation. Four pairs of eyes abandoned their work, mid-chop, mid-knead. Four pairs of eyes settled on her, flickering in the firelight. Gwyneth blushed a dusky peach, bathed in the same stuff they worked in. “Pardon me, I’m so sorry.” She curtsied dutifully, apologetically. Deeply.
But when she looked up again, it was the women who remained with heads bowed, craning their necks as they wiped their hands dry on aprons and reached for their skirts. Gwen cringed immediately, increasingly ashamed that she had bothered to interrupt them in the first place. “Oh, no!” she gasped, waving a hand as she took two pleading steps forward, “Please, none of that.”
The eldest rose first, elegant to Gwen’s indiscriminant eye. Her face, though slightly weary, held no trace of anger. “We’re sorry, ma’am-” and Gwyneth’s shame only worsened. The woman by the fire had to be nearly double Gwen’s age. This was no kind of respect she wanted. “-Is there something we might do for you?”
Her heart fluttered in her chest; she was as ready to retreat as she was prepared to make her request at the surprised look she received from the other young ladies, closer in her age. “Um …” Gwen licked her lips slowly, wracking her mind. What did you come for?
Another, like Miriam in stature but with her features pulled into a more genuine smile than Morgana’s handmaiden often had for her, spoke first. “Did you not sleep well, my lady?”
Right. “Yes!” exclaimed Gwyneth, re-struck by her initial idea. “I was just a bit hungry … but I can wait, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Not at all, my lady,” the girl answered, bowing her head until a few strands of red hair masked her vision. When she looked up again, she smiled, “Will that be all?”
Guilt still tickled Gwen’s insides. “… I can prepare it myself-”
The older woman by the fire could not hold in her shocked huff, and she hid whatever expression came with it by turning her back and returning to her seat by her baking. But the younger girl who spoke to Gwen first shook her head tolerantly. “… I’m happy to do it, miss.”
Discomfort remained in the pit of her stomach. “Shall I wait here?”
“Your ladyship would likely be more comfortable eating in your private quarters. I’ll prepare something straight away and bring it to you, if you prefer.”
Gwen smiled weakly. “I don’t prefer it.”
“But it is … customary.”
Her smile of resignation was small but genuine at the girl’s insistence. “Okay …” her gaze lingered in as expectant a gesture she was ever wont to give. Under Gwyneth’s gaze, she shifted until the silence spoke of her meaning.
“Rosaline,” she supplied, her faint blush apparent even in the firelight.
Gwen blushed no less than her, equally embarrassed by her bumbling understanding of the ‘rules.’ “Thanks, then.” She turned slowly away, watching over her shoulder as Rosaline and the only other that remained standing curtsied - for the third young woman had silently returned to work while the awkward conversation preceded - awaiting Gwen’s departure. But with her foot on the first step, she paused and turned again in time to see Rosaline’s compatriot pass her a platter. “… Do you need to know where I’m staying?”
Rosaline smiled benevolently again and rolled her shoulders, whether amused or a little fed up, Gwen would never know. “No, my lady. I’ll be right after you.”
It would take time, getting used to such treatment. Neither accustomed to nor particularly comfortable with the idea of servants doing things for her - things she was perfectly capable, nay prided herself at having mastered - it took all her will to silence the protest on her tongue. But Gwyneth curtsied away her anxieties for the moment and hurried out before their laugher chased her away, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
I should talk to Morgana, she thought absently as she climbed, peering over her shoulder at the kitchen door as she staged her retreat. The king’s ward would know the ins and outs of appropriate behavior better than anyone, and Gwen imagined it would benefit her just as much to know that she had Gwyneth’s absolute faith.
Pleased with her next plan of action, Gwen hopped lightly up onto the top step and smiled. Under Morgana’s instruction, she could deter Uther’s eye. Lost in thought as to how she might phrase her reveal to her newest confidante, she turned automatically to the right, back toward her chambers … and nearly mowed down another courtier.
With her head bowed, she bumped shoulders with a gentleman. He was taller than her, but not by much, and something narrow and heavy protruded from his grip: sword and scabbard, no doubt. Though it struck her ribs and hurt, Gwen stepped back immediately to apologize. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, ignoring the low throb in her side where she’d been poked.
“It’s I should be apologizing, my lady,” came a reply of the warmest baritone, a voice that had more than once lulled her to sleep as it sang and spun tales of nonsense, coaxing little eyes shut with words.
Gwyneth stiffened at once, suddenly pained in a very different way. She watched, slightly horrified, as her father’s salt and pepper head bowed to her, the hint of a smile playing upon his lips as he adjusted the bouquet of swords in his arms.
What comfort she had taken in Arthur’s company, what thoughts she had managed to redirect in concern for Morgana’s kept secret or the king’s suspicion buckled under the weight of Tom’s proximity. Time slowed, and Gwen struggled for purchase - and voice - as she watched him rise again, humbly, and step around her … carrying on his way.
Away from her.
Though there were tears that threatened to come - again, Gwen? Not again - his back was enough to prompt her to speak. She had, after all, imagined such a moment. In the nights after his passing, when she slept on Lancelot’s couch where she could be lonely but not so alone, Gwyneth dreamt of having one more moment with her dad, prematurely taken. In her dreams, he came to her knowingly, said the things to get her to speak, reassured her where he knew she needed his assurance.
“Where are you going?” She blurted her question, sudden heat flooding her face as Tom strode away from her, threatening to step out into the courtyard and away from her forever.
He froze, mid-step, and though her mind was racing too fast to formulate coherent thoughts, a pang of regret forced its way through to the forefront at his weary look.
He thinks I’m going to reprimand him. Gwen’s stomach churned and dropped; she had never felt so low. Beseechingly, she took a tentative step toward him, reaching vaguely toward his bundle. “I could help you carry those.”
In his cheek, a familiar dimple appeared. His smile was slight, generous, and bewildered. “I would never think to trouble you, my lady-”
“It’s no trouble,” she murmured, slowing her approach. She had denied the reality of so much that she had experienced in the castle thus far. Now, for the first time, she was afraid of being correct.
Gwen ran a hand across the stone wall, reassuring herself with the cool, rough surface beneath her palm. In front of her, her father cast a long look back toward the entrance to the kitchens, shifting his weight as he faced Gwen head on. “Is there something I might help you with?” he asked after a moment.
However she might have recognized him, the feeling was evidently not mutual. Rather than further heartbreak, it relieved her to know as much. With trembling hands, Gwyneth extended her arms again, palms upturned. “I bumped into you,” she mumbled, the crinkling between her brows deepening, “I’d like to help.”
He shifted again beneath the weight of Gwen’s gaze. He saw a lady of the court gone daft. She saw the look of a man torn between handing down a punishment for getting cheeky and laughing at the nature of her insolence.
But he wasn’t just her father. He was a man of his century, a blacksmith, and she was a courtier. Tom cleared his throat and hesitantly extended a sheathed sword in her direction. “My lady-” his brow furrowed, a perfect mirror of her own expression, “-I’m just taking these home for some work, and it’s quite early. No doubt you have better things to attend to than the duties of a porter.”
In the same measured tone with which she’d addressed the king the day before, Gwen chose her words carefully … tipping her chin up as she had the first time she asked to borrow his car, and the time she had to accept punishment for returning it home late. “I’m a guest here in Camelot,” she replied slowly, “I do things the way they’re seen fit in my own court.”
With a skeptical look and a relenting sigh, he released the weight of the sword into her open hands. Gwen’s fingers curled around its leather encasing.
When a last lingering look did nothing to undo the determined fashion with which Gwen faced her father, Tom’s shoulders slumped and gave way to protocol. He could turn her away no more than she could allow him to, and so they stepped into the desolate morning courtyard side by side, each holding weapons defensively against their chests. For a long while, their was only the sound of their footsteps … the light patter of Gwen’s slippers and the soft rustling of her gown, still unfamiliar to her ear, and the slightly lumbering cadence of Tom’s boots taking one step for her every two.
They passed through the castle gates without a second look from the two guards stationed there, whose eyes were trained in the direction of the half-risen sun. As fast as her mind was working - speak, Gwen, speak! - her mouth refused to form words … stuck, pursed, afraid to offend him though she’d already pushed his boundaries.
Thankfully, Tom had the decency to speak first. “If you do not mind my asking, what court do you hail from, Lady …?”
“Gwyneth,” she supplied. Though he kept his eyes trained forward as they stepped off the trail of stone and onto dirt road. “And I come from Hammersmith.” Gwen swallowed, paused. “Are you familiar with it?”
He smiled, and for a fleeting moment Gwyneth dared to hope that memories were flooding back to him. Memories of her, or their life together, or his own life … precious as it was. But his warm gaze fell upon her and told her: “No.”
For a second time, wetness pressed against her eyes, though she dared not let it spill over. “You would like it,” she replied softly, forcing herself to look away though she wanted to spend every possible moment watching him.
Tom smiled. “Do they have need of a blacksmith?”
She thought of him as she remembered him, not in Hammersmith but back in Manchester, working on cars, returning home with greasy hands. “No,” she mumbled, shifting the blade between her palms, “But someone with similar talents.”
Whatever note of sadness lingered in her voice, Tom disregarded, chuckling warmly as he urged her to make a turn with a nod. “I do not have many other talents,” he corrected gently, looking down at Gwen with an affection that she had long missed, “And I could not abandon Camelot.”
She had not meant it literally, had no intention of bringing him back with her … if going back was at all a possibility. But her heart sank to hear him say it, to hear that he was rooted to this nonsense and not to her. Though the question formed on her tongue immediately, she spoke it with some measure of hear. “Is it because you have a family here?” asked Gwen, turning as much as she could while they walked.
The pair - father and daughter, centuries removed - rounded another corner … and suddenly Gwen’s vision was awash with sunlight. It scarred her vision, left whatever sadness manifested in Tom’s face a flickering glimmer. When a house blocked it out, his smile was resolute and even. “I do not.”
Gwyneth slowed, tripping slightly over her own hem as she tried to imagine such a lonely life for her old man. Tom, too, stopped short, courteous enough to wait on her.
“I’m sorry, sire,” she started, shaking her head, “I thought you might.”
She anticipated a certain familiar sadness, but what she saw was light. Tom tipped his head skyward as he slowed, allowing Gwen to catch up. “I had a wife. … And a little daughter. But they were both taken from me.”
Her stomach churned. “Taken?”
“As is the world.” Tom straightened his back and cast a long glance toward the awning over what Gwen already could recognize as his home, like something she’d seen in dreams many times, though she had seen it in person only once. “We are not all blessed to know our loved ones forever.”
Her tongue felt heavy as she sought to form her words. “Indeed,” Gwyneth agreed, pausing close to the post in front of the Leodegrance household. It was humble … as their flat had been. The same saddle he’d been working on the day before lay draped over a stool, drying in the daylight.
Her father edged into the space between Gwen and the shade of his doorstep, gazing upon her with something like pity. “I know that look,” he murmured, raising an eyebrow as he leaned his quarry against the wall.
The burst of laughter that escaped her lips was harsh and foreign to her own ear. “Do you?”
“Everyone who’s lost someone knows that look.” Tom plucked a dry, half-formed bud off a hanging bushel of lavender. “But it’s a sadness we all must face one day.”
Eyes burning once more, Gwen gripped the sword in her hands a little tighter. “Sometimes it’s too soon.” As though a day hadn’t passed between them, she deftly avoided his gaze, fixing her eyes upon the hilt resting against her chest.
“Aye, too soon,” he agreed, twirling the dead flower between his fingers. “There’s not a day I don’t miss my wife. … And not a minute I do not regret not knowing my Guinevere.”
Her smile was watery as she watched him place the flower on the ledge between them. Gwen traded him the sword for it, delicately taking it into her open palm. “How do you carry on?” she mumbled, staring at the scratched fabric of his coat. His smile was unfathomable, inconceivable to her. He was alone in the world, as she was.
Tom hoisted the sword onto his shoulder, and once again Gwen sensed him looking at a place far above her, though she dared not meet his gaze. “I remember that I have much more life in me,” he confessed after a moment, earnest. “What is there, but to carry on and live?” He paused long enough to catch the defiant gaze flaring in the corner of her eye. “They do not die that you should spend the rest of your life mourning.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw him once more … not as he was now, but resting, false somber, in his casket. So many people had wept around her. Yet before her, Tom smiled upon her with empathy … and understanding. Living was the difficult, and necessary, option; he knew as well as she did.
A petulant, sour wave washed over her even as Gwen gave him a small smile, sad and sincere. “They make you miss them.”
“The missing is loneliness,” agreed Tom. He slid the blade down once more, until he held it at the center of its weight, teetering it in his palm until it tipped too far one way, and fell against the outer banister. “But there’s room for more than one in the heart.”
She forced a smile, weak though it was. “I don’t believe you gave me your name, sire.”
He shifted his shoulders, laughing deferentially. “You may call me Tom, my lady. Though I’m afraid I would not be known as ‘sire,’ even in your Hammersmith.”
“And there I would not be a ‘Lady.’”
“Yet here, you are. … And I confess, Lady Gwyneth, I’ve got to be getting on with my day.”
As others were. Out the corner of her eye, a pair of front windows snapped open, not quite beckoning but certainly available for business. A gentleman passed into her vision, trailed by a pig. Rosaline had most certainly delivered her food by now. And Tom was bowing … unnecessarily.
“… I’m very interested in your trade,” Gwen announced, too loud, gripping his flower tightly. “I hope you’ll permit me to … come around. Once or twice.”
At least the tilt of his head was curious rather than dubious. “It’s not the business of ladies,” he admitted, “But perhaps things are different where you come from.”
Her chest heaved as she rolled her neck and tugged at her skirts, falling far lower than Tom had. “They are,” she mumbled, unable to distinguish for herself whether those words were heartbroken or happy. Looking back up into brown eyes, alight and amused, she surmised she felt the latter. “Thank you.” Here he was slightly grayer, had the lines of past sorrow etched into his face where her Tom had retained his youth, despite his sudden turn. But he was kind and his voice was a comfort, and he did not seem to find her request particularly disagreeable.
The sun beamed brightly on her back as she traced her retreat.
*
The rest of her day was spent in contemplation. Though she twice considered departing from her chambers to visit Morgana, Gwen could not summon enough will to move, lost in thought over her previous encounter. She nibbled at the food Rosaline brought her: first, breakfast … then dutifully, lunch and dinner, each time with a receptive smile and curious tilt of her lips.
She was grateful not to encounter the king, or anyone else, as the candles in her chambers burned to waxen stumps and she watched the sun fall behind the neighboring forest’s trees. And when she blew them out and fell back upon her bed without taking off her gown - she was still slightly unclear on what constituted nightwear - she fixed her eyes upon the ceiling of her four poster and wished for some clarity on all manner of things … Tom, and her station and her friends, and Arthur.
Hours later, when darkness had spread across her room, enveloping her in the inky blue of midnight, Gwyneth stirred at the sound of horse hooves on cobblestone.
… But then, she had never really fallen asleep. Not exactly. Bent in a misshapen arc, twisted over the side of the mattress with her face buried between two pillows, Gwyneth had allowed herself the slightest reprieve as she continued her vigil. And now, she blinked through the blackness at the moonlight sky as a clamor erupted in the courtyard below.
Arthur and Merlin were among a chorus of riders; that much she could tell immediately. The clatter drew her from her place, unwrapping herself from half-drawn covers, beckoning her to the window. Sure enough, there were two familiar figures amidst the flurry of red capes dismounting from their horses. Without hesitation, the glint of silver took off toward the staircase, disappearing within moments through the main doorways, a slim lad on his heels.
Without hesitation, Gwen stole away from the window, reaching for the corset she’d cast aside hours ago. With little struggle, she eased it over her shoulders and back around her bust, tightening its strings as she padded around in the dark for her shoes. Her conversation with Uther may not have been fruitful, and her encounter with her father odd … but there was comfort to be found somewhere in this world, and she had much to share. Her toe found the soft leather of her slippers, and she slid them on as she tightened the golden outer layer of her borrowed garment.
Soon, Gwyneth was closing her bedroom door gently behind her, careful not to attract too much attention though the hallway outside her chambers remained deserted. Twisting her hair into an uneven knot as she walked, she turned and descended a staircase toward the center of the castle, heading in the direction of Arthur’s quarters. Though her cheeks flushed at the thought, she knew she needed only see him for a moment to feel reassured; in his absence, it felt as though the very foundation of Camelot shifted beneath her feet.
Light footsteps danced their way down the staircase and rounded a darkened corner, passing by rooms whose occupants she did not know until Gwen knew - from the position of the courtyard at her side - that she was walking in the direction of the prince’s chambers. When she rounded another corner and began climbing steps, she passed a pair of guards. For once, she met their eyes … dared to smile. Though they did not return her affection, they bowed their heads and continued on their way.
Better than nothing, she told herself as she hoisted her hem and turned on the middle platform, finishing the stair case until she emerged on Arthur’s floor. Down at the opposite end of the hallway was the statue, familiar to her as any part of the castle … the first thing she had encountered upon stumbling into her strange, new world.
Taking a calming breath, Gwen straightened and turned toward his chambers. She made it no more than three steps before Arthur’s door swung open … and a familiar, dark haired boy burst out.
Gwyneth hesitated. What smile would have blossomed on her lips was immediately frozen by the alarm on Merlin’s lips, evident even in the darkness of night. He looked wildly about in the candlelight … first at Gwen, then in the opposite direction, ensuring that they were alone. When his gaze fell upon her again, it was with pity, though he jogged toward her with some urgency.
Her chest tightened with dread. “Merlin?” she asked as she watched him hurry close, brow knitted pityingly.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” he hissed, extending a hand toward her as he slowed, glancing over his shoulder once more.
Long fingers curled over her wrist, and instinctively, Gwen dug her heels into the ground. “What happened?” she whispered. Though she kept her voice steady, her heart was off racing in an instant.
Merlin gave the slightest tug, whether pulling her forward or reassuring her with a squeeze, she could not tell. “Arthur is talking to his father-”
“You didn’t find anything out there,” she interrupted, cautious.
“No,” agreed Merlin. He tilted his head, and when he found her eyes once more, his gaze was sympathetic. “But the king has ordered him to arrest you. Guilty of witchcraft.”
She had taken a few stumbling steps forward by his urging, stepping into a pool of moonlight three windows down from Arthur’s door. But she froze, hanging her hand free of any guidance as she stared up at him, horror-stricken. “Why?”
“We’ve got to hide you, Gwen,” insisted Merlin, glancing warily past her and down the corridor. “The guards that don’t know will soon enough, and if anyone spots you-”
But fear gripped her, crushed her heart until it felt like she couldn’t breath. Suddenly something that had felt so possible, even desirable when she thought it was the easiest escape, pressed at her back. Gwen took a small step toward the wall, out of moonlight and into shadow. “… What did I do?”
Though urgency filled his voice still, Merlin took his place in the darkness. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, his eyes yet fixed on a point beyond her. “Arthur went straight to his father, to report his lack of success, but Uther handed down his order straight away.”
Against her will, Gwen’s hand flew to her mouth, fingers curling over her lips. Her eyes darted to the wall, to the place she had stumbled through days before. All she saw was smooth stone, no hint of a door or passageway. She was as damned as anyone.
In the darkness, Merlin found her hand once more. “We’ve go to hide you-”
But already, panic had set in. She strode behind him, proceeding down the hallways as though they had nothing more urgent than a bit of late night business with the prince, but Gwen knew when to be afraid. Her heart was thumping in her ears, making it hard to concentrate even as her eyes darted. “What’s there to gain in hiding?” she muttered, insincerely.
“You don’t need to be handed over,” disagreed Merlin, with a complete disregard for whatever sarcasm was laced in her objection. His grip remained tight as they slowed … something was stirring at the opposite end of the corridor.
Gwyneth had no desire to be handed over, but destiny was sometimes unavoidable. Night pressed against her eyes, granting darkness where she might otherwise have shown her tears or her terror. Merlin halted in front of her, so suddenly that she nearly barreled into him. They collided, though he held his ground, and Gwen peered past him at the shadows of another set of approaching guards, their spears creeping up the well-lit staircase.
But there was creaking, and a rush of fresh air. And Merlin’s hand, warm and dry, clutched hers. “In Arthur’s chambers,” he muttered, drawing her round as he tugged open the door until it nearly touched his nose. Between watching the growing figures of the guards, projected against the wall, and Merlin’s stock-still position behind the door, Gwen hardly had time to object. She whirled around for one last glance of Arthur’s servant, peering around the threshold with wide eyes as she stumbled through the darkness and through the door.
Through. Greeted by light.
She passed through the threshold and down a step, stumbling onto sunken ground where the floor should’ve been level. She blinked - winced - at the sudden onslaught of daylight and caught herself against the wall suddenly right before her.
Behind her, the door slammed shut; Merlin’s doing. Disoriented, she whirled around until her back was pressed against brick only to find herself staring at solid metal where wood should’ve been … painted red, with a “No Loitering” sign tacked to the center, slightly askew. It was the back door of a pub she’d visited a handful of times, once when Lance had gotten into a scuffle with some lads over whatever bollocks boys had to fight about … another when she needed to do a bit of sorrow drowning in the company of a few drunks. It was, at its best moment, a very shitty pub.
A shitty pub in Hammersmith.
On cue, someone on the road beyond the alley honked. Another car honked back in protest. Gwyneth’s chest heaved.
As jarring falling through that little door had been days ago, this felt worse. Moments ago it had been pitch-black sky and the quiet of a castle in slumber. But the heat of midday pressed against her eyes and sounds entered her consciousness: the traffic, someone yelling … laughing. The building next door was all flats, and somewhere far above, a baby cried.
Afraid that it had all been one long dream, a nightmare that secured her a place on the list of the certifiably mad, Gwen cast a long glance down and was relieved to find she was in the same clothes she’d been upon coming out the back door; the same gown she’d put on the previous day, with the golden corset and a hem that skimmed the ground.
With trembling fingers, numb from palm to tip, she reached out and grazed the silver handle. And when she was convinced that it was real - it was all real - she tugged, and pulled it open only to reveal the heavy gray of a working kitchen.
Whatever she had expected, Gwen let go, as though shocked. That quickly, Merlin and Morgana and Arthur were lost to her. Lifting her skirts, she backed away and turned toward the street.
She was not so far gone that it took her more than a minute to recognize her surroundings. It was brighter outside the sanctuary of the alley, probably one or two o’clock, given the number of people with fresh food in their hands. One quick glance into the square, and Gwen knew. Three doors down, Matilda was probably counting cash at the till; in the opposite direction at the corner, the bench she preferred to take her lunch on.
People passed her by, sparing barely a second glance despite her out-of-place dress. When she lowered her hand from her mouth, someone pressed a coin into her palm. As though she were a street performer.
The word that she dared not utter aloud rang out in her mind like a blessing and a curse at once. Home. … Though she had only just accepted that it might be something far different than what she had long imagined. She’d been preparing to adjust, and here she was, thrust upon her world again. Only when another stranger dropped something pityingly into her palm did she snap out of her reverie.
Ten minutes and a few wrong turns later, Gwen was climbing the stairs toward her flat, taking them two at a time as she held her dress high enough to spring without tripping. Beads of sweat formed beneath the loose curls that carved delicate shapes into her brow.
The fluorescent lights - and even the sky, now overcast, visible through the small stairwell windows - all felt utterly unfamiliar, like relics of an ancient age. She slowed as she scaled the last few steps, catching her breath as she approached her own door. She gripped the knob and paused resting her forehead against the paint as she scratched absently at the keyhole and remembered she hadn’t taken anything with her, had nothing more than the clothes on her back.
But she turned it nonetheless, and it gave way, creaking inward and open.
She stood, frozen in the threshold. Her coat hung from the closet knob. One slipper - she didn’t know where the other was - hung by the wall close to the door to the loo. There were no lights on, but she could hear the telly yammering in the living room.
… And at the end of the hallway, Lance looked up at her from his spot, hunched over on her couch. He stared, stupefied and horrified and very, very relieved. He rose slowly, until the angle of the light cast shadows beneath dark eyes, and her heart ached for him.
So Gwen said the only thing she could think of. “I’m sorry,” she announced before stepping through the doorway, the sound of her slippers light and foreign on linoleum.
Even from such a distance, she could see him working his jaw, holding in whatever deserved response he had prepared for something more even. Though she had not thought of him often, Gwyneth was suddenly very glad to see him and his handsome, worried face.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated dully, and before he could speak, Gwen was on him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as she pulled herself tight against him and held fast. Her face was buried in his shoulder. As always, he smelled like her favorite soap and the damned cologne she hated so much; Gwyneth could not have been more grateful. “Very, very sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he mumbled, and when she did not let go, his arms wrapped around her back, reached for her hair, stroking the tresses until his fingers curled into the base of her neck.
But everything was rushing at her, the present and the past few days … and the threat that had for a moment been her future, a future being burnt at the stake by Uther or worse. It all pressed against her consciousness, and she squeezed him tighter before pulling back enough to meet his eye. “I really do.”
Lancelot glanced down between them, still holding her at the waist. When he met her eyes again, he looked upon her with the rare hint of anger. “Seventy-six texts.”
Gwen eased her way out of his grip and cast a long glance around her living room. It was full of light, almost precisely as she’d left it, though a blanket was bunched on one end of the sofa and a match was on the television. Her mind was spinning. “How did you get in?” she asked suddenly, and instantly bit her tongue.
His brow furrowed. “Spare key, remember?”
“Oh.” She hadn’t. “Right.”
His lips formed a neat line, and he lowered her to the ground once more. “… Is that all?”
“Yes-” Gwen shifted awkwardly beneath his gaze, wiping her free palm against her dress, leaving a slightly dirty stain on the bodice. “Er, no. … But I really need to brush my teeth.”
Before Lance could object, she’d turned away from him, blew past her bedroom and into the darkened bathroom. Nervously, she fumbled for the light switch, then fixed her gaze on her toothbrush.
Less easily deterred than he often was, he appeared in the door frame - and the mirror - as she ran water over a dollop of Aquafresh and started brushing, furiously, methodically.
“You not going to say where you’ve been?” he asked slowly, gripping the panel as he watched her spit and put more toothpaste on the brush.
Where I’ve been. Gwen spat again. “I wouldn’t know how to explain it.”
“Well you’ve got to say something,” he disagreed, easing around until he flicked the cover of the toilet down and took a seat, staring up at her as she brushed, spat, and added more toothpaste. She had no mouthwash; that was going to be a problem.
When she didn’t answer, Lancelot reached for her dress, giving a gentle tug at her side. “I told your boss you were ill-”
Gwen reached her palm under the running faucet, taking a swig of the fresh water and spitting again. “That was nice of you-”
“Didn’t want you to lose your job.”
She twisted the knob, licked her teeth and hovered over the bowl for a long moment, casting a long glance his way. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“Yeah, well … It’s not every day someone disappears.”
Blushing anxiously, Gwyneth turned away from him, gently pulling out of his grip as she reached for a hand towel to dab her mouth dry. Disappearing was an easy way to think of it … a very easy out. And that was it for him, wasn’t it? She bit down slightly on the fabric, taking a long moment to stare at the wall and think.
She was gone, and now she was home. The perfect end to a very strange story.
It should’ve satisfied her.
The toilet seat creaked a little as Lance shifted his weight, then stood. “You scared me.”
Guilt twisted in her stomach, like a knot. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled into the towel, then turned to face him again. He had more stubble than usual, but then he always put off shaving when he was worried. Gwen glanced out the door and at her regular coat. “If it helps,” she offered, “I didn’t know I was going to be gone so long.”
“It doesn’t really,” he admitted, but when Gwyneth looked upon him again, she saw the beginnings of a smile on his face. “You can make it up to me at the pub, though.”
“The pub.”
“My treat.” He ducked his head and shrugged, still bewildered. “Aren’t you hungry?”
For a beat, she stared at him. Everything was suddenly very normal. She was her and he was Lance, and they had their way around each other. Gwen felt herself nod before she could tell whether the pit in her stomach was hunger or something else. “Sure,” she mumbled, appreciative and ambivalent.
He nodded again, and sidestepped past her through the door. “I’ll … give you a moment. To get changed, or whatever it is you need to do.”
But before she could thank him, or insist that she didn’t need to change, that maybe it was best she had some food and a drink now, or say that she didn’t feel very hungry but it would be nice to watch the match and just think a while … her eyes caught the spot that he’d been blocking where he stood. On the wall, hovering just above the center of her tub, four dark lines creating a small, neat square in the wall. It was the proper size for a child, more than a little tight for an adult. But Gwen had slim shoulders and a penchant for making poor decisions, and she was a little nosy.
How quickly circumstances could overwhelm the mind; how keen she had been to forget.
They would be looking for her.
When she reappeared in the living room, Lance had been flipping idly through the channels, his leg jiggling as he tapped his phone on his knee. It took a moment to notice her silent entrance, and when he looked up at her, he was wide-eyed and weary. “What?”
This is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. “You’re not going to be happy about this,” Gwyneth announced, her hands balled into fists at either side, a sad smile pressing her lips upward. “… I’ve got to go, again.”
Lancelot blinked. “Where?”
“Back. To where I was.”
“… And where was that?”
“Sort of far away.” She paused, and reconsidered. “Very far.”
Tossing away the remote, Lance sighed and wiped his palm on his thigh, searching for an answer he would never find in Gwen’s face. “Why don’t we just sit down-”
“No,” she replied promptly, and a swell of delirious, apologetic laughter threatened to escape her. “No, there are people who will be looking for me, so I’ve got to be going. Soon.”
“I was looking for you.”
“I know. And I love that about you, and there’s no way that this is … anything less than terribly selfish, and very shitty. You’re … so good to me. But this is something I have to do.”
Confusion gave way to something else, something far sadder between them. Lancelot shifted his weight, glancing at his feet before he met her eye once more. Though she wanted to give him whatever moment he needed, she could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen … time spinning here and there. “… You’re talking like this is forever. Or something.”
Gwen’s lips twitched into a remorseful smile. “I don’t need to be looked after anymore.”
“Gwen,” He approached her, beseeching. “I promised your dad-”
“I made some promises too,” she interrupted gently. “A few more than you did.”
When that seemed insufficient, Gwen turned and ducked into her bedroom. The shades were drawn and the light remained dim, but she went straight for her nightstand, feeling around in the darkness for her mobile. It only had half a battery left, but that was enough … there were no satellites to speak of anyway. With the same familiarity, she reached for her dresser and pulled open the top drawer, bypassing bras and knickers for the small box at the back. Lancelot watched from the doorway as she stuck her mother and father’s wedding bands on her middle finger, stacking them delicately past the knuckle.
She turned back to face him, holding her phone high. “If I have reception,” she announced, closing the door behind her, “I’ll call you.”
“Gwen-”
“Lance.” Without hesitation, she pressed her free palm into his cheek. She was resolved, as resolved as she had ever been about anything, and her heart fluttered wildly in her chest as she rose onto her toes and pressed a long kiss into his cheek. “I’m going to do this,” Gwyneth murmured with as much finality she could summon, and when she pulled back to look at him, he gave no sign of understanding other than remorseful acceptance. “But you should go to the pub.”
He nodded slowly, and she stroked his rough cheek one last time. “So I can’t change your mind is what you’re saying.”
Her heart only raced faster as she shook her head. “No.” When she found his eyes again, they were rooted to a spot on the ground; Gwen wondered if she had ever caused him greater hurt than now. She had put him through the paces, to be sure … but she’d never had cause to lie to him. And where she withheld, he had shared more of himself - had always shared more of himself - to compensate. Gwen cupped his cheeks between warm palms, forcing him gently to meet her gaze. “You changed me forever, you know.” She paused, willing him to understand what she could not tell him. “Do you believe that?”
When no words formed on his lips, she kissed his cheek again and hugged him one last time. “Call Elaine again,” Gwen mumbled into his shirt, and his arms wrapped tighter around her. “She’s clever, and she’s funny, and she likes footie more than me.”
“It won’t be weird?” he asked, disbelieving.
Of this, Gwen was more certain than ever. “Not at all.”
His mouth fell to her hair. “Why should I?” he asked, barely audible as he took what moments she was willing to grant him.
“Because you deserve to be happy too.”
… He said nothing. But she let him kiss her forehead, and promised to call if she could.
And minutes later, she was on her hands and knees, going through the looking glass again.
Part Five
Author: imigination
Pairings/Characters: Arthur, Gwen, Merlin, Morgana, Uther, Tom, Lancelot, Arthur/Gwen, minor Gwen/Lancelot
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 46,000
Warning: Modern AU/Canon crossover, based loosely on Lost in Austen.
Disclaimer: I have few Earthly possessions, and Merlin certainly isn’t one of them.
Summary: When a modern day Gwen takes a tumble through her crawlspace door, she discovers what truly lies on the other side of the looking glass.
Art Link: The incredibly talented shan_3414 made graphics and an accompanying fanmix for this story, and I couldn’t be more grateful. You can find them here; please, show her some love! ♥
Author’s Notes: No amount of words I could put here would do justice to the thanks that are due to so many people, so please take a moment to peek here to see those to whom I owe infinite gratitude.
Once again, the familiar pang of hunger stirred her from distraction … at the present, a book, thin and light and mostly unintelligible from the bowels of her wardrobe. Most of the words meant nothing to Gwyneth, but since rest did not come easily, it was something … a distraction where the sunrise was too slow to entertain.
She felt hunger from deep within her and turned, splayed inelegantly across her bed with the folds of her skirt flipped up around her to cast a long eye at her table’s contents. Over the course of her few days in Camelot, she’d picked through what little had been in her fruit bowl, and the empty plates from her dinner with Arthur had long disappeared. With no servant of her own, she hardly expected food to appear and disappear at her whim, but she had remained stowed away for a reason.
Uther’s apparent cordiality in conversation did nothing to dissuade her of the suspicion she saw in his eye. It served her right; self-scorn was easier to cop to than anxiety, as boredom was to fear. Without the helpful hand of someone who understood her peculiar circumstances, she could do with a little more solitude.
But the first flutter of light across her floor meant that day was only beginning. Outside her door she heard nothing: not the soft muttering of servants, or the patter of feet or the distant sounds of court being held. There was only the quiet before the dawn, and the din, and the castle’s daily business.
There was no harm in taking advantage of the hour.
Stiff from having laid still so many hours, Gwen stretched - all feline - and crawled her way to the edge of her mattress, sliding off backward to plant bare feet on cool stone. There were many things to get used to, the inconsistent and oft-alternating hot and cool of the castle among them. Rubbing tired eyes, she slipped her toes under the edge of her bed until she hooked her shoes.
Indeed, even with the sun crawling its way up over the horizon, lighting the trees and Arthur’s party graciously, the palace remained notably quiet. In the chaos of her time spent there, she had not once been caught utterly alone … even in the beginning the passing guard turned an eye upon her, or a scullery maid, or Merlin. Checking over her shoulder that Uther did not lurk behind some nearby post, she began her descent with the vaguest impression of the castle plan in mind.
Just follow the smell of baking bread, Gwyneth, she reminded herself playfully as soon as her nose caught the blessed scent. It did waft from somewhere … somewhere to the right, and she followed it, like a cloud in the air that beckoned to her, passing things she was beginning to recognize as familiar: the great statue of a griffon, the tarp of what must’ve been the household crest, this one faded and a little frayed in a spot that she doubted Uther or Arthur ever noticed.
She descended staircase after staircase, until she knew, though there were no windows to affirm her belief, that she was passing lower than the banquet hall, or the council chambers, or the courtyard. As the smell grew stronger the warm swaddle of darkness once again enveloped her. The dim and narrow stairwell ended in a light that ended like a beacon, bright and welcoming.
The light revealed a trio of small shoulders sloped in deference to an older woman at the hearth. Nothing about their conversation, the energy of their speech or the speed of their hands as they cooked suggested early morning. No, though the kitchen was not quite as bustling with life as she imagined the staff of a castle this size might require, there was already laughter and the hum of approval as the matron ticked off a mixture of gossip and sound wisdom.
“… Hi,” piped up Gwen after a few moments of eavesdropping, feeling at once like an old friend and a terribly offensive guest for listening in on what was not her conversation. Four pairs of eyes abandoned their work, mid-chop, mid-knead. Four pairs of eyes settled on her, flickering in the firelight. Gwyneth blushed a dusky peach, bathed in the same stuff they worked in. “Pardon me, I’m so sorry.” She curtsied dutifully, apologetically. Deeply.
But when she looked up again, it was the women who remained with heads bowed, craning their necks as they wiped their hands dry on aprons and reached for their skirts. Gwen cringed immediately, increasingly ashamed that she had bothered to interrupt them in the first place. “Oh, no!” she gasped, waving a hand as she took two pleading steps forward, “Please, none of that.”
The eldest rose first, elegant to Gwen’s indiscriminant eye. Her face, though slightly weary, held no trace of anger. “We’re sorry, ma’am-” and Gwyneth’s shame only worsened. The woman by the fire had to be nearly double Gwen’s age. This was no kind of respect she wanted. “-Is there something we might do for you?”
Her heart fluttered in her chest; she was as ready to retreat as she was prepared to make her request at the surprised look she received from the other young ladies, closer in her age. “Um …” Gwen licked her lips slowly, wracking her mind. What did you come for?
Another, like Miriam in stature but with her features pulled into a more genuine smile than Morgana’s handmaiden often had for her, spoke first. “Did you not sleep well, my lady?”
Right. “Yes!” exclaimed Gwyneth, re-struck by her initial idea. “I was just a bit hungry … but I can wait, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Not at all, my lady,” the girl answered, bowing her head until a few strands of red hair masked her vision. When she looked up again, she smiled, “Will that be all?”
Guilt still tickled Gwen’s insides. “… I can prepare it myself-”
The older woman by the fire could not hold in her shocked huff, and she hid whatever expression came with it by turning her back and returning to her seat by her baking. But the younger girl who spoke to Gwen first shook her head tolerantly. “… I’m happy to do it, miss.”
Discomfort remained in the pit of her stomach. “Shall I wait here?”
“Your ladyship would likely be more comfortable eating in your private quarters. I’ll prepare something straight away and bring it to you, if you prefer.”
Gwen smiled weakly. “I don’t prefer it.”
“But it is … customary.”
Her smile of resignation was small but genuine at the girl’s insistence. “Okay …” her gaze lingered in as expectant a gesture she was ever wont to give. Under Gwyneth’s gaze, she shifted until the silence spoke of her meaning.
“Rosaline,” she supplied, her faint blush apparent even in the firelight.
Gwen blushed no less than her, equally embarrassed by her bumbling understanding of the ‘rules.’ “Thanks, then.” She turned slowly away, watching over her shoulder as Rosaline and the only other that remained standing curtsied - for the third young woman had silently returned to work while the awkward conversation preceded - awaiting Gwen’s departure. But with her foot on the first step, she paused and turned again in time to see Rosaline’s compatriot pass her a platter. “… Do you need to know where I’m staying?”
Rosaline smiled benevolently again and rolled her shoulders, whether amused or a little fed up, Gwen would never know. “No, my lady. I’ll be right after you.”
It would take time, getting used to such treatment. Neither accustomed to nor particularly comfortable with the idea of servants doing things for her - things she was perfectly capable, nay prided herself at having mastered - it took all her will to silence the protest on her tongue. But Gwyneth curtsied away her anxieties for the moment and hurried out before their laugher chased her away, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
I should talk to Morgana, she thought absently as she climbed, peering over her shoulder at the kitchen door as she staged her retreat. The king’s ward would know the ins and outs of appropriate behavior better than anyone, and Gwen imagined it would benefit her just as much to know that she had Gwyneth’s absolute faith.
Pleased with her next plan of action, Gwen hopped lightly up onto the top step and smiled. Under Morgana’s instruction, she could deter Uther’s eye. Lost in thought as to how she might phrase her reveal to her newest confidante, she turned automatically to the right, back toward her chambers … and nearly mowed down another courtier.
With her head bowed, she bumped shoulders with a gentleman. He was taller than her, but not by much, and something narrow and heavy protruded from his grip: sword and scabbard, no doubt. Though it struck her ribs and hurt, Gwen stepped back immediately to apologize. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, ignoring the low throb in her side where she’d been poked.
“It’s I should be apologizing, my lady,” came a reply of the warmest baritone, a voice that had more than once lulled her to sleep as it sang and spun tales of nonsense, coaxing little eyes shut with words.
Gwyneth stiffened at once, suddenly pained in a very different way. She watched, slightly horrified, as her father’s salt and pepper head bowed to her, the hint of a smile playing upon his lips as he adjusted the bouquet of swords in his arms.
What comfort she had taken in Arthur’s company, what thoughts she had managed to redirect in concern for Morgana’s kept secret or the king’s suspicion buckled under the weight of Tom’s proximity. Time slowed, and Gwen struggled for purchase - and voice - as she watched him rise again, humbly, and step around her … carrying on his way.
Away from her.
Though there were tears that threatened to come - again, Gwen? Not again - his back was enough to prompt her to speak. She had, after all, imagined such a moment. In the nights after his passing, when she slept on Lancelot’s couch where she could be lonely but not so alone, Gwyneth dreamt of having one more moment with her dad, prematurely taken. In her dreams, he came to her knowingly, said the things to get her to speak, reassured her where he knew she needed his assurance.
“Where are you going?” She blurted her question, sudden heat flooding her face as Tom strode away from her, threatening to step out into the courtyard and away from her forever.
He froze, mid-step, and though her mind was racing too fast to formulate coherent thoughts, a pang of regret forced its way through to the forefront at his weary look.
He thinks I’m going to reprimand him. Gwen’s stomach churned and dropped; she had never felt so low. Beseechingly, she took a tentative step toward him, reaching vaguely toward his bundle. “I could help you carry those.”
In his cheek, a familiar dimple appeared. His smile was slight, generous, and bewildered. “I would never think to trouble you, my lady-”
“It’s no trouble,” she murmured, slowing her approach. She had denied the reality of so much that she had experienced in the castle thus far. Now, for the first time, she was afraid of being correct.
Gwen ran a hand across the stone wall, reassuring herself with the cool, rough surface beneath her palm. In front of her, her father cast a long look back toward the entrance to the kitchens, shifting his weight as he faced Gwen head on. “Is there something I might help you with?” he asked after a moment.
However she might have recognized him, the feeling was evidently not mutual. Rather than further heartbreak, it relieved her to know as much. With trembling hands, Gwyneth extended her arms again, palms upturned. “I bumped into you,” she mumbled, the crinkling between her brows deepening, “I’d like to help.”
He shifted again beneath the weight of Gwen’s gaze. He saw a lady of the court gone daft. She saw the look of a man torn between handing down a punishment for getting cheeky and laughing at the nature of her insolence.
But he wasn’t just her father. He was a man of his century, a blacksmith, and she was a courtier. Tom cleared his throat and hesitantly extended a sheathed sword in her direction. “My lady-” his brow furrowed, a perfect mirror of her own expression, “-I’m just taking these home for some work, and it’s quite early. No doubt you have better things to attend to than the duties of a porter.”
In the same measured tone with which she’d addressed the king the day before, Gwen chose her words carefully … tipping her chin up as she had the first time she asked to borrow his car, and the time she had to accept punishment for returning it home late. “I’m a guest here in Camelot,” she replied slowly, “I do things the way they’re seen fit in my own court.”
With a skeptical look and a relenting sigh, he released the weight of the sword into her open hands. Gwen’s fingers curled around its leather encasing.
When a last lingering look did nothing to undo the determined fashion with which Gwen faced her father, Tom’s shoulders slumped and gave way to protocol. He could turn her away no more than she could allow him to, and so they stepped into the desolate morning courtyard side by side, each holding weapons defensively against their chests. For a long while, their was only the sound of their footsteps … the light patter of Gwen’s slippers and the soft rustling of her gown, still unfamiliar to her ear, and the slightly lumbering cadence of Tom’s boots taking one step for her every two.
They passed through the castle gates without a second look from the two guards stationed there, whose eyes were trained in the direction of the half-risen sun. As fast as her mind was working - speak, Gwen, speak! - her mouth refused to form words … stuck, pursed, afraid to offend him though she’d already pushed his boundaries.
Thankfully, Tom had the decency to speak first. “If you do not mind my asking, what court do you hail from, Lady …?”
“Gwyneth,” she supplied. Though he kept his eyes trained forward as they stepped off the trail of stone and onto dirt road. “And I come from Hammersmith.” Gwen swallowed, paused. “Are you familiar with it?”
He smiled, and for a fleeting moment Gwyneth dared to hope that memories were flooding back to him. Memories of her, or their life together, or his own life … precious as it was. But his warm gaze fell upon her and told her: “No.”
For a second time, wetness pressed against her eyes, though she dared not let it spill over. “You would like it,” she replied softly, forcing herself to look away though she wanted to spend every possible moment watching him.
Tom smiled. “Do they have need of a blacksmith?”
She thought of him as she remembered him, not in Hammersmith but back in Manchester, working on cars, returning home with greasy hands. “No,” she mumbled, shifting the blade between her palms, “But someone with similar talents.”
Whatever note of sadness lingered in her voice, Tom disregarded, chuckling warmly as he urged her to make a turn with a nod. “I do not have many other talents,” he corrected gently, looking down at Gwen with an affection that she had long missed, “And I could not abandon Camelot.”
She had not meant it literally, had no intention of bringing him back with her … if going back was at all a possibility. But her heart sank to hear him say it, to hear that he was rooted to this nonsense and not to her. Though the question formed on her tongue immediately, she spoke it with some measure of hear. “Is it because you have a family here?” asked Gwen, turning as much as she could while they walked.
The pair - father and daughter, centuries removed - rounded another corner … and suddenly Gwen’s vision was awash with sunlight. It scarred her vision, left whatever sadness manifested in Tom’s face a flickering glimmer. When a house blocked it out, his smile was resolute and even. “I do not.”
Gwyneth slowed, tripping slightly over her own hem as she tried to imagine such a lonely life for her old man. Tom, too, stopped short, courteous enough to wait on her.
“I’m sorry, sire,” she started, shaking her head, “I thought you might.”
She anticipated a certain familiar sadness, but what she saw was light. Tom tipped his head skyward as he slowed, allowing Gwen to catch up. “I had a wife. … And a little daughter. But they were both taken from me.”
Her stomach churned. “Taken?”
“As is the world.” Tom straightened his back and cast a long glance toward the awning over what Gwen already could recognize as his home, like something she’d seen in dreams many times, though she had seen it in person only once. “We are not all blessed to know our loved ones forever.”
Her tongue felt heavy as she sought to form her words. “Indeed,” Gwyneth agreed, pausing close to the post in front of the Leodegrance household. It was humble … as their flat had been. The same saddle he’d been working on the day before lay draped over a stool, drying in the daylight.
Her father edged into the space between Gwen and the shade of his doorstep, gazing upon her with something like pity. “I know that look,” he murmured, raising an eyebrow as he leaned his quarry against the wall.
The burst of laughter that escaped her lips was harsh and foreign to her own ear. “Do you?”
“Everyone who’s lost someone knows that look.” Tom plucked a dry, half-formed bud off a hanging bushel of lavender. “But it’s a sadness we all must face one day.”
Eyes burning once more, Gwen gripped the sword in her hands a little tighter. “Sometimes it’s too soon.” As though a day hadn’t passed between them, she deftly avoided his gaze, fixing her eyes upon the hilt resting against her chest.
“Aye, too soon,” he agreed, twirling the dead flower between his fingers. “There’s not a day I don’t miss my wife. … And not a minute I do not regret not knowing my Guinevere.”
Her smile was watery as she watched him place the flower on the ledge between them. Gwen traded him the sword for it, delicately taking it into her open palm. “How do you carry on?” she mumbled, staring at the scratched fabric of his coat. His smile was unfathomable, inconceivable to her. He was alone in the world, as she was.
Tom hoisted the sword onto his shoulder, and once again Gwen sensed him looking at a place far above her, though she dared not meet his gaze. “I remember that I have much more life in me,” he confessed after a moment, earnest. “What is there, but to carry on and live?” He paused long enough to catch the defiant gaze flaring in the corner of her eye. “They do not die that you should spend the rest of your life mourning.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw him once more … not as he was now, but resting, false somber, in his casket. So many people had wept around her. Yet before her, Tom smiled upon her with empathy … and understanding. Living was the difficult, and necessary, option; he knew as well as she did.
A petulant, sour wave washed over her even as Gwen gave him a small smile, sad and sincere. “They make you miss them.”
“The missing is loneliness,” agreed Tom. He slid the blade down once more, until he held it at the center of its weight, teetering it in his palm until it tipped too far one way, and fell against the outer banister. “But there’s room for more than one in the heart.”
She forced a smile, weak though it was. “I don’t believe you gave me your name, sire.”
He shifted his shoulders, laughing deferentially. “You may call me Tom, my lady. Though I’m afraid I would not be known as ‘sire,’ even in your Hammersmith.”
“And there I would not be a ‘Lady.’”
“Yet here, you are. … And I confess, Lady Gwyneth, I’ve got to be getting on with my day.”
As others were. Out the corner of her eye, a pair of front windows snapped open, not quite beckoning but certainly available for business. A gentleman passed into her vision, trailed by a pig. Rosaline had most certainly delivered her food by now. And Tom was bowing … unnecessarily.
“… I’m very interested in your trade,” Gwen announced, too loud, gripping his flower tightly. “I hope you’ll permit me to … come around. Once or twice.”
At least the tilt of his head was curious rather than dubious. “It’s not the business of ladies,” he admitted, “But perhaps things are different where you come from.”
Her chest heaved as she rolled her neck and tugged at her skirts, falling far lower than Tom had. “They are,” she mumbled, unable to distinguish for herself whether those words were heartbroken or happy. Looking back up into brown eyes, alight and amused, she surmised she felt the latter. “Thank you.” Here he was slightly grayer, had the lines of past sorrow etched into his face where her Tom had retained his youth, despite his sudden turn. But he was kind and his voice was a comfort, and he did not seem to find her request particularly disagreeable.
The sun beamed brightly on her back as she traced her retreat.
*
The rest of her day was spent in contemplation. Though she twice considered departing from her chambers to visit Morgana, Gwen could not summon enough will to move, lost in thought over her previous encounter. She nibbled at the food Rosaline brought her: first, breakfast … then dutifully, lunch and dinner, each time with a receptive smile and curious tilt of her lips.
She was grateful not to encounter the king, or anyone else, as the candles in her chambers burned to waxen stumps and she watched the sun fall behind the neighboring forest’s trees. And when she blew them out and fell back upon her bed without taking off her gown - she was still slightly unclear on what constituted nightwear - she fixed her eyes upon the ceiling of her four poster and wished for some clarity on all manner of things … Tom, and her station and her friends, and Arthur.
Hours later, when darkness had spread across her room, enveloping her in the inky blue of midnight, Gwyneth stirred at the sound of horse hooves on cobblestone.
… But then, she had never really fallen asleep. Not exactly. Bent in a misshapen arc, twisted over the side of the mattress with her face buried between two pillows, Gwyneth had allowed herself the slightest reprieve as she continued her vigil. And now, she blinked through the blackness at the moonlight sky as a clamor erupted in the courtyard below.
Arthur and Merlin were among a chorus of riders; that much she could tell immediately. The clatter drew her from her place, unwrapping herself from half-drawn covers, beckoning her to the window. Sure enough, there were two familiar figures amidst the flurry of red capes dismounting from their horses. Without hesitation, the glint of silver took off toward the staircase, disappearing within moments through the main doorways, a slim lad on his heels.
Without hesitation, Gwen stole away from the window, reaching for the corset she’d cast aside hours ago. With little struggle, she eased it over her shoulders and back around her bust, tightening its strings as she padded around in the dark for her shoes. Her conversation with Uther may not have been fruitful, and her encounter with her father odd … but there was comfort to be found somewhere in this world, and she had much to share. Her toe found the soft leather of her slippers, and she slid them on as she tightened the golden outer layer of her borrowed garment.
Soon, Gwyneth was closing her bedroom door gently behind her, careful not to attract too much attention though the hallway outside her chambers remained deserted. Twisting her hair into an uneven knot as she walked, she turned and descended a staircase toward the center of the castle, heading in the direction of Arthur’s quarters. Though her cheeks flushed at the thought, she knew she needed only see him for a moment to feel reassured; in his absence, it felt as though the very foundation of Camelot shifted beneath her feet.
Light footsteps danced their way down the staircase and rounded a darkened corner, passing by rooms whose occupants she did not know until Gwen knew - from the position of the courtyard at her side - that she was walking in the direction of the prince’s chambers. When she rounded another corner and began climbing steps, she passed a pair of guards. For once, she met their eyes … dared to smile. Though they did not return her affection, they bowed their heads and continued on their way.
Better than nothing, she told herself as she hoisted her hem and turned on the middle platform, finishing the stair case until she emerged on Arthur’s floor. Down at the opposite end of the hallway was the statue, familiar to her as any part of the castle … the first thing she had encountered upon stumbling into her strange, new world.
Taking a calming breath, Gwen straightened and turned toward his chambers. She made it no more than three steps before Arthur’s door swung open … and a familiar, dark haired boy burst out.
Gwyneth hesitated. What smile would have blossomed on her lips was immediately frozen by the alarm on Merlin’s lips, evident even in the darkness of night. He looked wildly about in the candlelight … first at Gwen, then in the opposite direction, ensuring that they were alone. When his gaze fell upon her again, it was with pity, though he jogged toward her with some urgency.
Her chest tightened with dread. “Merlin?” she asked as she watched him hurry close, brow knitted pityingly.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” he hissed, extending a hand toward her as he slowed, glancing over his shoulder once more.
Long fingers curled over her wrist, and instinctively, Gwen dug her heels into the ground. “What happened?” she whispered. Though she kept her voice steady, her heart was off racing in an instant.
Merlin gave the slightest tug, whether pulling her forward or reassuring her with a squeeze, she could not tell. “Arthur is talking to his father-”
“You didn’t find anything out there,” she interrupted, cautious.
“No,” agreed Merlin. He tilted his head, and when he found her eyes once more, his gaze was sympathetic. “But the king has ordered him to arrest you. Guilty of witchcraft.”
She had taken a few stumbling steps forward by his urging, stepping into a pool of moonlight three windows down from Arthur’s door. But she froze, hanging her hand free of any guidance as she stared up at him, horror-stricken. “Why?”
“We’ve got to hide you, Gwen,” insisted Merlin, glancing warily past her and down the corridor. “The guards that don’t know will soon enough, and if anyone spots you-”
But fear gripped her, crushed her heart until it felt like she couldn’t breath. Suddenly something that had felt so possible, even desirable when she thought it was the easiest escape, pressed at her back. Gwen took a small step toward the wall, out of moonlight and into shadow. “… What did I do?”
Though urgency filled his voice still, Merlin took his place in the darkness. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, his eyes yet fixed on a point beyond her. “Arthur went straight to his father, to report his lack of success, but Uther handed down his order straight away.”
Against her will, Gwen’s hand flew to her mouth, fingers curling over her lips. Her eyes darted to the wall, to the place she had stumbled through days before. All she saw was smooth stone, no hint of a door or passageway. She was as damned as anyone.
In the darkness, Merlin found her hand once more. “We’ve go to hide you-”
But already, panic had set in. She strode behind him, proceeding down the hallways as though they had nothing more urgent than a bit of late night business with the prince, but Gwen knew when to be afraid. Her heart was thumping in her ears, making it hard to concentrate even as her eyes darted. “What’s there to gain in hiding?” she muttered, insincerely.
“You don’t need to be handed over,” disagreed Merlin, with a complete disregard for whatever sarcasm was laced in her objection. His grip remained tight as they slowed … something was stirring at the opposite end of the corridor.
Gwyneth had no desire to be handed over, but destiny was sometimes unavoidable. Night pressed against her eyes, granting darkness where she might otherwise have shown her tears or her terror. Merlin halted in front of her, so suddenly that she nearly barreled into him. They collided, though he held his ground, and Gwen peered past him at the shadows of another set of approaching guards, their spears creeping up the well-lit staircase.
But there was creaking, and a rush of fresh air. And Merlin’s hand, warm and dry, clutched hers. “In Arthur’s chambers,” he muttered, drawing her round as he tugged open the door until it nearly touched his nose. Between watching the growing figures of the guards, projected against the wall, and Merlin’s stock-still position behind the door, Gwen hardly had time to object. She whirled around for one last glance of Arthur’s servant, peering around the threshold with wide eyes as she stumbled through the darkness and through the door.
Through. Greeted by light.
She passed through the threshold and down a step, stumbling onto sunken ground where the floor should’ve been level. She blinked - winced - at the sudden onslaught of daylight and caught herself against the wall suddenly right before her.
Behind her, the door slammed shut; Merlin’s doing. Disoriented, she whirled around until her back was pressed against brick only to find herself staring at solid metal where wood should’ve been … painted red, with a “No Loitering” sign tacked to the center, slightly askew. It was the back door of a pub she’d visited a handful of times, once when Lance had gotten into a scuffle with some lads over whatever bollocks boys had to fight about … another when she needed to do a bit of sorrow drowning in the company of a few drunks. It was, at its best moment, a very shitty pub.
A shitty pub in Hammersmith.
On cue, someone on the road beyond the alley honked. Another car honked back in protest. Gwyneth’s chest heaved.
As jarring falling through that little door had been days ago, this felt worse. Moments ago it had been pitch-black sky and the quiet of a castle in slumber. But the heat of midday pressed against her eyes and sounds entered her consciousness: the traffic, someone yelling … laughing. The building next door was all flats, and somewhere far above, a baby cried.
Afraid that it had all been one long dream, a nightmare that secured her a place on the list of the certifiably mad, Gwen cast a long glance down and was relieved to find she was in the same clothes she’d been upon coming out the back door; the same gown she’d put on the previous day, with the golden corset and a hem that skimmed the ground.
With trembling fingers, numb from palm to tip, she reached out and grazed the silver handle. And when she was convinced that it was real - it was all real - she tugged, and pulled it open only to reveal the heavy gray of a working kitchen.
Whatever she had expected, Gwen let go, as though shocked. That quickly, Merlin and Morgana and Arthur were lost to her. Lifting her skirts, she backed away and turned toward the street.
She was not so far gone that it took her more than a minute to recognize her surroundings. It was brighter outside the sanctuary of the alley, probably one or two o’clock, given the number of people with fresh food in their hands. One quick glance into the square, and Gwen knew. Three doors down, Matilda was probably counting cash at the till; in the opposite direction at the corner, the bench she preferred to take her lunch on.
People passed her by, sparing barely a second glance despite her out-of-place dress. When she lowered her hand from her mouth, someone pressed a coin into her palm. As though she were a street performer.
The word that she dared not utter aloud rang out in her mind like a blessing and a curse at once. Home. … Though she had only just accepted that it might be something far different than what she had long imagined. She’d been preparing to adjust, and here she was, thrust upon her world again. Only when another stranger dropped something pityingly into her palm did she snap out of her reverie.
Ten minutes and a few wrong turns later, Gwen was climbing the stairs toward her flat, taking them two at a time as she held her dress high enough to spring without tripping. Beads of sweat formed beneath the loose curls that carved delicate shapes into her brow.
The fluorescent lights - and even the sky, now overcast, visible through the small stairwell windows - all felt utterly unfamiliar, like relics of an ancient age. She slowed as she scaled the last few steps, catching her breath as she approached her own door. She gripped the knob and paused resting her forehead against the paint as she scratched absently at the keyhole and remembered she hadn’t taken anything with her, had nothing more than the clothes on her back.
But she turned it nonetheless, and it gave way, creaking inward and open.
She stood, frozen in the threshold. Her coat hung from the closet knob. One slipper - she didn’t know where the other was - hung by the wall close to the door to the loo. There were no lights on, but she could hear the telly yammering in the living room.
… And at the end of the hallway, Lance looked up at her from his spot, hunched over on her couch. He stared, stupefied and horrified and very, very relieved. He rose slowly, until the angle of the light cast shadows beneath dark eyes, and her heart ached for him.
So Gwen said the only thing she could think of. “I’m sorry,” she announced before stepping through the doorway, the sound of her slippers light and foreign on linoleum.
Even from such a distance, she could see him working his jaw, holding in whatever deserved response he had prepared for something more even. Though she had not thought of him often, Gwyneth was suddenly very glad to see him and his handsome, worried face.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated dully, and before he could speak, Gwen was on him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as she pulled herself tight against him and held fast. Her face was buried in his shoulder. As always, he smelled like her favorite soap and the damned cologne she hated so much; Gwyneth could not have been more grateful. “Very, very sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he mumbled, and when she did not let go, his arms wrapped around her back, reached for her hair, stroking the tresses until his fingers curled into the base of her neck.
But everything was rushing at her, the present and the past few days … and the threat that had for a moment been her future, a future being burnt at the stake by Uther or worse. It all pressed against her consciousness, and she squeezed him tighter before pulling back enough to meet his eye. “I really do.”
Lancelot glanced down between them, still holding her at the waist. When he met her eyes again, he looked upon her with the rare hint of anger. “Seventy-six texts.”
Gwen eased her way out of his grip and cast a long glance around her living room. It was full of light, almost precisely as she’d left it, though a blanket was bunched on one end of the sofa and a match was on the television. Her mind was spinning. “How did you get in?” she asked suddenly, and instantly bit her tongue.
His brow furrowed. “Spare key, remember?”
“Oh.” She hadn’t. “Right.”
His lips formed a neat line, and he lowered her to the ground once more. “… Is that all?”
“Yes-” Gwen shifted awkwardly beneath his gaze, wiping her free palm against her dress, leaving a slightly dirty stain on the bodice. “Er, no. … But I really need to brush my teeth.”
Before Lance could object, she’d turned away from him, blew past her bedroom and into the darkened bathroom. Nervously, she fumbled for the light switch, then fixed her gaze on her toothbrush.
Less easily deterred than he often was, he appeared in the door frame - and the mirror - as she ran water over a dollop of Aquafresh and started brushing, furiously, methodically.
“You not going to say where you’ve been?” he asked slowly, gripping the panel as he watched her spit and put more toothpaste on the brush.
Where I’ve been. Gwen spat again. “I wouldn’t know how to explain it.”
“Well you’ve got to say something,” he disagreed, easing around until he flicked the cover of the toilet down and took a seat, staring up at her as she brushed, spat, and added more toothpaste. She had no mouthwash; that was going to be a problem.
When she didn’t answer, Lancelot reached for her dress, giving a gentle tug at her side. “I told your boss you were ill-”
Gwen reached her palm under the running faucet, taking a swig of the fresh water and spitting again. “That was nice of you-”
“Didn’t want you to lose your job.”
She twisted the knob, licked her teeth and hovered over the bowl for a long moment, casting a long glance his way. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“Yeah, well … It’s not every day someone disappears.”
Blushing anxiously, Gwyneth turned away from him, gently pulling out of his grip as she reached for a hand towel to dab her mouth dry. Disappearing was an easy way to think of it … a very easy out. And that was it for him, wasn’t it? She bit down slightly on the fabric, taking a long moment to stare at the wall and think.
She was gone, and now she was home. The perfect end to a very strange story.
It should’ve satisfied her.
The toilet seat creaked a little as Lance shifted his weight, then stood. “You scared me.”
Guilt twisted in her stomach, like a knot. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled into the towel, then turned to face him again. He had more stubble than usual, but then he always put off shaving when he was worried. Gwen glanced out the door and at her regular coat. “If it helps,” she offered, “I didn’t know I was going to be gone so long.”
“It doesn’t really,” he admitted, but when Gwyneth looked upon him again, she saw the beginnings of a smile on his face. “You can make it up to me at the pub, though.”
“The pub.”
“My treat.” He ducked his head and shrugged, still bewildered. “Aren’t you hungry?”
For a beat, she stared at him. Everything was suddenly very normal. She was her and he was Lance, and they had their way around each other. Gwen felt herself nod before she could tell whether the pit in her stomach was hunger or something else. “Sure,” she mumbled, appreciative and ambivalent.
He nodded again, and sidestepped past her through the door. “I’ll … give you a moment. To get changed, or whatever it is you need to do.”
But before she could thank him, or insist that she didn’t need to change, that maybe it was best she had some food and a drink now, or say that she didn’t feel very hungry but it would be nice to watch the match and just think a while … her eyes caught the spot that he’d been blocking where he stood. On the wall, hovering just above the center of her tub, four dark lines creating a small, neat square in the wall. It was the proper size for a child, more than a little tight for an adult. But Gwen had slim shoulders and a penchant for making poor decisions, and she was a little nosy.
How quickly circumstances could overwhelm the mind; how keen she had been to forget.
They would be looking for her.
When she reappeared in the living room, Lance had been flipping idly through the channels, his leg jiggling as he tapped his phone on his knee. It took a moment to notice her silent entrance, and when he looked up at her, he was wide-eyed and weary. “What?”
This is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. “You’re not going to be happy about this,” Gwyneth announced, her hands balled into fists at either side, a sad smile pressing her lips upward. “… I’ve got to go, again.”
Lancelot blinked. “Where?”
“Back. To where I was.”
“… And where was that?”
“Sort of far away.” She paused, and reconsidered. “Very far.”
Tossing away the remote, Lance sighed and wiped his palm on his thigh, searching for an answer he would never find in Gwen’s face. “Why don’t we just sit down-”
“No,” she replied promptly, and a swell of delirious, apologetic laughter threatened to escape her. “No, there are people who will be looking for me, so I’ve got to be going. Soon.”
“I was looking for you.”
“I know. And I love that about you, and there’s no way that this is … anything less than terribly selfish, and very shitty. You’re … so good to me. But this is something I have to do.”
Confusion gave way to something else, something far sadder between them. Lancelot shifted his weight, glancing at his feet before he met her eye once more. Though she wanted to give him whatever moment he needed, she could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen … time spinning here and there. “… You’re talking like this is forever. Or something.”
Gwen’s lips twitched into a remorseful smile. “I don’t need to be looked after anymore.”
“Gwen,” He approached her, beseeching. “I promised your dad-”
“I made some promises too,” she interrupted gently. “A few more than you did.”
When that seemed insufficient, Gwen turned and ducked into her bedroom. The shades were drawn and the light remained dim, but she went straight for her nightstand, feeling around in the darkness for her mobile. It only had half a battery left, but that was enough … there were no satellites to speak of anyway. With the same familiarity, she reached for her dresser and pulled open the top drawer, bypassing bras and knickers for the small box at the back. Lancelot watched from the doorway as she stuck her mother and father’s wedding bands on her middle finger, stacking them delicately past the knuckle.
She turned back to face him, holding her phone high. “If I have reception,” she announced, closing the door behind her, “I’ll call you.”
“Gwen-”
“Lance.” Without hesitation, she pressed her free palm into his cheek. She was resolved, as resolved as she had ever been about anything, and her heart fluttered wildly in her chest as she rose onto her toes and pressed a long kiss into his cheek. “I’m going to do this,” Gwyneth murmured with as much finality she could summon, and when she pulled back to look at him, he gave no sign of understanding other than remorseful acceptance. “But you should go to the pub.”
He nodded slowly, and she stroked his rough cheek one last time. “So I can’t change your mind is what you’re saying.”
Her heart only raced faster as she shook her head. “No.” When she found his eyes again, they were rooted to a spot on the ground; Gwen wondered if she had ever caused him greater hurt than now. She had put him through the paces, to be sure … but she’d never had cause to lie to him. And where she withheld, he had shared more of himself - had always shared more of himself - to compensate. Gwen cupped his cheeks between warm palms, forcing him gently to meet her gaze. “You changed me forever, you know.” She paused, willing him to understand what she could not tell him. “Do you believe that?”
When no words formed on his lips, she kissed his cheek again and hugged him one last time. “Call Elaine again,” Gwen mumbled into his shirt, and his arms wrapped tighter around her. “She’s clever, and she’s funny, and she likes footie more than me.”
“It won’t be weird?” he asked, disbelieving.
Of this, Gwen was more certain than ever. “Not at all.”
His mouth fell to her hair. “Why should I?” he asked, barely audible as he took what moments she was willing to grant him.
“Because you deserve to be happy too.”
… He said nothing. But she let him kiss her forehead, and promised to call if she could.
And minutes later, she was on her hands and knees, going through the looking glass again.
Part Five