Fic: What Grew Inside Who

[imigination]

Title: What Grew Inside Who (2/5)
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.



Tap-Tap-Tap.

There it was again. Too warm and round to be nothing, but then what did Gwen knew about acoustics? She had been a double major at Uni: history, with a focus on Apartheid South Africa and Latin; at best a waste of money, at worst, a waste of time.

Given that neither discipline suggested much in the way of parsing out the sounds of secret rooms off corridors, Gwen was willing to stack her money on the latter possibility. Even a rudimentary higher-level education should’ve taught her the impossibility of parsing out portals between worlds through stone.

She’d been at it for an hour, deftly managing to avoid extended chit-chat with the castle staff as they looked upon this new Lady in the yellow dress with an odd penchant for walking very close to the wall. She’d heard nothing from the Lady Morgana, who had better uses of her time than to spend it toiling away with a nutter like herself … nor had she caught sight of Arthur. She hadn’t exactly been expecting it; he warned her that training occupied his time until midday.

“Lady Gwyneth.”

The surprise address took the wind right out of her, and with it, a strangled - yet audible - “Yes!” The exclamation was not the neutral acknowledgement she’d worked on perfecting as she laid in bed that morning, thus proving that those hours of studious work - when she’d focused on accepting that she’d gone a bit mad and was actually trapped in medieval Albion, and that she needed to adjust accordingly … or at least stop acting so bloody shocked at every which thing - was utter bollocks.

And, as though she needed help in painting the portrait of a noble mental-case, she whirled around a beat too late, her face surely contorted into some kind of anticipatory wince-of-discovery.

Yet again Arthur’s manservant, whose reception had been prickly at best, appeared before without the slightest hint of warning. This time, he clutched an armful of armor … a helmet, and a pair of cuffs, and something that looked a lot like a horseshoe crab.

“… Hi,” Gwen tried again, smiling her best smile as she gave the wall a bit of room.

Merlin, too, smiled. The gesture, however warm in expression, did little to ease her nerves. “Hi,” he repeated, a cool stillness in his gaze as he evaluated her.

An awkward beat passed between them before Gwyneth could summon up something not-entirely-stupid to say. “… Merlin, was it?”

“Yes, Merlin.” He shifted the curved metal in his arms. “You remembered my name.”

“Well, it’s a memorable one.”

He was a curious bloke, that much she could tell. He seemed friendly, amiable in the public avenue of the corridor. And he grinned at her with the familiarity ofa woman he already knew - had long known. He was tall, but slight, not much older than she … and just as awkward. And, much in the way that he must’ve been taking her in, she couldn’t tell if his grin was that of the supremely dim or because he could see right through her charade.

She managed to look away first, her eyes finding the floor as she stepped around him, so she could lean - awkwardly - on the windowsill behind him. “Thanks, by the way,” rambled Gwen, dragging her toes on the ground as she walked. “That made-bed was … pretty grand.”

“You’re welcome. I trust you slept well?”

“Very.” A lie. “All thanks to you.”

Merlin lifted the armor up against his chest. “Well, the Prince’s word is my job.” With the slightest nod of acknowledgement, he took a few slow steps away. “Then, you would know that, my lady. Given how,” he paused, searching. Then, “How close you’ve become.”

He was prepared to walk on - or at least it seemed as much - and foolishly, Gwen chased after him. “We’re not mates, you know,” she remarked rather loudly as she kept pace with his stride, taking a few extra light steps to match his long-legged gait.

“Of course not,” agreed Merlin, his eyes trained ahead as they wound back around the corner Gwen had traced earlier, passing a set of tall windows that overlooked the courtyard, bustling with lunchtime life.

Good. Gwen nodded once, pleased that she had managed to correct him without much getting lost in translation. Princes likely didn’t keep mates; her answer was probably the right one. Merlin continued to look at perfect peace as they climbed the stairs side by side, Gwen holding the front of her gown as she’d seen Morgana do the night before.

Some people, it seemed, were not to be deterred. “… How did you manage to make the prince’s acquaintance so quickly?” Piped up Merlin not a moment later, his voice laced with nothing but the easy curiosity of a boy trying to make conversation.

How heavy a question. “I don’t know,” blurted Gwen unthinkingly, her neck craned toward the ceiling as she searched for an answer as they walked. Her mouth, unfortunately, continued to run. “Just luck, I suppose.”

“Luck.”

They slowed at the top of the steps, at the end of another long corridor, indistinguishable from the last. “Luck,” repeated Gwen, turning a wary eye down the unoccupied hallway. “It’s not every day you meet a prince.”

Merlin’s smile was undeniably fixed at this point, what light in his voice having long left his eye. “Not every day, and certainly not your first.”

Frustration flared in Gwen’s stomach where alarm should’ve blossomed. “It was purely by chance that I met him.”

The next charge came under his breath: “Yet so quickly did you earn his affections-“

“What are you implying?” snapped Gwen, her voice dropping low to a register rarely sought out. She stood perfectly still, held her ground. If it was the prince’s propriety Merlin worried about, he had no need; things between them had remained properly … square. Medieval rules.

Whatever passed through his mind, status got the better of him. He bowed - just slightly - and excused himself with an easy, “My lady.”

He was not two steps away before Gwen caught him at the crook of his arm, tugging him to a stop once more. She didn’t need him blabbing to someone else with his concerns. “Merlin-”

“Lady Gwyneth-” He outright rolled his eyes.

“Mer-lin!” came a firm rebuke from a few feet below.

The pair of them jerked back, each making space as Arthur ascended what steps remained between him and the oncoming row. He stepped into the pool of light at the top of the stairs, cast by the high sun.

Even flustered, Gwen admired - and appreciated - the prince’s arrival. He hadn’t been lying about training, so much was evident; his hair was slick against his forehead and cheek, face still flush from exposure or the exertion. She still felt a bit stupid for not putting things together upon their meeting. Who else lived so grandly in a castle? In a well-worn undergarment and chainmail, he was presently the warrior prince. Yesterday, with his initially disdainful gaze and easy swordsmanship, he had been the lazy one.

By the way his eyes narrowed as he took in their equally guilty looks, he was about to be the king of cross.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded, his attention already set on his manservant.

Merlin, not quite contrite, shifted ever so slightly toward Gwen … a half-arsed attempt to ease the tension between them. “I was just bringing your things to your room.”

The set of Arthur’s brow left no room for misinterpretation; Gwen could only begin to wonder what he’d heard. “It was just a little disagreement.”

For all his sidling up to her, Merlin did not meet her halfway. “’Little,’” he muttered under his breath.

Arthur crossed his arms. “On the nature of Lady Gwyneth’s visit, I take it? Or did I mishear?”

Intimidated was not the proper word, as Merlin did not shrink under Arthur’s imperious gaze. No, he stood his ground, even as the prince worked on a severe pout, his frustration channeled almost entirely onto his attendant. “… You did!” offered Merlin, and he showed off the same cheeky smile that got Gwen into the conversation in the first place.

“Did I.”

“You did,” blurted Gwen in agreement. Merlin blinked.

Arthur's surprise was as visible on his face as it felt in her own heart. She owed Merlin nothing ... and yet stood to gain nothing by turning his master against him. Never mind that his suspicions were not entirely off base.

The prince loosened his arms, turning just slightly toward her. “Camelot does not treat its guests that way,” he began, seeking some understanding in her eye. His gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary, conveying his exact meaning: Nor can we permit you to be. She appreciated the sentiment, but his kindness would be the nail in her coffin.

“We have entertained guests before that have proven to be … less than worthy of your faith, sire.”

Arthur's voice took on a new edge. “Lady Gwyneth is not one of those people.” He caught her eye again.

“You were not so able to recognize them before-”

The kindness with which Arthur looked upon her was promptly crushed under a wave of ego. “What are you saying?” he snapped, turning back toward Merlin. His warning was clear. “You’ll want to think carefully about this.”

For a long moment, each of the three held their tongue, silently exchanging gazes and considering the consequences. Merlin’s lips formed a word but made no sound. Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

“Well,” reasoned Merlin, armor jangling in his arms as he cocked his head to the side, injecting what little diplomacy he could into his accusation. "The lady is certainly enchanting."

Arthur’s tone was withering. “I know you’re familiar with the stocks, Merlin. But I did not know you had such an affection for them.”

“Well now, that’s a bit much,” chuckled Gwen. And almost at once, upon uttering her objection so brazenly in front of Merlin, did her eyes grow wide. She didn’t put much stock in it, but a servant certainly would … disagreeing with a prince as she had.

And of course, it was too much to think that Arthur might wave it off; the silly utterance of a woman unfamiliar with the procedures of court. No, for the first time since their first moments together did he turn something resembling anger upon her. He glared, caught between his apparent anger at Merlin and the surprise of how casually she dismissed his threats. “What’s that?” he asked, challenging.

What hint of a smile lingered on Gwen’s face faltered, not in fear but frustration. “Obviously you’re not going to put him in the stocks for this,” she reasoned calmly.

“Merlin exhibits enough cheek in an hour to warrant such a punishment for days,” snapped Arthur, turning his hard glare on his servant once more. “I could not begin to tell you, Lady Gwyneth, of the leniency with which he’s treated.”

Merlin was certainly a fickle enemy. He looked to Gwen for retort immediately; clearly curious as to whether she would bolster his defense. Truth be told, she didn’t want to … not with him actively, obviously seeking to turn the prince against her.

… Then again, she couldn’t help herself. “You don’t need to,” she replied evenly, stepping into the corner of Arthur’s vision again. “Cheek or not, who gets put in the stocks for having an opinion? This isn’t the bloody Dark Ages.” Wrong again, Gwyneth.

Arthur blinked, bewildered. “Merlin’s behaves like an idiot and you defend him?”

“Glad to know I’m appreciated-“ he muttered under his breath.

“You don’t have to insult him,” Gwen grumbled.

“Not one minute ago you were going on about the right to opinion-”

“Yes, but you’re not going to be put in the stocks for showing your arse.”

Arthur exchanged a wary glance with Merlin over Gwen’s shoulder; peculiar, but hardly enough to offset her growing anger. “No,” he continued, face pulled in an ugly scowl, “Because he’s the servant and I’m his prince.”

“When did ‘prince’ become an acceptable excuse to act like a prat?” she flared, inserting herself fully between the two boys.

Whatever covert message he’d been sending Merlin - no doubt something along the lines of, ‘agree with her and it really will be your head’ - her last statement drew Arthur’s full attention back to her. His mouth fell ever so slightly open, obviously shocked at her impertinence. Gwen held her ground; there was no taking it back now, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. After all, he had pressed the issue. She would’ve let Merlin’s accusations fly, let the afternoon proceed as it should’ve. As he knew it needed to. She did not need to call more attention to herself by getting into an argument with the prince.

… An argument that was clearly not her fault. But prince or not, she wasn’t going to let Arthur get away with being a complete git.

Already, Arthur’s scowl had calcified into a pronounced pout. “You demonstrate uncommon manners,” he muttered, fastening his hands behind his back. “Such gratitude for an attempt to defend your honor.”

Gwen gripped the fabric of her gown on either side, clenching the material in balled fists. For that, she had no quick answer … only the knowledge that on this matter, she was right.

He saved her the trouble of thinking up a diplomatic - and decisive - retort. He bowed, stiffly, and met her eye only briefly upon looking up. “Dinner will be at the same hour,” Arthur snipped, and without a second glance he strode off, with Merlin trailing on his heels soon after.

Dinner.

As though she could stand it.

*

Night fell, and somewhere in the castle the king, Uther dined with his son and his ward and the courtiers who clamored for his ear and his company. There was food and much merriment to be had for the nobility if yesterday’s banquet was any indication. There would be men to fawn over Morgana, and princesses to fall all over Arthur, and none would be the wiser that the mysterious Lady Gwyneth of Hammersmith neglected to attend.

Who had she been kidding, that inside the castle was better than out? Maybe she had gone mad, but the characters of her own fever dreams turning on her was too much to bear. Perhaps Arthur would find her hastily scribbled note of thanks; the way he looked at her that afternoon, she doubted he would care. She was a thorn in his side, an inconvenience, Gwen knew. And as fed up as he was with her, she was with that bloody castle, the center of her endless, period nightmare.

“This is for the best,” she affirmed under her breath, clutching the insides of her borrowed cloak tight, clinging to what warmth and respite from the rain it offered. With the hood pulled low, she could see only a few steps in front of her at any moment, just enough to avoid knocking into a man or woman hurrying for shelter as a few errant droplets evolved into something a good deal more troublesome.

Night settled upon Camelot unexpectedly quickly. When she slipped through the castle gates, bypassing the guards without a second look, sunlight lingered over the distant hills even though its brilliant visage had disappeared behind the forest. Gwen was not halfway down the path into the town that lay at the palace’s feet when the dark clouds blocked out the stars and the sky, a black fog that promised nothing but trouble.

And how it delivered. She trudged on, even as shutters snapped shut as she passed houses and taverns, their welcome signs flapping in the wind.

Gwen chanced a backward glance, not that anyone around her would understand her stubborn mission or judge her for her doubts. The rain continued to come as she backed under someone’s straw awning; fleetingly, returning seemed like a good idea, the wisest idea. You’re a smart one, Tom would say to her. Work it out.

Another voice, hard and bitter, offered a definitive challenge. What is there to return to?

The heels of her boots were sinking into the ground. “Better get in, love,” came a voice, kind and firm at once, with all the warmth of a woman who had been a mother to many. Sure enough, Gwen turned just in time to catch a gray haired lady shut the door behind her, leaving Gwyneth on the outside.

Still outside. And all alone.

Suddenly there was naught but the rain, and the darkness, and her.

Her heart was racing before she took her next step back into the downpour. She was on a road to no where, but it was the path she had chosen, and she followed it, hurrying and picking up speed until she was running, running though her feet could not have felt heavier with every step further away from the castle. She ran, without light or sword or anything to help her feel safe. She ran because if she managed to escape heartbreak before, then she could slip from the grasp of loneliness again.

It was only until she stumbled through what had to be the city perimeter, stone walls built up and unguarded, which revealed little more than more dirt road and a winding way into the woods.

Gwen paused, bent over and panting in the darkness. Step one: run away. Accomplished. The dread in her stomach - that she was doing the very opposite of what she was meant to, that she was being reckless and spiteful and a little more than stupid held her dead in her tracks. Dizziness sent her head spinning.

The castle glowed like a beacon from so far away now, a light at the end of the tunnel. Death awaited her there; Uther’s discovery, the nonexistence of Hammersmith, or the misery of realizing there was no door waiting: it could spell the very end of her.

But Arthur wasn’t really so bad. Especially given her circumstances.

Gwen stiffened, even with her hands on her knees and her head bent low. “MOVE!” a voice bellowed, punctuated with the snap of a whip. She looked up just in time to see a man driving a cart, his horse leading at full gallop, guided by his master’s forceful hand.

She stumbled back, back further as horse and cart stormed past her, wheels swinging dangerously close … back until she realized that she was on a precipice, the edge of a slick green slope and she had lost her footing.

Her arms flapped wildly as Gwen threw her body forward, scrambling to find purchase as her treadless boots proved no match for wet grass.

“Help,” she shrieked instinctively, gripping a few weeds as she slipped. Gwen held fast, her stomach now pressed against the sopping wet ground. But it was dark and night, and nobody was coming. Already the horseman’s steps were lost to her, replaced by the sound of running water, churning and splashing somewhere below. Though she gripped with all her might, until she knew she would come away with bloody palms from the reed’s jagged knuckles, Gwen still felt it all giving way.

She wanted to cry out, but who was there to scream for? She’d seen this in a movie once, and it had not ended well.

Gwen gasped as one of the branches in her grip snapped, and she drifted another few feet south, gripping her fingers into matted blades as she disappeared over the ledge and careened toward the running water below.

This time, she skidded to a stop not by the force of her own grip, but with a painful crunch against rocks, invisible in the shadows of the trench. Her ankle was caught between two as she extended her leg, braced for the impact. Gwen’s knee collided with the slope with a stomach-churning smack.

“Fuck,” she gasped, her fingers and cheek still buried in grass, half-standing, half-braced against any more damage. The rain continued to pour, drawing trails down her forehead and cheeks, down her neck and into her clothes. At least she had no need for real tears. “Fuck,” she mumbled again, muffling the words into her first, “Fucking bollocks.”

There were no other words. Gwen had done this to herself.

But then, it seemed somebody already knew that.

“Gwyneth!” a voice cried from high above, far out of sight. Even in the dark - and the rain - there was a most welcome flicker of flame, illuminating the tracks her boots had made on the way down.

“I’m here!” she shouted. “I’m down here!”

For a moment all she could see was a figure in silhouette, shoulders too narrow to be Arthur’s. The torchbearer set down his instrument, shining light on him and her at once. The rain poured; his flame burned.

“… I fell.”

Merlin nodded, evaluating the situation. “I can see.” A beat. “Are you hurt?”

Gingerly, Gwen rested a little weight on the caught ankle, bending the bad knee. The pain was instant: “Only a little.”

In an instant, Merlin was flat bellied on the ground above, extending his long arm down toward her. “You’ll have to reach me.”

“Don’t you have any rope?” On the tiptoes of her good, untwisted foot, her arm stretched high above, there were still a few good feet between them. They both clawed at the grass, though it did nothing to close the gap.

Merlin exhaled slowly, the strain in his face easing as he quit stretching for her and rocked to his knees. “I didn’t know I would find you in a trench.”

“So I’m stuck.” She trembled as the water beneath her splashed over the nonexistent bank, soaking the back of her legs.

For a moment there was only the sound of her breathing; little puffs of air ruffling the grass and troubling the dew. Merlin’s breathing, too, was labored. Perhaps he’d imagined he’d come upon the mad lady wandering in circles by the gates, or throwing back a pint at the tavern. Not halfway up a creek without a paddle.

“You have to trust me.” Merlin’s voice shook, took on the very edge that coursed through her body.

Gwen looked up into yellow eyes.

*

“Nearly there,” grunted Merlin, holding Gwen’s hand a little tighter as they summated the stairs, the both of them panting heavily as they edged their way the final few paces down the corridor and toward Gwyneth’s room. She bit down her response, which was a hearty curse, well tired after her adventure into the woods and back again.

Rain and sweat mixed in her eyes, until she could no beyond the salty mixture of tears and sopping wet tendrils that collected in the corners of her eyes and caught her vision.

She could hardly complain, Merlin’s state was no better. They were both soaked through, covered in mud with enough bruises to keep them in bed for a week. They limped in perfect step to her door, and as soon as she had a wall to rest against, Gwyneth relieved him of her weight, half-collapsing against the stone.

Though they were just on the other side of the door, only feet away from a bed and a chair and - heaven help them if they were quick about it - a warm fire, Merlin, too, took a moment to catch his breath.

She gazed up at him from beneath her lashes. He was a dark boy … darker than she knew. Gwen was not the only one with secrets in Camelot.

Merlin caught her eye, and she was too tired to look away. “Let’s get you in before someone sees.”

“Sees what?” huffed Gwen, even as she relented, pushing off the wall and catching Merlin’s free arm as he pushed open her door, prepared to hobble inside.

“This court trades in gossip,” he grunted, “A sopping wet Lady stumbles home? They’ll have at you for a week-”

But the room they stumbled into, while still Gwen’s, was not unoccupied.

Arthur stood hastily, shocked out of his reverie by the sudden entrance of his sopping servant and similarly wet guest. He had been seated on the corner of her mattress, staring into the fireplace, recently prodded to life. However sour his face as he watched the flames, he schooled it into a mask of perfect neutrality as he stood, locking his hands behind him.

“You made it,” he observed evenly, still planted by the bed.

For the moment, his eyes remained on Merlin. Gwen extricated herself from the sorcerer’s grip, finding awkward balance inches away, enough to regain a bit of dignity in light of Arthur’s presence. She had no words.

Merlin did. “Did you think we wouldn’t?” he asked, his voice devoid of malice. Gwen chanced a glance to her left, at him, for she had. Then again, everything had felt sort of hopeless … in the dark, in the rain. A return to the castle felt as hopeless as the prospect of finding London at the other end of the road; as hopeless as finding reconciliation with her one friend in this town.

Arthur was, at best, inscrutable. At worse he was still angry.

“The nearby forest is treacherous, and to venture into them at night reckless, especially given the conditions.” His spine stiffened as he spared Gwen a glance. “I would’ve expected Lady Gwyneth to know as much.”

“How would I ‘know as much’?” she asked softly, her quiet belying renewed anger.

He squared his shoulders to her. “I would’ve assumed you wouldn’t choose such a reckless course of action without knowing the potential consequences. And since you did not ask me,” Arthur glanced away from her and into the fire, “I assumed you had other sources that might’ve misled you with regard to the dangers of such a ridiculous plan-”

Merlin interrupted. “Maybe this is a conversation for another time … sire. Lady Gwyneth is injured.”

Only a second passed before Arthur looked upon her with new eyes, brow furrowed in a different kind of concern. “What happened?”

“I fell,” she paused briefly to catch his manservant’s eye. “And Merlin appeared at the right time.”

For the first time, his eyes fell to her left leg, balancing weightlessly on bent toes. She shifted under his scrutiny and, when he said nothing, looked back to Merlin for an interjection into the silence. He was beginning to prove increasingly good at those …

He caught her meaning. With remarkable vigor, he turned to look at Arthur once more: “Perhaps we should call Gaius!”

“Perhaps we should not,” he disagreed, reaching for her as he had that first day. “If her injury is not serious-”

Merlin got to Gwen before Arthur was able. He slipped a still damp arm around her waist and bore most of her weight as she walked, with the occasional wince, to her bed.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted through gritted teeth, though the current pain in her ankle suggested otherwise. With what strength remained, she eased further back until she leaned awkwardly to the side, half-burying her face in the pillows.

Even with both eyes closed, Arthur’s sudden proximity near the bed was clear. “Fetch a wrap,” he snapped at Merlin, no doubt fixing him with some sort of severe look.

“Yes, sire.” Gwen’s eyes were focused on naught but the darkness on the back of her lids, but in her mind’s eye she watched Merlin give a gangly bow and stride through her chamber doors, shutting them firmly behind her. For a long moment, there were no other sounds, only her shallow breathing as she thought of everything but the discomfort in her leg … and the sound of the fire crackling away.

She opened her eye a moment later to see the prince fixated on the floor, his arms crossed sternly over his chest as he trudged through his thoughts, no doubt divided on where blame was due between Gwen and Merlin for her apparently … ridiculous disappearing act.

Now’s as good a time as any, she reasoned, and opened her mouth to speak.

“Were you attacked?”

Gwen blanched. She was safe, enclosed in the castle’s protective walls. Even still, she saw those eyes - amber and unexpected - staring down at her, reflecting like gems even in the absence of light. “No.”

“Still,” Arthur remained decidedly uneasy for a crisis that was, for all intents and purposes, over. He cocked his golden head to the side, gazing off left-toward the fireplace. “You must’ve been frightened.”

Brow knit at his apparent concern, Gwen distracted herself from his sudden onset of empathy by fiddling with, and untying her cloak. “No more than I was facing Camelot’s court. A bit easier with Merlin at my side.”

A beat passed between them, without Arthur making a snide remark about his servant’s relative usefulness, or his own unspoken necessity to Gwen’s survival … or rebuke for leaving the castle to begin with.

When their eyes met again, Arthur pressed his lips into a thin line. “May I sit?” he asked evenly, hands behind his back once more as he rocked nervously forward on the balls of his feet.

She wanted to be cross with him, still. She could not help herself.

“Yes.”

Head bowed, Arthur turned and settled at the opposite end of the bed by her feet. His gaze, when he found hers after a few moments of silence, was weary. And Gwen, still wet and a tad uncomfortable, just as tired as she had been the night before, pushed off her pillows until she was sitting upright once more. “Arthur?” she murmured, prodding him to speak.

He looked to the door, hands clasped in his lap. “I take it Merlin demonstrated particular fortitude in the face of whatever … challenge you faced,” he began, glancing out the corner of his eye for affirmation.

She looked into her own lap. For all the accusations of witchery that had been thrown at her, Gwen held only one image in her mind: her, freezing and cold and alone and his manservant extending a hand to help her. Whatever his means, Merlin operated with a good heart. And however good a man Arthur seemed to be, he was beholden to his father’s laws. Merlin was not like Gwen, a fleeting apparition. This was his home, and she would not betray him.

‘Particular’ fortitude.

“Exceptional,” Gwyneth murmured a correction.

“In that case,” he began, nodding in understanding, “I ask that you keep my servants more peculiar gifts to yourself.” Arthur paused, before continuing humbly, “You remember the king’s attitude on the talents of people like him.”

She stared at him, her leg forgotten. Brief awe succumbed to suspicion as quickly as it arrived. “You could command me,” Gwyneth remarked, thinking back on the subject of their previous row.

“No,” replied without bristling or balking, his tone was clear as day. “I’m asking.”

“Well in that case,” replied Gwen softly, “Of course.”

“You will not repeat Merlin’s … indiscretions.” He sounded slightly disbelieving.

Though she wanted to prolong his anguish, if only for repayment of the deceptively dismissive treatment of his manservant earlier that day, Gwen’s response was quite immediate. “It would help if he wasn’t so keen on exposing mine, but he saved my life. There isn’t much to debate.”

He did not crack a smile, but his eyes shone warm and grateful. “He is an asset to Camelot,” agreed Arthur, relieved.

“He must be.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes wandering down to the floor once more. Gwen, too, sighed some relief. In one-way or another, she was vindicated in her point. Perhaps Merlin did not require her defense as she thought he did.

With these thoughts on her mind, Gwen shifted to resettle against her pillows, drawing her legs up to cross them. She halted, having barely moved, hissing in pain.

Arthur did not jump to her aid, but snapped out of his reverie immediately. “Why are you jostling about?”

He clearly did not hold her goodwill in any regard, so quickly did Gwen’s new affection for him threaten to diminish. “I’m not ‘jostling’-”

“What did you say happened?” he interrupted again, looking down at the booted and britched leg.

The heat flooded Gwen’s face immediately. “I got startled … and I fell.”

“Just fell?”

“Badly.”

He had some nerve. Arthur’s lips curved into something of a smirk, clearly taking a wild guess at the cause of her injury. “What startled you?”

Lie, Gwen. “A horse cart,” she muttered, telling the honest to God truth.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, swallowing whatever smile or laugh he wanted to let out in the wake of her revelation. She felt a wave of anger … not enough to stand up and storm off again, perhaps enough to practice a bit of the silent treatment. Before she could decide, he had twisted where he sat, facing her more fully, his smile only better illuminated.

Gwen gritted her teeth. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Almost as bad as you,” he replied. Yet and still, the smirking prince managed genuine empathy. “The physician is shrewd; he will suspect you. But I’ve had every injury you can imagine.”

“Clumsy are you?” snipped Gwen, still slightly embarrassed as her mind replayed her tumble over and over.

“Training does not come without its consequences.” He lifted his eyebrows at her.

She granted her consent with the slightest of nods, still wary in light of their recent disagreement. But her leg was hurt, and one way or another, it would need to be dealt with. With some effort, she reached awkwardly to tug at her muddied boot, only able to get it so far off her foot before she could hardly reach anymore.

However much it hurt, she couldn’t reach without bending her leg. Slowly, Gwen pulled her knee toward her. The pain was immediate, burning right beneath the joint. With a sigh, she laid it flat again.

“Let me help,” said Arthur, gripping the heel and tugging the leather from round her ankle … tugging her trouser leg up as he did.

Gwen drew back, resting her hands on the quilt as she watched Arthur, with nimble hands, carefully roll her trouser leg, exposing inch after inch of skin. He did it maddeningly slowly: first her red ankle, and then the trail of blood that snaked its way down her shin from beneath the bandage he’d wrapped around her knee when they first met.

Surprisingly gentle, Arthur cupped her ankle in one hand, squeezing experimentally. “Does that hurt?”

“Not really,” admitted Gwen.

He glanced up to meet her eyes. “It’s swollen,” he admitted, and then - with the slightest upturn of his lips - “But not broken.”

“You’re sure,” asked Gwen dimly, watching as he lowered it to rest warmly on his thigh.

Arthur rolled his shoulders, perhaps acquiescing to his lack of expertise. But his words were firm. “I think you’d be screaming. Or at least in greater discomfort.”

After a beat, he shifted just enough to turn his ministrations to her aching knee. The white bandage he had wrapped when she first fell in the hall was stained dark red, drying brown at the edges. Similarly dirty streaks of blood curved around her calf, now crossed with a fresh red stain. Arthur didn’t have to untie the gauze wrap to know the answer. “And this-” he lifted the bottom of the strip of fabric and bent his head to peer beneath it, “-you simply reopened.”

“Good,” Gwen replied, forcing a weak smile. She kept her eyes trained on Arthur’s face as he re-exposed the wound; the sight of too much blood made her nauseous. When he looked up again, finished with his unwrapping, Gwen focused her attention on the fire.

Arthur fared no better. Even with her gaze trained elsewhere, she could see him glance about for a suitable distraction. Carefully, he replaced her leg on the bed and kicked to his feet and took a few long steps across the room to her sitting table.

“As undesirable as it might be,” he started, fiddling with the dying flowers resting in a vase there, “You might consider putting any further escape attempts on hold, at least through tomorrow. Allow yourself time to heal.”

Though his back was to her, Gwen could read the point written all over his face. “I didn’t go because I was mad at you-”

“Didn’t you?” Holding his left hand stiff behind his back, Arthur scooted a nearby chair over a couple inches unnecessarily, angling himself just enough to watch her out the corner of his eye.

There was an objection prepared on her lips that she couldn’t give voice to. Instead, Gwen fiddled with a loose thread in her tunic. “Well … I didn’t go because I wasn’t grateful for your help.”

Like a child, he glanced up at her beneath wounded brow. Wonders never ceased to amaze. For all his prattish behavior, he was not an uncaring man. He cared for Merlin.

And he tended to her.

Familiar warmth crept up Gwyneth’s neck, flooding her cheeks as he gazed upon her. She shifted a little in her seat, and almost attempted a lame joke. But before she could get it out, Arthur snapped out of whatever thoughts preoccupied him … an d looked toward the door.

“Honestly, could he be any slower?” muttered Arthur. With a stiff incline of his head, he excused himself, leaving Gwen alone with her thoughts.

*

Solitude was a suitable punishment for the injury she’d sustained, but it would’ve been nice if she had a copy of Cosmo or Sense and Sensibility to help her pass the time.

With the prospect of a quick return to Hammersmith on hold - not that she had much success finding her door, or any other door leading anywhere other than another grand and empty room - thanks to her stupid ankle, Gwyneth passed the morning by staring at the canopy of her four poster and watching the clouds pass by her window.

She tried thinking about a number of things. She thought about Lance. They weren’t together - not anymore - but he was dutiful and good to her, and Gwen knew he’d be worrying. She thought about her landlady. The rent wasn’t due for another two weeks, but Selena suffered from a serious case of maternal nosiness when it came to her tenants, and she surely would’ve taken note of Gwen’s lack of coming and going by now.

She thought of work. She was probably fired … which was just as well. Come winter, there would be no more taking her lunch out on street corners.

More than anything, and much to her chagrin, she thought of Arthur.

Guilt, in the wake of her unanticipated escape attempt, was unexpected.

He knew as well as she did that her intention was to go, to get out … to run home and never return. But the hurt in his eyes last night had been the same she felt in her heart when they’d rowed, had propelled her to add one more line to her list of dumb decisions.

And he was good to her. Unequivocally.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the sharp sound of knuckles on her door. Reclined and beneath a thin blanket in her bedclothes, Gwen was in no state to receive visitors in what she gathered was a modest era.

“Ummm,” she propped herself up on her elbows, searching for a robe of some kind. There was the trunk - from some kindly anonymous donor - of clothes that rested at the foot of her bed … and of course Arthur’s now muddy trousers draped over the back of a chair. Not that she could’ve jumped to get any of it. “Just a minute!”

Before she could roll out of bed, her door creaked open. In stepped Merlin, smiling with a small bundle of yellow wildflowers clutched in one hand.

“Good morning!” he greeted her brightly, snapping his heels together even as he nudged the door closed behind him with an elbow.

Gwen, with one hand dangling over the mattress as she struggled to turn and lower her bad leg to the floor, froze in place. “… Hi-”

“Oh, no, don’t get up.” He took a few hesitant steps toward her, but Gwen waved him off.

“Is it really still morning?” she groaned, falling back into her pillows.

“Not even lunch yet.”

A beat passed between them. Gwen fumbled, awkwardly and unnecessarily, with the bandage holding her now numb knee in place. Merlin’s toothy smile became a closed-mouth grin as his eyes searched the room. Still, he recovered quickly enough. “These are for you.” He raised the flowers eye level, arm stiff as he presented them to Gwen.

“Pheasant’s eye,” she remarked, a twinge of pleasure laced in her voice. The summer flower bloomed in spades near dad’s old home. She used to put the blossoms in her hair.

Gwyneth turned the bouquet in her hands as she received them, taking the time to feel the individual petals beneath her fingertips … velvet soft and well-colored. Wherever they’d been picked from, the soil was rich. “Who are these from?”

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up till they nearly disappeared beneath his fringe. “Me,” he chirped. Another slow, knowing grin curved his lips. “Who else would they be from?”

Indeed, who else, Gwyneth?

She tamped that down immediately. “Thanks.”

Whatever was passing through his mind at the moment, Merlin tucked the thought away. “I wanted to say … I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”

She blushed. More than one … regrettable deed would haunt her all day. Merlin may have been conspicuously uncompromising in his reserve initially, but he’d just about saved her life. “I’m sorry, Merlin-”

“… If you have magic,” he interrupted, folding his hands behind his back, “You are very bad at it.”

Her cheeks flushed warm as she replayed the previous night’s events in her mind; her, clutching to a hillside, Merlin high above. “Well, I don’t. So I’m not.”

Before she could find another suitable excuse, Merlin took another step toward her, his head cocked to the side as he reasoned aloud. “Perhaps … an enchantment?”

“Not at all.” Gwen clicked her tongue and shrugged. “Just … one horrible, long fever-dream.”

Merlin looked upon her with pity, but for the wrong reasons. “You can tell me the truth, Lady Gwyneth. I can’t imagine our circumstances are all that dissimilar.”

She turned away from the sympathy in Merlin’s eye, focusing her gaze instead upon the yellow flowers she cradled in her hands. She was misread, but what was the point of arguing? Enchantment was as good an explanation of her current circumstances, as any other. Princes and princesses, fairy tale characters and ladies in fables … they were enchanted, held in a limbo not of their choosing, unable to extricate themselves from the circumstances, however strong their wishes.

Maybe ‘enchanted’ was the perfect word.

When she looked up again, Merlin’s smile had once again turned coy. “… So who else did you think the flowers might be from?”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “No one.”

“You sure?” He reached for them, and with a frown, Gwen acquiesced, watching as he headed toward the nearby vase. “What’s one more secret between us?”

She was spared the burden of explaining that, No, she had not been thinking of the prince, nor any other well-wisher … that she had been asking out of politeness, Yes, politeness. Nor did she have to tell him that he would do well to stop with that smug look, since it did him no favors. Someone else knocked at her door, though this next visitor waited politely for her permission to enter.

Gwen drew the blanket once again up to her chest. “Come in!”

Unlike Merlin, Miriam peered around the door before inserting herself fully in Gwen’s chambers. She recognized Morgana’s maid immediately by her weary eye, even as she presented the her with a perfunctory curtsey. “My lady.” Briefly, she cast an uneasy glance in Merlin’s direction.

“Just … changing Lady Gwyneth’s flowers,” he shrugged, his face a mask of perfect innocence.

Gwen rolled her eyes and turned her full attention back on Morgana’s helper. “All right?”

Miriam respectfully ignored Gwen’s greeting. “Lady Morgana extends an invitation for you to join her tomorrow.”

Merlin cast a glance over his shoulder. Gwyneth scooted into a sitting position, stalling as she racked her mind. “What sort of invitation?”

Morgana’s maid did little to hide her reticence. “She would like to go for a walk.”

“… A walk?”

“Lady Gwyneth is injured-” interjected Merlin. “I doubt she’ll be up for walking.”

“One does not turn down an invitation from the king’s ward; my lady rarely extends them. Whatever troubles you cannot be enough to avoid this … most generous offer.”

Gwen nodded dimly. Best not to ruffle any feathers.

Studiously avoiding Merlin’s eye, she flexed her ankle and offered Miriam a weak smile.

*

For a fleeting moment, she could feel the king’s eyes upon her. Even from such a distance, it was no less frightening, left her blood no less cool than it did that first moment at the banquet, when her mind went blank and all she could see was that coolly appraising smirk. Her grip on Lady Morgana’s arm, light and awkward - quite unused to the protocol of walking - turned briefly tight as Gwyneth resisted the urge to turn her full gaze up toward the balcony where he stood. Instead, she focused her attention on the proceedings happening on the other side of the fountain.

“What’s going on?” blurted Gwen, and immediately she rebuked herself. Was this another one of those things she should already know? Something common not just to the court of Camelot, but all the courts throughout Albion? Was Hammersmith expected to have a court? So much for her newly adopted policy of blending in …

But Morgana did not bat an eye at the question, nor did she glance toward the left at the dozen or so men and women bound at wrist and ankle, congregated between a quartet of guards. “The king pays well those who are able to apprehend those who defy Camelot’s law,” she replied evasively, though there was no mistaking the venom with which she remarked on her own sovereign’s rule.

Arm in arm, the fabric of their gowns billowing in the wind, Gwen and Morgana passed the crowd. The king’s ward ducked her head, shielding the face she pulled from Uther’s vision high above; Gwyneth craned her neck to watch the prisoners as they were urged forward, up the stairs and into the castle. For a fleeting moment, she nursed a vision: she among them, bound and without recourse.

Morgana squeezed the lavender fabric that hung loosely at her companion’s wrist. “This troubles you?”

She dared to meet the lady’s gaze. There she found not condemnation, but compassion. Even still, Gwen chose her words carefully. “… Well, they were caught practicing magic, right?”

A dark look crossed Morgana’s features. “Yes.”

“And they will be punished for it?”

She gained no response. Just as well, as far as Gwen was concerned; she already knew the answer too well, even if she did not know Morgana’s feelings on the topic.

Gwen kept pace with the king’s ward, careful not to place too much weight on her still-sore ankle. Whether by Miriam’s warning or Merlin’s magic, she had healed remarkably quickly, quick enough not to do Lady Morgana the disservice of turning down her invitation. Nervous though she was, Gwen was grateful for the invitation.

For the first time, once beyond the gates and the darkness that proceeded in the courtyard, she was able to take in the beauty of the castle in daylight. Just steps beyond the drawbridge, Gwen slowed unconsciously, turning once more to marvel at the turrets and ramparts. Though made of stone, the palace sparkled in the sunlight, like a thing from a fairy tale.

Morgana shifted just enough beside her to catch her eye. “You find it beautiful?” she asked earnestly, pausing just long enough to glance back up at the structure herself.

Gwen nodded dimly, turning her attention back on Morgana. “It’s magnificent.”

She was met by a sad sigh. “A relic of a greater time, now long gone.” Without hesitation, she took Gwen’s arm again and urged her further down the dirt path Gwen had navigated mere days before. A breeze rustled the grass on either side of their road, completing the pastoral picture of a kingdom without darkness in its corners, despite the constant weariness in Morgana’s eye even as they descended into the town.

They passed into the village in companionable silence, crossing the invisible border from the stoic nobility of the castle proper into the heart of Camelot where men and women bustled about, getting on with midday duties. Don’t gape, Gwen, she reminded herself inwardly, even as she watched a man lead a pig down the road just in front of them, waddling in perfect rhythm with his pet.

“Is Hammersmith much different?” asked Morgana, a serene smile taking root on her face once more. Behind her, a pair of ladies with baskets of baked goods in hand paused just long enough to curtsey politely.

“A little bit,” breathed Gwen, unable to help her wandering eye. She had been to a Renaissance fair … once, on a school trip. She’d visited Austenville on two separate birthdays, and her Heath Ledger phase guaranteed A Knight’s Tale a prominent place on her bookshelf. Those experiences combined could not account for the experience of walking through the village, immersed in living history, visceral and vital.

Whatever wonder there was in her expression must’ve been exceedingly obvious to Morgana; she laughed softly at Gwen’s fascination. “I wonder what it’s like, that you should find this preferable.”

It was in its way. But Gwen grinned and forced herself to play the part as best she could. “Not preferable,” she disagreed playfully, taking her turn to squeeze Morgana’s hand. “Just … very, very … new.” Another man, closer to Gwen’s age, paused as he crossed their path and bowed his head respectfully. Gwen blushed. Very different indeed.

“Tell me,” insisted Morgana, gently guiding them around a corner and down an adjacent road.

Gwyneth pursed her lips, buying time as she searched for a neutral way to describe things. “… Well, Hammersmith is big.”

“The palace?”

“Not the palace, the whole place. There are a lot more people from what I can tell,” she paused and added, “Not that I can tell about your whole town from here.”

Morgana grinned and waved her off. “I have no stake in Camelot’s relative size to other kingdoms. I leave that trouble to Uther and Arthur.”

A small sigh of relief passed through Gwyneth’s lips, and for a moment she allowed herself to fully relax into Morgana’s easy grip and unburdened attitude. Whatever trouble haunted her in the castle walls, she could surely enjoy herself here, out amongst the people. People who were simply people, with work to do and lives to lead and more purpose than the few she had observed at court.

They turned down another road. “I only find it surprising that your kingdom should surpass Camelot in size … and yet I have never heard word of it.”

“Well, we like to keep it a secret,” replied Gwen rather boldly, and she even managed to smile at those shopkeepers who lingered in the window to take a look at the pair of them. “It’s good business, you know? A trump card.”

“What’s a ‘trump card’?”

She leaned into Morgana’s arm, less inhibited by the minute. “The ace in your back pocket … the one that wins the game.”

The lady laughed, taken by the novelty of such a concept. “This ‘trump card’ sounds like an invaluable asset, given that our nation has never quarreled with yours. I take it that Hammersmith’s illusive nature enables this …”

Her fingers squeezed Gwen’s wrist tugging her forward gently. But Gwen’s feet were suddenly lead-heavy, her ears filled with cotton. Whatever words followed, she did not hear him.

He first appeared in the periphery of her vision, like a flash of light … the flicker of a mirror’s reflection or the beacon of a distant ship at sea. His form was a mirage, a corporeal ghost. He was a feeling - must’ve been - no more, no less.

Yet there he stood, now at the center of her eye. He had the audacity to lift a hand and wave to a neighbor, to laugh at something that Gwen herself could not hear, and to give all indication of life.

Before she knew what she was doing, Gwen extricated herself from Morgana’s grip, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the road, some distance away, afraid to go any closer. Because there was Tom Leodegrance, with the same graying hair and Gwen’s own grin, stretching a flap of leather hide between a pair of wooden beams.

“Lady Gwyneth?” Morgana’s voice reached her like an echo.

Feel nothing. Feel nothing. Nothing, Gwyneth. Feel …

And at first she did. She felt nothing: not the pounding of her heart or palms that were hot and heavy, or tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. She felt none of the things that a daughter should feel upon seeing her deceased father, reincarnated as a man dressed in the humble clothes of a medieval stranger. She gaped, her mind as flat as the line that told her unequivocally that he was dead, gone from her with that damnable, damned pitch. When the doctor said she was sorry and someone came to escort her out.

The anger came flooding back; her mind was a cruel beast.

Lady Morgana tried again, inserting herself between Gwen and the object of her vision. “Gwyneth?”

Though it pained her to look away, she forced herself to meet Morgana’s eye … and even try to smile, unconvincing though it was. “Yes?” she breathed, barely audible over the din of the street.

“Are you all right?” The concern was evident in her voice. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Laugh, but her body did not obey. Instead, she was helpless not to crane her neck and peer around the other woman, turning her sights back on her father, however much it broke her heart to see him here.

The words came before she could evaluate the consequences. “That man,” asked Gwen darkly, “Do you know him?”

“… I have not met him myself, no. But I’m aware he has fashioned more than one sword for Arthur.”

There might be time for apologies later, if she made it through the day alive … a goal that she very much so doubted she would be able to accomplish. Gwen had the decency to bow her head as she turned and abandoned Morgana where she stood. “My lady.”

*

Ignoring what pain stirred in her ankle as she began to run uphill, back toward the castle proper, Gwen’s mind began to race.

It was a nightmare.

What fantasy had she been nursing about this place? Despite herself, she’d found an easy and comfortable rhythm in mere days, so much so that she allowed the darkness of it to creep up on her like a sinister stranger.

It had been more than a year, but she regarded the memory like it was yesterday. She sat in her chair - in her father’s - chair, staring stiffly down at the half-consumed platter of hors d’oeuvres. Gwen had no mother to play the part of the grieving wife, and so all the attention, or at least what attention there was to spare was turned upon her: the broken daughter, surely wrecked by the loss of her only remaining parent.

It was true: she grieved. But not in the way the other guests seemed to desire of her. Gwyneth sat silent, a room away from the closed casket as coworkers and friends filed past to offer once more their condolences. Someone had the audacity to remind her that this was not a dream and that she would have to cope.

And she had coped. But there was nothing, and no one, in the world who could prepare for such a vision.

She was about to turn left and head back toward the courtyard when the sound of steel meeting steel caught her attention. From below, she could see blades meeting in friendly battle, affirmed by the laughter that accompanied it.

Gwyneth climbed the steep, slightly curved staircase to the grassy knoll above where the knights of Camelot parried and dodged, sleek and silver in the sunlight, ducking as many blows as they attempted on their partners. They fought with vigor, genuine vigor, as men who needed to be prepared for battle.

Her stomach lurched; she had been so wrong about all of it.

“Lady Gwyneth!” exclaimed Merlin. She turned just in time to catch him toss down the boot he’d been polishing, a smile on his face as he rose to meet her. Just as quickly as he took in the look on her face, his expression fell. “Has something happened?”

She could at least take pride in the evenness of her tone. “Is Arthur here?” Gwen asked, coming close to Merlin and lowering her voice. “I need to speak with him.”

“He’s in his tent,” replied his servant, gesturing over his shoulder to a crimson and gold striped canopy on the opposite end of the pitch. “What do you need him for?”

Her lips could hardly form the words, and so she only stared at him in silence before taking off in stride, keeping close to the perimeter wall as she bypassed Arthur’s men without second glance. Only the sound of Merlin’s hurried footsteps and quiet protests cut through the chaos of her mind. Whatever agreement they had come to, whatever mutual acceptance they had reached … Merlin was not the one she knew she needed to speak to.

Despite the eyes on her back, Gwen threw open the flap to Arthur’s tent, chest heaving as she near-skidded to a stop in the shade of his makeshift quarters.

He had been removing his armor, and tossed one cuff to the ground beside a breastplate and helmet. Whatever he had been expecting at such an intrusion, one look at Gwen had his mouth set in concern.

“Gwen?”

For the first time, tears threatened to well in her eyes, and she fought them with all her might. Instead, Gwyneth held her breath, held everything back … at a loss now that she had reached him.

Merlin looked cautiously between them before speaking. “Arthur-”

“Do you know what’s happened?” he demanded, squaring his shoulders with his manservant. From beneath eyelashes that stung, Gwen watched as Arthur abandoned the fastenings on the other cuff and fixed Merlin with a dangerous glare. As though he were responsible for her current state.

She wanted to smile and rebuke him, if only teasingly, for taking such a tone. She wanted to laugh at the defensive hands Merlin threw up. But as much as it hurt to keep this unexpected anguish in check, she imagined the pain of smiling to be that much worse. “… He didn’t do anything,” she managed, and Arthur’s eyes were on her again, his head cocked to the side, slightly disbelieving.

A moment passed before the prince acquiesced. “Leave us, Merlin.”

Behind her, Gwen noted the shallowest bow she’d seen anyone muster yet. He slipped out the tent without another word, leaving Gwyneth and Arthur alone, the pleasant sounds of day at their backs.

He was waiting for some cue, some kind of opening. But what words did she have? I saw my dead father a couple minutes ago and now my head’s completely fucked. As much as Gwen knew she needed him, knew she needed someone she could trust to cling to, she was afraid to begin.

When her silence became too much to bear, Arthur took a cautious step toward her, clearly fearful of causing further upset.

“You won’t understand,” she blurted, prompted by the shorter distance alone. “… You won’t, because you can’t, and I don’t blame you for it.”

His eyes widened in alarm. “Right.”

Gwen ducked her head, preferring to focus on his shoes. It made the confession that much easier. “Where I’m from … I’ll never return. Will I?”

Her stomach burned instantly, ashamed at her own stupid question. What business did she have asking him? Arthur was a product of this world, this horrible, fabricated … too bloody real world that she knew was a deception and she was now reluctantly a part of.

She knew the answer better than he did.

Chancing a look to his face once more, Gwen saw that his eyes, too, fell to the grass between them … to the space she desperately wished that he would close so that he - perhaps more worthy than anyone - could tell her that it was all right, that this might be a horrible, terrible dream … but he was real beneath her fingertips and would not trick her. She wanted him to say that yes, the apparition was a cruel joke, a mind game, but he would hold her until it was over and until she could forget again. She wanted - for once - reassurance that did not come from within.

Arthur licked his lips painstakingly slowly and met her eye once he had tucked most of his bewilderment away, though not so far gone that she could not see it. “Gwen,” he implored, searching her face for something she refused to give. “Tell me what happened.”

She shook her head. “It’ll sound mad.”

“It wouldn’t be the first.” He inched forward another step.

“I see now,” she muttered, “Whatever … bollocks the world’s gotten up to, I can’t undo it. I’m trapped in this nuthouse and I want to go. But I don’t think I can.”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “Is this because we haven’t found your door?”

Her door. The thought sickened her now. “It’s because my dad died. Is dead. And I went on a stroll through town, like I bloody belong here, and … then, plain as day, I saw him. Like any other man.”

As the revelation had minutes ago, Gwen’s words seemed to hit Arthur like a stack of bricks. His mouth fell slightly agape, his eyes wide. Searching or accusatory, Gwen couldn’t tell … but a furious hot and bitter wave coursed through her, another swell of regret. She had earned his trust, but this kind of madness to the limits of his mind …

What other conclusion was there but ‘witch’? And not the sort of sorcerer that Merlin was, no. One who brought bad omens, and trouble, and the dead back from the grave.

She raised a trembling hand to his elbow, the greatest plea for reassurance that she could muster. And though Arthur ducked his head low, so that they were suddenly very close and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her temple, he held back, stilled by the immutable facts Gwen had shared.

He jerked back at the first sound of the tent’s flap rustling again, and Gwen let her hand fall. Her mind was racing too fast, swirling with too much feeling, with black loneliness stalking her from behind. Swallowing her need and her fear, she turned away from Arthur and back to Merlin, who was poking his head through the opening.

“I told you to get out,” warned Arthur, his voice low.

“I know,” he sighed, as pained to be involved as ever. “But … your men, they’re looking for you, sire.”

Gwyneth was sure Arthur was looking at her. But Gwen was already collecting herself, raising her chin to regain some dignity.

“… I’ll only be a minute-” instructed Arthur.

But Gwyneth spun around one more time to curtsey, ever better than the last, though she did not met his eye. “No, I’m going to go.”

“Where are you going?”

She was already backing her way out of the tent, ready to run again. Her answer, at least, remained honest: “No where.”

Part Three