Fic: What Grew Inside Who

[imigination]

Title: What Grew Inside Who (3/5)
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.



She saw a portrait of it once: Camelot in its golden age. There, dead center, stood a castle populated by loyal knights, a just king and a beautiful queen. They were not in the picture, but even a young girl of six knew certain things to be true. Such palaces were home to the brave and glorious, those who took devastating news in stride and did not bat an eye at the complexities in life as she did now. There were matters of greater import when a nation had to be run. Dead fathers, aberrations of time and space, were not the concern of courtiers.

But that was not this Camelot. This was a place populated by prisoners and peasants, and a tyrant king. There was no queen, only a prince and his manservant, a girl … and ghosts.

Gwyneth could see the sunset from her bed as it appeared in that picture from her storybook. She stared, vision half-blurred as she crushed her face into velveteen blankets, curled inelegantly into a crescent moon atop them. She had not shed a tear because there were no tears to be shed; Gwen had spent them months ago, and even exhausted, she knew she had nothing left to give. She fought the burning at the back of her eyelids and throat like a warrior and willed herself to harden, impervious to whatever damnation condemned her to confusion at the present.

But as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, a few errant droplets coasted their way across the bridge of her nose and into the mattress, pooling beneath her cheek. And Gwen knew there was no escape.

The knocking was so soft at first that she barely heard it. But whoever was at her door remained persistent, and after a moment and a deep breath, Gwyneth lifted her head and peered through the flickering candlelight toward her would-be intruder.

“Who is it?” she asked, her voice raspy to her own ear.

No response came. Fixing the folds of her wrinkled skirt, Gwen slid to the edge of her bed until bare feet fell flat against the floor. A fleeting image passed though her mind: Miriam, vexed as ever at the disrespect Gwen had leveled at her mistress earlier in the day. If that was the case, she was steeled to take it like the Lady she was meant to be. Perhaps that was the way to healing: acceptance of her new, damned life by learning not to fight the inevitable truths of her circumstance.

She took her time padding across the floor, rubbing her face blearily as the fist on her door started up again. But when she opened it with what smile she could manage, she found herself eye to eye with Arthur’s raised fist, his golden head bowed as he bided his time.

“Oh!” gasped Gwen, and what pretense of contentment she had mustered fell almost immediately, “It’s you.”

“Indeed.” He took a half-step back and straightened, drawing the knocking fist behind his back as he evaluated Gwen darkly. Immediately, she felt the blood rush to her face as she involuntarily replayed the panic with which she went to him earlier and the broken confession she gave. He’s here to tell me to beat it, her mind warned, and Gwen raised her chin high … as he himself had taught her, even as she attempted to swallow her fear.

But Arthur remained awkwardly silent for a beat … and then two, until Gwen’s troubles ebbed just slightly, giving way to curiosity as the prince stood before her at a loss for words.

Eventually, he glanced up again and caught her eye. “… May I enter?”

Oh. “Of course.” She stepped to the side, making way for Arthur to pass through the threshold and into her chambers. Without a second glance to any potential onlookers in the darkened hallway, she closed the door behind him, turning just in time to see him raise a pewter flagon eye-level between them.

“I thought you might need this.”

She eyed the pitcher wearily. “Unless you’ve got gin there-”

Under less grave circumstances, Gwen would’ve smiled at the way Arthur’s brows flashed up under his fringe and fell just as quickly. “I don’t know what that is,” he interrupted, untroubled, “But I bartered Morgana for wine from her stores.”

A new wave of nausea sank Gwen’s stomach.

“I suppose you didn’t tell her who it was for,” remarked Gwen offhand as she watched from the door as Arthur made himself familiar quickly and quietly, drawing goblets from beside the room’s otherwise untouched decanter.

She watched as he rolled his shoulders, as though he had not one care in the world. “Of course not,” he remarked, pouring two healthy glasses. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Are you going to sit?”

Gwyneth eyed him, and then the empty chair with equal parts suspicion and envy. “She didn’t ask?”

“She asked-” Arthur, pompous and handsome, took his own chalice and sipped deeply as he leaned against the table. “-She asked after you, and I told her you were feeling unwell and not to be disturbed, and then asked about the wine and I told her I was well and not to be disturbed either.”

Gwen’s gaze fell to the floor as she took a cautious few steps toward her drink resting beside him. “So she just gave it to you?”

“Cashed in on an old bet.” Arthur studiously focused his attention elsewhere as she finally closed the distance between them, reaching for her goblet in the end with eager hands. She took the smallest sniff before tasting; like burnt berries and over-ripe fruit, Morgana’s wine was dark and welcome on her tongue.

One thorough gulp left Gwen flushed. She reached for the pitcher beside Arthur’s hip, refilling her glass before it was near empty. “I hope that bet didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Of course not,” he remarked, turning to watch as she poured. “It had to do with me.”

“Mmm.” Uncertain what to make of such a reply, Gwen turned and shuffled to the edge of her bed … but not before catching Arthur’s unsuspecting eye. And though he redirected his gaze in that split second, taking a moment to stare into his goblet once more, she caught the pity that welled beneath the pool of blue.

That wouldn’t do … not with her new outlook. She called forth the image of Lady Morgana that had captivated so many the night of that first banquet. Gwyneth stood tall, forced her shoulders lower and her neck high as she slid across the room, placing her wine down on her bedside table. “I’m sorry I caused such a fuss earlier,” she began, injecting what calm she could manage into her voice.

Gwen turned before Arthur was able to school his expression into something resembling detachment … or at least neutrality. No, at the present he pouted, furrowed his brow, crossed his arms cradling his drink against him. “’A fuss,’” he repeated, disbelieving.

“I … panicked.” Gwen smoothed damp palms on the front of her corset. “It must’ve been too much sun or … something.”

“Too much sun does not bring about visions of ghosts, Gwen.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Have you come looking a confession of witchcraft, then?”

Arthur put down his goblet and squared his shoulders toward her, not angry but defiant. “I don’t believe you’re a witch.”

That would be a hell of a lot easier. Gwyneth, reached down and took another swig of wine, daintily wiping at the corners of her mouth as she fiddled with the stem of her cup. “Maybe I am,” she muttered, and cursed him inwardly for smiling at her offhand remark. “… This is serious, you know.”

“I know. So I don’t know why you’d lie to me.”

When she said nothing, Arthur sank onto the mattress as, clearly seeking to reason with her. Reasoning, when there was nothing she wanted less than rationality, when there was nothing more she craved than the fantasy that would save her from the absurdity of this day. “So you deny all that you said earlier.”

Gwen’s face flushed. “… And if I do?”

“Then I take you at word, Gwyneth.” He craned his neck, the unspoken plea in his voice clear. “I don’t presume to know you better than you know yourself.”

She shifted awkwardly beneath his gaze, her stomach tightening at the possibility of acknowledging the truth yet again. “That’s a big commitment.”

“It’s a promise I’ve made once before,” replied Arthur pointedly, “And not one I’m afraid to make again.”

An unexpected wave of shame overcame her, and Gwen briefly thought of Merlin. How terrifying it must’ve felt to spill his secret to his master, son of the king whose duty was to his country first and foremost. Though she was not present for the occasion, it played out clearly in her mind, mocking her that she should sit here, evasive with a man who had proven his trustworthiness twice over already.

Gwen reached for her goblet once more, taking a sip before scooting closer to pass it to him. Arthur, too, sipped, his eyes fixed neutrally on the candles that burned on the table before them. When he was done, he set the chalice down by his feet.

Emboldened as she would ever be to share her half-concocted plan, Gwen rose from the bed to fetch the pitcher he’d brought. “I’m prepared to stay here.”

“… In Camelot’s court?”

Gwen turned on her heel, holding the flagon flat against her belly. “That’s the only place for a ‘Lady Gwyneth.’”

What grin threatened to curve his lips upward stalled when she did not return the smile. His brow sank into a vexed line. “You can’t be serious.”

But she was as adamant as she had been upon making the decision an hour - or hours - ago. “What other option do I have? I can do it, or I can wait until I look like a real idiot and get burned at the stake.”

“I won’t let that happen,” he mumbled after a moment, at a loss.

Flattered though she might have been under different circumstances, it was plainly obvious to her now that Arthur was a bit foolish, if not a fool. Familiar heat stung at the corners of her eyes, and Gwen’s heart began to break all over again. “Not even you can undo the law,” she murmured, drumming her fingers against the bottom of the pitcher, punctuating her meaning. “You told me as much yourself.”

He rose from his seat, feeling his disadvantage in this disagreement. “But you want to go home,” Arthur persisted, taking a tentative step toward her, and then another, stalking her with a dark and knowing gaze.

Home. As though such a place existed anymore. Lance, kind-hearted and ever available could not take the place of her father, reincarnate. Nor did she have any place pursuing an innocent man here, in this ageless, golden time where there were princes and kings to speak of. Home was neither place, and Gwen knew it.

She swallowed her remaining bitterness and forced herself to meet his gaze, even though he would not understand her meaning. “Of course,” she replied simply.

But suddenly, he was close - very close - and though she could not see his hands while she watched his expression keenly, Gwyneth felt him. His fingers grazed her knuckles and coaxed her grip loose, extricating the pitcher from her desperate hold. Carefully, Arthur reached around her, his arm grazing her shoulder as he placed the flagon down by her hip.

“As long as you’re here,” he began, his voice notably lower than before as he withdrew, regaining enough space to look into her face properly, “You’ll be safe. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. All you need do is ask, Gwen.”

He was unwavering in this instruction, this commitment, not that she would’ve doubted him for a minute. No, she felt suddenly distracted by the new tightness that tugged at her stomach … and relieved that he turned his back on her presumably to fetch their abandoned goblets.

“Why are you doing this for me?” she blurted, her voice a little strange to her own ear. She caught the hint of a grin as he glanced back at her over his shoulder as he crouched down and fetched the golden cups.

Gwyneth would not be deterred by an admittedly charming smile. “… You’re going through a lot of trouble,” she observed, seeking to restore some control by fiddling absently with the pitcher brim beside her. “And I’m not injured anymore, so don’t use that as an excuse.”

Arthur stood upright again, searching for an answer somewhere above her head as he crossed back to her and placed down their glasses. “Since you’re not a witch-” he turned and leaned his hip on the table as well, perfectly parallel with her, “-This doesn’t seem like a particularly fair predicament for you to be in.”

He smiled outright, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Gwen felt like laughing. She held it in, if only for her own dignity. “I’ve sorted through worse things than this, I’ll have you know.”

“Presumably.” Arthur dared to glance down at her outfit, and added: “But not how to wear a corset.”

This time, the giggle burst forth, unable to be contained behind the sadness that had sagged her shoulders all afternoon. Affectionate light came into Arthur’s eyes as he watched her shoulder’s shake against her will, and a full smile curved her lips until she had to cover her mouth with one hand. And when she was done, she turned to face him fully, skeptical. “So it’s fairness.”

Arthur glanced down at the space between them. When he found her eyes once more, his had taken on the darkness of the room, his lips having settled into an unknowable line. “Not entirely,” he mumbled.

Crown prince of Camelot, thought Gwen distantly, even as her heart suddenly began to pound very hard in her chest and she felt herself taking a careful step toward him, until there was barely any space left and the hem of her skirt grazed his boots, Owner of everything in the land and he’s bashful about his feelings.

His feelings.

… And what were hers? He had saved her. Then he infuriated her. He’d shocked her with his kindness and threw her with his reserve, and through all this, she knew he was the only one she could turn to … the only one she sought.

She moved before she found the words. A hand, not trembling but clammy, she was sure, reached for the wrist that had settled on the back of a chair. He withdrew it almost immediately, his hand finding his hip out of surprise more than anything else … but at the look in his eye, she pursued, slid her fingers down the small sweep of skin until her fingers laced with his thumb and his belt, tugging with no urgency but a sudden, uncertain need.

Unlike her impulsive, insistent movements, Arthur’s were slow and deliberate. With whatever permission she granted with her gaze, his hand, heavy and warm found exposed shoulder … curled around brown skin until the pads of his fingertips sank into the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck and his thumb sank into the slope of her collarbone.

Even as Gwen’s hand found the crook of his elbow, and his head tilted in a way that made Gwyneth hold her breath, he found room for propriety.

“Do you want me to go?” asked Arthur, eyes half-lidded as he searched her face.

She inched even closer, until the low swell of her stomach grazed his tunic and she could feel the warmth coursing through him. “Why would I want that?”

His mouth worked silently before breaking into a self-effacing grin. “I don’t want do you any … dishonor, Lady Gwen.”

Her lips curled into a smile - a genuine smile - for the third time that night. She was suddenly too close, and the room too dark, for her to see very much. A natural consequence as his nose brushed hers and his eyes trained on the curve of her cheeks. His other hand had found her back; she could wait.

Resisting all temptation to bring their mouths together, to give in to what she wanted - for so long, it felt suddenly, despite the bullshit and the bollocks that had tainted the intermediate time - she stroked his exposed forearm with delicate fingers. “Lady Gwen,” she mumbled. She couldn’t be certain if it was his heart or hers that was pounding away against the other’s chest. “… That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”

The fingers on her neck slid up to her cheek, caressed her jaw, drew a delicate line from the dip beneath her bottom lip to her chin. “That cannot possibly be true.” He was teasing her, with hand and voice, and it was working.

And so stalwart Gwen gave in first, closing what sliver of distance remained.

She had kissed blokes before. Many blokes, many times in fact. There had been that first timid kiss outside school when she was fifteen, so brief it was difficult to count at all. There had been her first love, an awkward gangly boy called William who looked like he slept in a pig sty but smelled delightful and was sweet if quiet. Two years of uni brought its charms … and then there’d been Lance. Lance, the ever patient, ever affectionate. The boy she loved before she knew him and liked once she did.

But as she ghosted her lips across the corner of Arthur’s mouth, granting him permission to get on with it, she could not remember being so thoroughly warmed by just a kiss before … overwhelmed by the simplest gesture.

He pulled her into him as he captured her top lip, the elegant point of his nose drawing a slow line across her cheek as he tilted his head, coaxing her mouth open. Gwyneth’s eyelashes finally fluttered shut as she pulled herself up, her arm sliding across broad shoulders until she half-sat on the table behind him to return his ministrations with equal vigor.

His tongue was hot, and sweeter than expected. Full lips tasted of wine and iron, and Gwen whimpered in pleasant surprise as he withdrew from her mouth to taste the underside of her jaw, the base of her neck, the place where flesh disappeared beneath her neckline of her gown.

Swallowing a soft moan, Gwen had enough remaining wherewithal to urge him back, to give her space enough to slide off the creaky table and onto the bed behind them. Where Arthur tried to sit, hazy gaze still dark with desire, Gwen collapsed onto him, knocking him backwards as she hitched her skirt and eased a knee between his legs as they fell flat against the mattress, kissing again, sharing heated breaths as he buried his hands in the mess of curls that fanned around them and she took purchase against his chest, shifting her way up to his mouth once more.

In as instructive a gesture as she had ever given - more than one over-familiar bloke took a kiss to mean a free pass to her knickers - Gwen found Arthur’s hand in her hair and slid it just beneath the swell of her breast, along the nipped in curve of her waist to settle at her hip … and held her there. She took control and her mouth drifted from his, warm and swollen, toward his cheek and then his ear, nipping the space where his jaw ended.

He groaned an inaudible word into her temple, pulling her closer as he struggled to sit up right … to scoot back with her an awkward burden in his lap.

Whatever self-control he’d been trying to inject crumbled as Gwen inadvertently rolled her hips against him, trying to settle, to catch her breath and keep kissing him all at once. The hand holding her flinched tighter as she gasped into neck, gripping his shoulders. She caught sight of dark eyes, swimming with desire. Gwyneth leaned toward him again, sinking into his embrace and experimentally twisted and flexed, pressing her full weight down ...

And then her stomach growled, loud and unambiguous.

Gwen was already too flushed, her mind too fogged, to feel the head of embarrassment even as she felt Arthur’s grin bloom against her mouth.

“… When did you last eat?” he asked, pulling back just far enough to see her face.

Inelegantly shifting her weight off him and onto the bed so that she might concentrate, Gwyneth recounted the day in her mind’s eye without lingering on its more unpleasant moments. There had been a bit of bread and fruit, which she hastily gobbled before running to catch Morgana; waking without an alarm clock was not her strong suit.

“Breakfast,” she replied. Her stomach punctuated her claim with another loud fit.

“Well that won’t do,” chuckled Arthur, and he bowed his head to press his lips into her upturned palm. “I’ll send Merlin to fetch us something,” he mumbled into the crease of her lifeline, and Gwen’s heart fluttered again.

But her mind had regained some clarity. “Merlin?”

“Mhm. I believe you’re acquainted.”

He tilted his head to look up at her properly when she failed to agree. “It is his job-”

“And could just as easily be yours or mine.” Arthur looked ready to scoff, but she was hardly in the mood to start a row. “I’ll go,” Gwyneth continued, “Point me in the direction of the kitchen, would you?”

Arthur was on his feet before she was fully upright. “I’ll do it,” he groaned, adjusting the hem of his shirt. “But you and I are going to have to have a talk.”

She raised an eyebrow as she stood, similarly smoothing the front of her dress. With the slightest smirk to match his, Gwen agreed, “Indeed, my lord.”

He smiled winningly at her. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”

*

Gwyneth arrived at the Lady Morgana’s door the next day with flowers in hand.

She knocked twice - politely, she hoped - and took a step back, careful not to trip over her own train.

The door creaked open a moment later, wide enough only for a familiar face to evaluate her lady’s visitor. Miriam’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. She knows, thought Gwen, and smiled empathetically. “Hi,” she began, and made no attempt to peer around the younger girl. “Is Lady Morgana receiving visitors?”

“Not for those who deign to waste her ladyship’s time,” she snipped, withdrawing enough to close the door between them.

But Gwen scooted forward, catching it with her own fingers before her hand was slammed in the threshold. “Miriam, look. I brought her flowers.” She held up the yellow and lavender bouquet eye level with Morgana’s servant, who released her grip on the door handle enough for Gwen to ease it open so that they stood a little closer. Miriam’s cool gaze and taut mouth relaxed ever so slightly as she examined Gwen’s gift. After a moment of tense silence, she sighed and looked her mistress’ new friend up and down before settling on her face once more.

“They match your dress and hair,” added Gwen gently, holding the bouquet out to her, “You can say they’re from you, if you like.”

There: an upward twitch at the corner of Miriam’s mouth, which she schooled away quickly as Gwen’s own smile continued to bloom. When she spoke again, her voice took on a different kind of edge, one that Gwen had heard from Merlin not so long ago.

“These are from the royal gardens,” Miriam observed, raising her eyebrows.

Gwen pursed her lips and hesitated. “There are royal gardens?” There had been too much variety for all that she found to be considered wildflowers, but then, “You’d think someone would be … guarding them, or something.”

Miriam sniffed, but grinned outright. “They must do things quite differently in Hammersmith.”

“They do. … Worse, might I add-” and a faint blush crept into Miriam’s cheeks. “-It does not begin to compare to Camelot in splendor.”

Though her smile quickly faded into its impassively disapproving line, she took the flowers from Gwen’s hand, careful not to bend the stems. “I do not like picking flowers,” she confessed, sucking in a deep breath, “But my mistress loves them. So you have spared me one turn.”

Gwen sighed in relief at this new accord. “I could pick them forever for you, if you wanted.”

Again, the hint of a genuine smile. “Ladies of the court have better things to do.”

“But I do not.” She dared to reach out and squeeze Miriam’s free hand.

She made a small non-committal noise, and though skepticism lingered in her gaze, Miriam withdrew enough to allow Gwen to pass into Morgana’s chambers.

At first she did not see her. The room felt still, and quiet, uninhabited as compared to Arthur’s chambers. Sheer white curtains were drawn back to reveal a primly made and perfectly empty bed, and while an open window allowed the breeze to pass through, almost nothing shuttered with the breath of life.

Oblivious to Gwen’s sudden trepidation, Miriam bypassed her, blond curls bouncing as she fingered the petals of Morgana’s bouquet. “My lady,” she called, coming to a stop in the center of the room, her attention focused on a point past which Gwen could see. She held her spot near the door, awaiting permission to proceed further.

“Lady Morgana-”

“I have a visitor?” the lady’s smooth lilt rang out, and before Miriam was able to continue, she had stepped plain into view, tall and beautiful even with bleary red eyes.

“Is this a bad time?” Gwen asked, jerking a thumb back at the door, “I can return later-”

But Morgana smiled and beckoned her forth, the white folds of her sleeping gown in stark contrast with the waves of her dark hair, so that she looked at once ephemeral and eternal. “This is as good a time as any, I simply wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

Miriam had turned her back on them long enough to replace the dried out stems in a nearby vase. “She brought you flowers, my lady.”

Something in Morgana’s smile faltered as she looked at Gwen, who had taken a few tentative steps forward. Perhaps she’d forgotten why she would have cause to be angry with me, and Gwyneth’s own cautious warmth gave way to the profuse apology she’d meant to give straight away. “I’m so sorry, Morgana,” she began, folding her hands nervously against her thighs. “I was terribly rude yesterday-”

Lady Morgana stilled her lips with another wave of the hand, and though the strange look did not leave her eye, she graciously gestured toward the chaise by the window. “Miriam, would you be so kind as to fetch us lunch from the kitchens?”

Gwen shuffled by a curtseying Miriam and sank into a seat on the edge as Morgana moved to sit where the red velvet cushion swept up and curved elegantly around its wooden frame. She watched her handmaiden depart as Gwyneth watched her, and turned to face her guest only when the click of a door being shut assured her that they were alone.

First there was silence. Gwen picked at an imaginary spot on her dress, waiting for a proper cue to speak. But Morgana only looked at her … like she was looking straight through her, as she had that day when they first met.

Gwen licked her lips. “I am very sorry, Lady Morgana.”

That seemed to shake her out of some of her reverie. She reached a cold hand and settled it on Gwen’s exposed wrist. “It is really no trouble, Gwyneth”

She reached to rub some heat into Morgana’s knuckles, surprised that they were so chilly given the warmth of the day. That and her eyes …

Gwen shifted, until she’d propped one knee flat against the chaise and could squeeze the other woman’s pale palm between both hands. “Are you all right? Shall I close the window?”

A chuckle escaped Morgana’s lips as she straightened, gently tugging her hand back. “I’m fine,” she replied, near apologetic. “I prefer the fresh air.”

Gwyneth nodded in awkward agreement, though she could not help but to crane her neck and study Morgana’s face as her attention once again seemed to drift to places far beyond the present. “I do too,” she mumbled, debating whether or not this really was a bad time. Whatever was on the lady’s mind, it had a tight hold; not that she could actually extricate herself. Morgana needed her, at least until Miriam returned. And the young servant girl did not seem half as perplexed by her mistress’ state than Gwen was … unless this was some regular occurrence.

“Then we have that in common,” remarked Morgana. She stood abruptly, and Gwen’s sudden imbalanced weight on the trundle nearly tipped her over.

“I’m sorry?” Gwyneth asked, scooting over to Morgana’s previously occupied spot.

“A preference for the outdoors.” Morgana picked up the vase of Gwen’s flowers and turned her attention back on her. “… And flowers?”

Gwen blushed. “Yes, Miriam mentioned that you liked them.”

Even her smile was penetrating, and Gwyneth’s heart began to race beneath the intensity of Morgana’s knowing gaze. “Are you certain you’ve never been to Camelot before?”

“Quite certain.”

The king’s ward turned her gaze away quick enough that Gwen wondered if the amber flare she spied had simply been a trick of the midday light, teasing her mind. But Morgana tilted her head in the same way Gwyneth had moments before, evaluating something that Gwen herself was not privy to, searching for an answer she would be happy to provide if only she did not suspect Morgana wanted to know the one truth she could not bestow.

She straightened, narrowing her eyes. “You held those flowers and felt nothing?”

Gwen’s heart skipped an anxious beat. “… Only that I was sorry to have run away so abruptly yesterday.”

“Lady Gwyneth,” murmured Morgana, “Do not doubt me when I tell you that I understand the cause of your vexation.”

“You do?”

The woman in white sashayed toward her four-poster, placing the vase on her bedside table. When she sank to the edge of her pallet, her smile was laced with pity. “I do,” she whispered, voice so low that Gwen could barely hear it over the sudden ringing in her ears.

She licked her lips again, stalling for time. “How do you know?”

Some semblance of color returned to the Lady Morgana’s cheeks at that, and for the first time since entering Gwen felt quite certain that Morgana was seeing her for her. “Because we’re alike,” she lilted sweetly, placing her palm down on a spot next to her, for Gwen. “I’m like you.”

Though the confession seemed to comfort the Lady, Gwen held her reserve - and her nerves - tightly wound. Arthur had thought her a witch; Merlin believed her to be an enchantress, if there was a difference. To Uther, she’d passed herself off as a lady of the court, and to Miriam, a confusing annoyance. Only she knew her true self: a very lost girl with no door to go home through.

She rose, though her legs felt weak beneath her. “So you’re trapped,” she muttered evasively.

“Aren’t we all?” chided Morgana, running her fingers over the arc of her bouquet. “But this is not the first time you brought me flowers, Gwyneth.”

Gwen was rooted to the spot, brow furrowed. Surely she hadn’t sleepwalked this way before. “… I don’t see how that would be possible, Morgana.”

But her misty-eyed gaze remained fixed on the blossoms, on what they meant to her. “Surely you have dreamt it, as I have.”

Gwen’s lips were dry again. “I don’t dream a lot.”

“And I, often. But rarely has a dream been so pleasant … so telling, that I can actually see.”

“See what?”

Morgana’s smile fell, and she pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth as she turned her attention on Gwen once more. “I saw you.”

The lady rubbed her bare wrist, and she was once more looking past Gwyneth and into some other place, another path. “I saw you with flowers. And though it was now, it was also a different age … and you were known by another name.”

Something like dread twisted in Gwyneth’s stomach. Morgana was seeing past her, but Gwen saw the present. Like Merlin, Morgana revealed her true self, ruminating on something that could not be possible. Camelot was a dream, a fairy tale … and though she accepted it was her fairy tale, it was a story less than seven days old.

Her fear gave way to compassion, the way Morgana’s eyes seemed wet with worry and searching. Despite herself, she hurried to Morgana’s bed, sitting close until their knees were touching and she could hold her hand.

“I have never been known by another name, Morgana,” murmured Gwen, squeezing cool fingers between her own. “Only Gwen.”

What remnants of Morgana’s smile lingered fell into a mouth agape with horror. “You have,” she breathed, her eyes wide and empty, “But you don’t know it yet.” She paused and looked away. “… I’m sorry.”

Though no tears spilled down her cheek, Gwen reached up and wiped beneath her eyes anyway, as she imagined her mother might have once done had she had the chance. “Do not be,” Gwyneth assured, “You should follow your own advice.”

Lady Morgana chuckled, a bitter laugh that did leave one or two of Gwen’s knuckles damp. “What was that?” she gasped, gripping Gwen’s wrist tightly as the other girl smoothed her hair.

Gwen lifted her bum until she could draw enough of her fabric up to dab playfully at Morgana’s chin. She had no apron, but all this dress was good for something. “I understand,” replied Gwyneth eventually, dropping her hem once more and folding her hands in her lap. “I’m different too. Just not like you.”

Morgana smirked, though her expression was not unkind. “You are spared the burden of visions.”

“Oh, I have visions sometimes,” admitted Gwen, glancing toward the window. “But … not in dreams, no. I’m not magical.”

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Morgana flinch at the term, and Gwen reached for her hand once more. “You have committed no crime.”

“Uther will see me no differently than the others,” countered Morgana, her dark brow falling into a disappointed arch as she looked away from Gwen’s face. “The women in that line yesterday? Led into the castle in chains …” she shook her head. “I would be among them.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Gwyneth admonished, and she meant it with her whole heart. “As long as your king feels that way about magic, your secret is safe with me.”

Morgana’s eyes searched Gwen’s face once more, and after a long beat she sighed some of the tension between them away. She bit her lip before confiding, “You did not know.”

“Of this? No.”

“Now nor then. Then, you cared for me-” the Lady Morgana shifted and looked at the flowers once more. “-But you did not know.”

Whatever powers she possessed, the allusion was lost upon her; so Gwyneth waited, patient and silent, for the lady to come back to her. But Morgana was gone once more, one or two lines etched in her brow as she remembered … or imagined. Her speech had turned to murmurs. “If only I could remember your name …” and once again she disappeared into thought.

Gwen drew her back with a question. “I understand sorceresses are powerful,” she remarked, leaning toward Morgana conspiratorially. “What can do you?”

The grin of delight was immediate and breathtaking. She had never been asked such a question before, and a sudden strange joy bloomed in Gwyneth’s heart and hands as Morgana gripped her. “Lots of things.”

But before she could make shadows dance on the walls or conjure diamonds out of dust, Miriam returned, empty-handed and with a grave look on her face.

*

Gwen descended the stairs from Lady Morgana’s chambers, curiosity piqued that the king’s ward’s presence was so urgently desired that she barely had time to dress let alone lunch.

As she turned and took another set of steps down toward her own chambers, floors below - for such an expansive place, she was learning the maze of the castle’s halls surprisingly quickly - it became clear Miriam was not the only one making haste over some commotion. Two knights strode past the base of the stairwell, nearly barreling into Gwyneth as she stepped down into the corridor. They did not spare her a word of apology, only continued their hurried pace toward the throne room.

Another lady of the court in a cranberry gown - Lady Helena, who she was meant to sit beside at that first feast - scurried by on the arm of some gentleman, her haste sweeping even Gwen’s own hem after them, as though caught in a breeze.

Bewildered, and in the middle of apparent foot traffic, Gwen took a few steps to the left until she stood against a wall, craning her neck to peer past the bodies swarming and into the hall. But she could not see anything from where she was, and though there was nothing to indicate she was invited to such an occasion, worry tickled the back of her neck.

At least one familiar friend was in the midst of the crowd. “Lady Gwyneth!” Merlin drew her attention backwards, and she turned just in time to see the gangly young man jog past a pair of guards.

“Merlin,” sighed Gwen, grateful for his appearance and what clarity he was sure to offer. “Do you know what’s happening?”

He leaned close to her, also craning his neck to see as the flow of people into the Great Hall began to slow. “No idea,” he muttered, “But Arthur went into the council chambers early this morning and I haven’t seen him since.”

Her stomach sank into dread. “Is that a bad thing?”

Merlin cocked his head to the other side, weighing the facts. But whatever he saw of Gwen out the corner of his eye reset his burgeoning frown. “Not necessarily,” he reasoned, “Could be just … the usual business.”

She gripped his arm tightly, forcing him to look down at her. “You don’t believe that, though.”

“We won’t know if we don’t go in.” Merlin nodded toward the doors.

Though nerves twisted her stomach, Gwen nodded her agreement and gripped her skirts primly, as she had seen the other ladies do. She took only three tentative steps forward before she noticed that Merlin was no longer at her side; in fact, he had not moved. “What are you waiting for?” she hissed. They were now alone in the hallway. Whatever was going to happen, it was to happen soon.

“I can’t walk in with you,” explained Merlin, coming just close enough that they would not be overheard. “You go in, I’ll be right behind.”

Gwen’s heart raced. There had not been an occasion where she made herself present without Arthur or Morgana at her side. But she trusted Merlin … had to. “You sure?”

He smiled a toothy, reassuring grin. “I promise.”

She let out a small breath and nodded, and when he gave her an encouraging bow, Gwen had the urge to hug him. But she straightened her back, held her head high and proceeded - very quickly - to the chamber entrance.

Gwen hesitated at the threshold and cast a careful look toward one of the guards at the massive door. His was a face she recognized, and though he studiously avoided her gaze, she saw the corners of his mouth tug into a frown beneath his helmet. Wordlessly, she passed into the hall.

Predictably, it was bathed in sunlight and splendor, grand windows casting light over the golden hardwood and the room’s many inhabitants. It was populated by men, many more men than she’d seen pass her in the hall, all draped with the cloaks that signified knighthood. There were also men in other cloaks and finery, and more of the women that had attended the dinner she had … nobility and courtiers. They faced forward, whispering amongst each other as their eyes remained fixed on a trio of thrones that sat high on a dais, unoccupied but no doubt belonging to the prince, the ward and the king himself.

She slowed beside a handful of young boys and women with their hands dutifully folded behind their backs. One or two muttered something to another, but for the most time they remained silent in their place farthest away from the front of court, a respectable distance that Gwen was not unopposed to maintaining herself.

But, like clockwork, Merlin’s hushed voice came into her ear … as promised.

“You belong in the up there,” he murmured, his own gaze fixed forward as he whispered out the corner of his mouth, “These are servants of the household.”

Wordlessly, with Merlin at her side, Gwen continued along the periphery, looking for a place sufficiently out of range, but when she slowed, Merlin’s hand on the small of her back urged her forward until she had passed a number of the elder members of the court and was one or two rows from the front.

Before she could speak, Merlin had dropped his hand and had weaved his way around the rest of the crowd to join an old man in red without sparing her a backward glance.

A sudden silence enveloped the room, and on her right, she felt the knight beside her fall into a bow. Gwen followed suit, dropping into her increasingly suitable curtsey. From beneath bowed head and long eyelashes, she watched three pairs of feet emerge into view - two pairs of boots and the elegant shine of silken blue fabric. She rose in time with the rest, to find herself staring up at the face of an extremely vexed king.

Uther’s anger was palpable, even so many paces away. He looked out over the crowd, his features drawn into as severe a scowl as she had seen on anyone. The previous times Gwen had occasion to look upon his countenance, he had appeared mildly interested at best, even watching prisoners being brought into his own keep no doubt under his instruction.

But now …

“A traitor walks among you,” the king began, his even tone belying the fury that curled his lip. “I have received numerous reports of a suspicious stranger who dares set foot in my own house. She appears in many forms: bare flesh; clothed as a young man; hunched on the outskirts of the lower towns as an old woman.”

The tittering began again, directed at no one but in solemn agreement with their sovereign no doubt. Gwen wished she had someone to whisper to that she might look more innocent, but she was near certain that her voice had died in her throat.

To Uther’s left, Morgana looked out over the crowd, once again her eyes pulled into the unseeing gaze that Gwen had witnessed many times over. To the king’s right, Arthur stood behind his seat, his arms draped over the back of the chair, falsely relaxed. But his features were drawn tight, and he stared at the ground, flushed and troubled.

“Silence,” snapped Uther, and Gwyneth’s heart rattled in her chest. His word was obeyed at once. In softer tones once more, the elder Pendragon shifted beneath his dark cloak, aligning himself toward Merlin just ahead of her. He knows, and Gwen knew she was damned. What did Merlin have to offer other than evidence against her? Why would he look to his son’s manservant in the first place-

Though she braced herself to hear Merlin’s name - or her own - Uther called upon one Gwen didn’t know. “Gaius,” beseeched the king, “Have you knowledge of such a creature?”

The old man in red heaved a sigh. “I’m afraid not, sire,” he intoned, “Not by those details.”

For the first time since entering, Arthur looked up at his king. “This can be little more than rumor, father. Has the alleged stranger performed any acts that should be deemed a threat to Camelot?”

“Magic itself is a threat to this nation,” retorted Uther, barely sparing Arthur a glance. Instead, he turned his attention on the faces in the crowd. Gwen held her breath as he vaguely glanced past her and further back before he added, “That this intruder is so bold as to set foot past our gate is sufficient evidence against her.”

“That is no kind of evidence,” scoffed Arthur, directing his attention once more to the seat of his throne. “Give my men a chance to question the accusers-”

But Uther’s voice, and anger, overrode whatever objection Arthur proposed. “The knights of Camelot will ride out to the perimeter forests and look for further signs of the witch. And I offer reward to one who can bring further knowledge of her whereabouts.”

Morgana swallowed a pained gasp. And though Arthur had no further words for his father, he gave the lightest nod and looked to Merlin.

As soon as Uther departed, the hall gave way to less-than-hushed whispers, reiterations of the king’s brief speech. Gwen felt three pairs of eyes on her back as she hurried to the exit.

*

Footsteps, light and hurried made a soft patter on the spiral staircase that led closer to the royal bedchambers in the western wing of the castle. Gwyneth’s legs could not carry her fast enough from the throne room and Uther’s promise of vengeance against this ‘betrayer’ of Camelot.

Calm down before someone sees you acting suspicious, was her mind’s only instruction, and as best she could Gwen slowed from taking the stairs three by three in giant leaping steps to the occasional two-for when she could not help herself.

Of course he did not know, or he would’ve called her out. He would’ve had her on the floor there, held down and whipped … or dragged to the cells to await execution. And where once she teased herself that this would be a preferable fate than extending the nightmare that was hiding out, utterly alone in the castle, she knew it to be as real as her skinned knees on the first day … her twisted ankle on the second and Arthur’s mouth hot beneath hers on the fifth. Death would be as real and absolute here as it was in her own time, and she’d be damned if she suffered it.

With that renewed thought, Gwen resumed running up the stairs in as many as she could manage with each step, her dress hitched almost to her knees.

Damn this bloody castle, was all Gwyneth could think as she reached the top level. So much for learning its plan quickly; she stared only into an open doorway that lead to great white ramparts, hardly guarded but with a view of the courtyard. Though she knew she needed to turn and try the other direction - quickly, Gwen - she could not help but step out into daylight, oppressive as it was on her already warm neck and chest, covered with beads of sweat from her upward exertion.

The view was beautiful. This she knew before she even turned to face the kingdom, before she placed her hands on massive white bricks of stone and surveyed all the land before her. From here, high above, she saw horses lined up in the courtyard and miniature red capes flitting about amongst men and women dressed in gray and brown. And in the distance, she could see a forest greater than she had initially imagined … a majestic land … undisturbed England. Had her heart been less overwhelmed with nerves and adrenaline, she would’ve paused for a moment of patriotic pride.

A flint of silver caught her attention out the bottom of her eye, and as a fresh wind rustled her hair and dress, she swept back into the castle’s walls, unsafe as they were now, descending quickly and working her mind to remember how precisely she was to get to Arthur’s chambers.

She held her hand against stone as she spiraled down, downward until her mind was spinning and she was at her starting level once again. She came off the bottom stair dizzy and breathless, the previously occupied hall down the stretch of corridor before her.

Out the window from high above she could see knights assembling, mounting their horses even, preparing to ride. Soon she would be too late; if only she’d bothered to take a moment and ask Merlin-

Except - Gwen pressed her forehead to the class, looking down as she collected her breath - he was there, down there and of no help. He reached toward the bridle of a great dark steed and patted, consorting yet again with the elder man called Gaius. And yet no sign of Arthur.

Collecting her breath, Gwen proceeded - a good deal more slowly - toward the staircase she was certain would bring her ground level. A pair of servant girls confirmed her suspicions, bearing empty platters in their hands, no doubt returning them to the kitchens. From a distance, Gwen followed, looking always to the left and out the window lest Arthur come bounding out the main entrance and down to meet his men.

But then, before she’d made it down half the hall toward her destination, a rough hand - oddly solid and cool - gripped the crook of her elbow, giving a less than gentle tug.

She gasped, apprehended. But before she could do much in the way of fighting, another, bare hand, less heavy than the other was at her waist, urging her away from the window.

Though she jerked her head to the right, a fan of curls blocked her view momentarily, until she was somehow fully submerged in darkness … or at least half darkness, a small stone alcove built into the wall. Gwen was released almost immediately as the sound of sudden shifting metal came to a stop ahead of her, and she blinked twice to adjust her eyes.

Arthur, in full armor, leaned against the back wall, his brow drawn tight as his chest heaved beneath the iron plate on top of it.

Gwen, too, gasped for air … not only from the shock of being found by the one she so sought, but at the urgency of his actions. She had not seen him catch sight of her in the hall; she did not know that he knew she’d heard.

Licking her lips, Gwen found enough voice left in her to cut him off at the pass. “So you’re off to go look for me.”

He winced, and only managed to look as high as the thin line her mouth was set in. “I don’t know who could’ve seen you … you look as I do, as Morgana does-”

“Not when I wasn’t acting stupid,” muttered Gwen bitterly, remembering those first few days. However good impulse felt at the time, she was now three things at once in Uther’s eye … all of them damned. “I’m sorry.”

But Arthur was lost to her, searching the darkened floor between their feet. “Whoever he received word from, the first of it came last night … and more this morning.” He smiled upon meeting her eye, though it lacked any genuine happiness, “I spent the morning trying to convince him he was wrong.”

Her heart sank, not for her but for him, for taking a stand and coming up short … such was the regret in his eyes.

Gwyneth closed the distance between them, reaching a hand to touch his cheek, her nails grazing the place where his hair fell as she drew close. “It’ll be fine,” she assured, even though she was not sure how much she believed her own words. Arthur’s silent chuckle was harsh, sent the breath flying from his chest and beneath her palm with rough despair. “Arthur,” she cajoled, tilting her head to catch his fallen eyes, “Don’t worry.”

Even in clutching the hand on his chest, as possessive a gesture as she had ever permitted him outside the previous night, he shook his head, doubtful. “It’ll be a day’s ride. I’ll try to keep it no more-”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed softly, her hand falling to the back of his belt once more as she tugged him toward her, “This’ll be a cake-walk.”

Some of the tension left his brow, enough to reassure Gwyneth that he would look none the wiser when they left this private sanctuary. “You are strange, Gwen,” he murmured, finding her gaze with more affection than worry, finally.

She smiled; her heart fluttered, despite the circumstances. “Thanks,” she replied, a bit chuffed.

He reached for her hands, bringing them both to his breastplate once more. “Please be safe.”

“Oh … I’ll go out and … count the cows, until you return,” she teased softly as he brought his face low, low enough to graze her nose with his.

Beneath half-lidded gaze, she caught the crinkles forming around his eyes. “I don’t know if we have any cows.”

“The pigs then.” She chuckled against his mouth, now on top of hers as he pulled her into a protective embrace. “I’ll count those …”

As soon as she sank into his embrace, allowing him to kiss her as fully as he needed to feel reassured, for it was doing wonders for her own confidence … a chorus of men’s voices rang out from somewhere afar and below and Arthur pulled away. “I must go,” he mumbled, taking only enough time to stroke her back once before palming the hilt of his sword in his belt and ease past her.

Flushed and a little murky headed, Gwen followed him out into the daylight, her lips and cheeks pink from their brief exertion. “Bye,” she murmured, so softly she did not think he would hear.

But Arthur paused mid-step and turned back round to face her, every bit the knight … if only for show and her amusement. He smiled at her, timid though it was in light of the circumstances, and bowed, reaching a hand for her. Gwen willingly - and automatically - complied, still slightly set on edge by this new tenderness between them.

Still, she could not deny that her heart skipped a beat as he pressed a chaste kiss into her knuckles, in the middle of the corridor for all to see. It was fleeting, and perfect, punctuated by a generous, “My lady.”

He disappeared down the stairs, and seconds later - as Gwen turned and once again pressed her hands flat against the stained glass to watch - emerged into the courtyard where he was greeted warmly by his men. Gaius had taken his leave, bowed away and was now shuffling back into the entrance. Even as he mounted his horse, tugging on gloves and readying himself to ride, he cast one last glance up toward his vacated spot.

Eventually, though, as he led the horsemen through the gate and across the bridge, out into the wild ‘other,’ Arthur’s eyes left her.

Uther’s did not.

“I see you have developed an affection for my son.”

Gwen resisted the impulse to jump, to shiver or to flinch. Slowly, girl, slowly. She turned away from the window as she imagined Lady Morgana might, planting one heel at an angle behind the other so that she could spin without walking. Her fingertips collected the material of her dress, spread it discretely wide as she curtseyed to the king without knowing his proximity or from where he had watched them. She only knew to bow, to show deference and her steel all at once.

“My lord,” she murmured in greeting, keeping her gaze focused on his feet as they came into view, as Arthur’s had the first time they met. Though he had held a blade to her neck, she had not been filled with the same caution that she felt coursing through her now.

Uther bore no trace of his previous anger, his expression settled once again into its mask of haughty neutrality. He approached slowly, a young man of indiscernible import hovering a few steps behind. “Lady Gwyneth is it?” Gwen nodded in perfect time, not too eager, but certain. The king gestured toward the window. “This is not the first time I have seen you with him.”

Gwen adopted similar neutrality to that her new sovereign displayed. “The prince is exemplary of everything that is admirable about Camelot,” she replied, measuring her words carefully. “It would be … foolish of a young lady not to take notice.”

“Indeed, many have.” The corner of Uther’s mouth twitched: the hint of a dark smile. To his man he commanded, “Leave us,” in the dulcet tones that reminded Gwen of a snake in the grass … a man more dangerous in his quiet than as he raged.

He turned back toward Gwyneth and offered a gloved hand. She had no option but to accept it.

As soon as she slipped her fingers into his grip, their hands hovering at chest height, they were walking. Suddenly her every breath was a study in balance, as though she were counting the beats between them as her mind checked every piece of information she had gathered since the beginning of her stay. She had made Arthur a promise; moreover, she’d promised herself.

Thankfully, Uther spoke before she had need to. “There have been eligible ladies,” repeated the king, his attention directed out the window and up at the clear sky. “Many, in fact. But he has hardly shown one more than a passing interest, before you.”

“… I am … flattered you think so, sire-”

“I know it to be true,” Uther interrupted with a dismissive wave of his other hand. “I am not unfamiliar with the signs of love, and it is his duty to find a suitable match. I merely find myself surprised that it is one I could not have predicted.”

Gwyneth’s stomach plummeted, not at the mention of love, or matching, but for the question she knew was soon to follow. One she did not have a suitable answer for.

“Love is … unpredictable,” she offered weakly; as though she had any business offering truisms on such a thing as love.

But Uther smiled, smiled at her until he was something like handsome and the panic began to set in. What does he know? Gwen wondered, schooling her face into a modest, yet content smile to match. When he did not respond, she settled on saying something true. “I knew Arthur … Prince Arthur was a good man from the start, but I did not imagine that it would lead to … affection.”

Uther smirked disdainfully. “Tell me, why did you come to Camelot, Lady Gwyneth? I have not had the pleasure of hearing your story. But given my son’s attentions, it must be charming.”

The wheels in her mind spun at twice the pace. Silently, Gwen thanked heaven he was wearing a glove; her hand had gone all clammy.

“My party,” began Gwen, slowly again as she worked out her only defense, “We set off in search of goods.”

“Goods?”

“Particular goods. Goods that we do not have … where I come from.”

“And where is that?”

Gwyneth did not dare look at him. She focused only on the steadiness of her voice. “Hammersmith.”

Though she was certain Uther’s face gave nothing away, she could hear a narrowing in his voice. “I do not know the place.”

She nodded. “It is small,” Gwen replied, feigning agreement, “Very small. Of little concern to the … greater nations of the land. Which is why we set out for the goods that we don’t have at home.”

For a moment there was only the sound of their footsteps as they proceeded in what felt very much so like a circle to Gwen. Round and round they went. She pursed her lips, prepared to bring about a more neutral topic, but once again Uther interrupted the silence first. “And what of the other members of your party? I should very much like to know who speaks for you, Lady Gwyneth of Hammersmith.”

Do not look guilty. Though her arm felt heavy in his grip, Gwen straightened, summoned whatever dignity she could as he pressed her. “We were attacked. In the forest.”

“By the sorceress we now seek, no doubt,” muttered the king darkly, slowing their pace as they neared the end of the corridor.

Briefly, Morgana and Merlin flashed in Gwen’s mind. “No!” came her vehement denial. Like a bug attracted to light, Uther’s eyes snapped left toward her. She licked her lips and tried to remain tall under his gaze. “I don’t think so … sire. We were attacked by beast, not a person.”

“But you have been warned, the witch takes the form of whatever she pleases.” He squared his shoulders with her, daring her to disagree again.

The king’s voice held firm, and so Gwen could only nod. “Indeed, sire.”

He held her gaze a minute longer, until the warning in his eye flickered and was then gone. “I take my leave, here.”

The breath she had been holding came rushing out of her just as she fell into a deep curtsey once more, if only in gratitude that she would be left alone again. When she rose, she was not met by Uther’s retreating back, but a strange smile upon his lips. “I look forward to the occasion that we speak again.”

Once again she matched up, summoning all the nonchalance she had available in her body. “The pleasure would be mine, sire.”

Though she held vigil by candlelight, the search party did not return that night. And Gwyneth did not sleep.

Part Four