Fic: Spring Fling Drabble (yeh right) - Picnic
Title: The story of Warm Bronze, Part 4
Author: mustbethursday3
Prompt(s): #129, Running for camelot_love's drabble part of SPRING FLING.
Rating/Warnings: G
Word Count: N/A
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Gwen/Merlin, Arthur/Merlin (friends) Arthur/Gwen/Merlin (friendshipyness), Lancelot?
Summary: Gwen just needs time to heal and recover. Maybe making friends with the weirdos in the forest will help?
Author's notes: It's some weird retelling of Snow White that popped into my head. So, yeh, going to muddy up the waters of fairytaledom as much as possible . . . coz I can XD. It's been 'a while' since I last posted to this story. Spring fling you whisper incredulously as you look at you screen. YES. I still owe things, lets not go into it. I meant to take this some place different, but that was taking me forever (I had people cursed with shape changes at night) so I opted out? LOL. And bypassed my own crazy. Who knew I could swerve? Oh, you should have told me!
A/N PART 2: Italics are thinking, memories and exaggeration. I didn't use talking marks for the mems, I like it without it. Gwen could be called anything from Guinevere, Neve, Nev, or Never. This is unbetad and imperfect. But it's off my conscious. \o/
FYI I made Gwen an Empath; 'Empathy is the ability to read and understand people and be in-tune with or resonate with others, voluntarily or involuntarily of one's empath capacity.
Empaths have the ability to scan another's psyche for thoughts and feelings or for past, present, and future life occurrences. Many empaths are unaware of how this actually works, and have long accepted that they were sensitive to others.'
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The sunlight strikes the interloper’s partially covered head, as he moves towards them. And Guinevere knows she’s being studied. Even before Arthur pulls himself up to his full height.
She always knows.
People have always stared at her, and it had only increased with each year until her father’s death - whereupon no one had even bothered to pretend that they weren’t gawking.
These past years she’d been the shadow within Talia’s walls, the memory of a past that was purposely veiled and rewritten to favor its new monarch. As easily brushed aside as the winter snow in the courtyard, or the leaves in autumn.
She is the last surviving piece of her father in the whole world.
The last to speak to him.
The girl who was hated and feared more than any other, for reasons she could not control, choices she did not make, and rules she did not write.
And everyone had waited for the tide to turn; she’d seen it in their eyes, felt it, a quiet desperation which had become acceptance. Because she had been as helpless as they, her limbs frozen and her voice silenced by a murky indecision and grief.
Guinevere notices a rehearsed grace in each step, as the man frees himself from the shadows as if shaking off cobwebs. She gets the feeling that there’s more to him than this, that he ignores her unkempt appearance - filing it away for later reflection - preferring to favor the things less obvious.
Unknown is unpredictable. 'never, you must know your opponent before you strike.
Father, are these lessons necessary? We've never been at war...
“Is he yours?” she asks, and feels Arthur’s arms loosen at the man’s approach. But still he is unwilling to release her, so she speaks to the stranger again. “And would you be so kind as to call this thug off?”
The man keeps his silence so Guinevere begins an assessment of her own.
The light reveals him to be tall, with broad shoulders - though perhaps not as wide as Arthur’s, but an attractive build nonetheless. A freemason's son possibly, as his arms are well muscled. Maybe from a farming background, going by his tanned skin. Though that might just be from the last few years.
His clothes are worn, well used and faded as they poke out from his long green cloak. And unless she’s greatly mistaken, with a vaguely confident air swirling around him, he’s a leader.
But surely Arthur cannot be taking orders from this man?
Guinevere shoots a furtive glance over her shoulder, only managing to see Arthur’s Adam’s apple bobbing, letting her know that he’s as unsure about this as she. And it worries her to think of what she could have missed.
May I have this dance?
Do I look that desperate?
Yes. Get up. You could probably use the exercise.
The Arthur of her memory is proud. Single-minded and awfully straightforward, he without doubt would not defected from Camelot? From his father?
Guinevere's eyes widened slightly, could Merlin have . . .
You should tell Arthur...
Neve.
How can you still not trust him?
How can you?
That's unfair.
“You can let her go.”
Startled back into the present Guinevere stands straighter. He’s stopped a few feet from them, his hazel eyes locking with hers. And then his head tilts, as if he’s trying to draw a name to mind, to place her.
“Where do I know you from?”
The mask covers the lower part of his face, but even with that she’s willing to guess they’ve never met. It had been long since she has had the opportunity or the will to associate with anyone. No longer attending court for months, not since she’d be turned away by order of the Queen. Guinevere highly doubts that they are of any acquaintance, no matter how small.
Not that she is about to out herself as part of a royal line. She’d been part in one too many kidnap attempts and sieges to warrant any trust in her name outside the castle. And even there her name was enough to draw tension from nothing, filling the air, and her lungs as if it drowned her.
She is no fool.
Importunely Arthur seemed happy to disregard thought.
“Princess Guinevere was just explaining her presence,” he announces, stepping back. And Guinevere cannot help the twist in her mouth as she resists the urge to stamp on his foot.
“My Lady,” the man practically purrs, reaching for her hand, which she allows him to bring to his mouth. She should charge money for the honor. Given her current situation part of her almost seriously considers it. His lips are cool and she stands firm against her nose, which is desperate to wrinkle in displeasure.
She hasn’t got time for ceremony.
“And you are?” Guinevere asks, considering him carefully. Arthur will defend her, she has no doubt of that much, but maybe this man could prove useful to her.
“A friend.”
“My 'friends' have names.”
“You may call me Robin.”
Her eyes roll on their own accord. “You will not even pretend that that is your name?”
“I do not believe you fool enough to fall for such deception, my La-”
Guinevere's quick, her hand slapping his forearm with perhaps more force than necessary but it’s been a tough day and her nerves are frayed. She hears Arthur’s muffled chuckled from behind her.
“You’re going to want to stop calling me that now,” She advises ‘Robin’ slowly, stepping even closer to him, her dark eyes holding his as she removes her hand. “It’s 'Never.” Her mouth lilts a little, her lips forming an imperfect smile, “. . . to my friends.”
_ _ _
What are-...Arthur?
Dance with me.
It's midnight.
The moons out.
You're mad . . . let me get my cloak.
Arthur watches Guinevere smiling to herself as they walk, silently following after ‘Robin’, who had insisted she come back to camp with them.
The Princess had even shot him a wicked little grin as she'd agreed.
I'd be honored.
“What?” he demands finally. Tired of guessing at what Guinevere is thinking with that wiry mind of hers.
Currently, they are trailing a good ten meters after Robin so he feels relatively safe talking, as long as they keep their voices low. Robin’s hearing is keen, he knows from experience.
Those big brown eyes turn on him, and he feels a flush cover his cheeks, his eyes falling to her lips, full, soft and ripe with mirth. She really is the last person he needs to see right now.
“What is all this?” Guinevere laughs, softly, also aware of the other man. “And why are you wearing a mask and where’s Merlin? I need someone sensible to talk to.”
He stares at her, before doggedly tearing his gaze away, “Which question first?”
He listens as she takes a breath, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her glance up at the canopy above, “Okay, where’s Merlin?” she sighs.
“You’re just assuming I brought him?”
“Yes.”
His lips twist in a dry grin, “Fine, he’s around,” he admits.
“Around . . . being?”
Arthur chuckles, “You hate me knowing more than you don’t you?”
“Well,” she says turning to look up at him. “Maybe if you weren’t drawing it out for fun.”
He makes a scoffing noise. “Look, I’ll make you a deal-”
“Uh oh, that sounds ominous,” she mutters, lifting her skirts with her hands to stop them trailing over the leaf matter.
He looks down at her, feeling safer now that she isn’t looking back at him, and takes in her appearance. Her skirts are torn, large jagged holes lining the outer layers, and part of the bottom has been removed in one long strip as if she’d ripped it instead of stopping to free herself. And there is that sleeve he’d removed, so she has one tattered one left, little blotches of red marking the delicate cloth in a way that makes him completely furious at her for being so blithe.
It was nothing I couldn't handle.
But amazingly, despite the barest trace of dirt and leaves in her hair, and that angry red line marking her neck, she looks unhurt and her hair is still curled and perfect.
If he is honest she looks good.
No. That isn’t true.
More than good, she is gorgeous, the wild look about her only adding intensity. And she's still holding her head high; nothing it seems is capable of dulling her beauty and vivacity.
“You answer one question, and then I’ll answer one question. Now what happened to you?”
He doesn’t miss the way her mouth tightens before she turns her head away, as if to study the plants to her left, “I finally . . . said something,” she answers, softly. “Now I’m here with you - go on guess how it went.”
_ _ _
Papa, I have found the most delightful creature-
'Never-
SIRE, we cannot have that beast in the throne room.
Oh, Percy you brute! He can hear you! And look, Sir pawington likes you! Can you not just return the sentiment?
Guinevere...do you not feel you were hasty in naming him before knowing if he could stay?
But he is the last one I promise. Papa, please. Is he to be thrown out into the cold when we have so much room for him here?
...'Neve-
I knew you'd say yes! Didn't I paws? I said Papa was wonderful.
When Guinevere was a little girl her father had told her stories of past Kings and Queens, warriors and knights, sorcerers and sorceresses. Of days that ended too soon and moments that lasted forever, of loss and triumph, of the great men and women who crafted and cared for Talia, for their home, and how she was to play her part in that.
That one day she would take the reins from him, hold her head high during the hard times, staying steady and true, and never losing sight of the bigger picture. That she was being relied upon to care and try and fight for her people, for herself.
She was supposed to stand when others fell, run toward when others ran away, she had been raised to be this great person who she could never quiet see, or understand. She had nothing, but she wasn’t afraid, she was lost, but she had purpose, she wanted to stop, to cry, but she didn’t. Couldn’t.
What she wanted to more then anything was to ask him why? What he wanted her to do now? Why he’d armed her with these personality traits? What was she supposed to do with them? When was it time to give up and would she even recognize it?
At night, she would curl up on her side and wonder if perhaps his lessons hadn’t been cut short, if maybe he hadn’t finished equipping her with what she needed to know, and that’s why she felt so unbalanced. So, shaky and unpredictable.
But she knew now that there were some things you couldn’t be told, you needed to get the scratches and bruises to know better - the people and actions and consequences - you needed to weather through the pain to deserve the better times. To know who you are, and not who people think you are.
Father?...Papa what is it? What's wrong?
Please get up...please Papa.
Don't leave me
And she’d survived, though the poison was probably meant for her as well.
_ _ _
“It looks worse than it is,” Guinevere says, pulling self-consciously at her skirts, when she sees him.
Merlin doesn’t say a word, he just hugs her - it’s a childish hug, all hands and arms and hair caught on buttons - and her smile stutters for a moment. He was always different, like her, but at the same time and like no one. And there’s something so upsettingly calm and familiar about him that she starts to cry.
Exhaustion isn’t a complete enough word for her feelings, she’s sick of fighting to exist in a world that has no place for her. She’s tired of being the problem. She’s fatigued from living this long. And it scares her how easy it all comes rushing back when she presses her ear to Merlin’s chest.
Listening to the thump of his heart she feels something stir, waking finally.
Merlin?
You looked lonely.
...I can smile if you want.
Nev . . . you never have to be anything but you.
“I missed you,” she whispers, as she pulls back.
“Oh . . . Guin-” Merlin frowns, looking her over for injuries.
Get out!
No!
You don't belong here!
“I’m sorry for what I said to you at the funeral,” Guinevere says quietly. “Merlin, I-”
“-don’t need to apologize,” he interrupts. “I shouldn’t have let you get to me. I knew you were grieving.”
It’s quiet for a moment.
Do you still have the nightmares?
Only every other night.
“Morgana’s going to kill me. And after everything, can I honestly say I don’t deserve it?”
“The crown isn’t hers-”
“Do you know what the real difference is, for someone of birth compared to anyone else? We have to be great, we have to be fearless, and work tirelessly to deserve the respect that is handed to us - I didn't have the luxury of being anything less, Merlin.”
“You can’t change what’s already done,” he replies, wisely. It's something she's told him more than once.
“And if I can’t live with it?”
They're to be executed.
Standing back, Arthur watches the other side of the clearing pretending not to listen them. Robin is alerting the other men to their new guest, probably warning them as well, if he knows what’s good for him.
I swear my Lord it is the truth, she called flame into being with will alone...
If he knows to believe the rumors of the fair princess.
Inadvertently, Guinevere's head whips in Arthur’s direction, the sharp sting of anxiety tingling along her nerves. Merlin’s hand slips into hers and she meets his calm blue eyes.
One breath at a time, one thought at a-
Merlin, did you just explain breathing to me?
Since she was small she’s been the observer, and her talent - something that had emerged in her teenage years - had strengthened that disposition.
To be able to see the grey and yellow marring the space around Arthur, to smell burned metal and taste the bitterness from him is powerfully distracting.
Who someone is, is always very clear to her after a certain amount of exposure. But skin to skin contact is the strongest.
Arthur’s natural state is gold and red waves, faintly scented with roses. Beautiful and ornate. And the last time Guinevere had witnessed it had been at the feast held in memoriam for her father. Where the prince had tried to talk to her, but she’d turned him away, instead choosing to join a conversation that his father had been having with a knight. Committed to ignoring the hurt she’d felt pulse down her spine.
Don't kiss me.
What?
You were thinking it. Oh Arthur, I can always tell.
You can not!
...You're thinking it right now.
Arthur’s overwhelming. Perpetually. He gives himself over to one emotion, and sinks into it. It weighs on him, and in his presence it weighs on her.
But Merlin’s the opposite . . . he feels everything all the time, ambivalent, always changing like a current in a river, his emotions move too fast to all be seen at once. A lifetime ago, during visits, Guinevere would press her hand to Merlin’s cheek, his arm, his hip, experimenting, laughing with him as he blushed. The flames from the candles licking higher up the wall to her delight and his exasperation.
Stop.
Make. Me.
I will...
If this is you trying . . . I fear for Camelot.
And ultimately Merlin had had influence enough to block her. Like a wall he had shielded himself off from the sparks of amusement she had been sharing with him. And now, as he links their fingers she feels the memories ebb.
“You don’t deserve anything near as bad as you think you do,” Merlin speaks firmly, like he’s expecting an argument. “You’re human, you make mistakes. And as a leader you will do what’s best for your people. They need you.”
Lilacs, spring, cobalt blue. Affection.
He doesn’t dismiss it by saying that she was young - he knows better.
Guinevere looks at him for a long moment, his hand is warm pressed to hers, and she must sit before she falls down. For, there is much to think about, many things she has been waiting to say.
Waiting for someone to want to know.
However, time is short; Morgana comes for her as sure as the sun rises tomorrow.
“I think we should get some food into you,” Arthur says, surprising both Guinevere and Merlin, who had forgotten him, “how long since you last ate?”
Guinevere can’t even remember and shakes her head, but shakes it firmer when Arthur takes her free hand and starts dragging her (and Merlin) over to the campfire. “Arthur-”
“Guinevere, have you power enough to change my mind?” Arthur asks suddenly, slowing just a tad and allowing both her and Merlin to regain some balance.
“Well-”
The prince is firm. “Didn’t think so.”
Guinevere frowns, “Merlin,” she turns, gripping his hand tight when he tries to let go.
Oh, she’s well aware of the waves of annoyance and frustration that he must be gleaming from both her and Arthur. That together their feelings are too strong for Merlin’s little shield wall.
But Guinevere reasons that if she has to feel this than so does he.
“Just like old times,” Merlin mutters. “This brings back memories of that picnic…”
In sync, both Guinevere and Arthur turn to glare at him. Arthur looks at the bandana around Merlin’s neck.
“Why aren’t you wearing your mask?”
“It’s itchy.”
"Itchy."
"And I'm getting a rash from it."
Arthur blinks. “I don’t even know . . . how to respond to that. We're on a mission.”
“So, I'm a hostage now,” the princess muses. “Am I going to have to fight you both for my freedom? That might be a laugh.”
“Nev, we’ll introduce you ‘round . . . and then work that little detail out,” Merlin replies, still glaring at Arthur.
“Don’t believe for a second that you could beat me, Guinevere.”
“That’s because you beat yourself so well, Arthur,” Merlin smirks.
Arthur looks at him in disbelief, while Guinevere's face flushes hotly, before she cracks up and begins anxiously trying to pull her hand from his.
“Oh my god, too much information!”
“He’s LYING. You're lying.”
"Let go."
“Exactly, like that picnic,” Merlin says, shaking his head.
Roses. Flashes of red and gold.
Guinevere catches Arthur’s gaze, and makes him laugh by widening her eyes comically.
"You and that picnic. From what I remember someone ended up in the lake. And it wasn't me."
"You TRIPPED me."
Amused, Merlin watches the colours dance on 'Never's skin, before they move along her torn clothes. She’s a mirror of the prince; as almost reminiscent of lightening, flashes of red and gold, wash from her to him and back again.
“Did I mention that Arthur’s been cooking?”
Guinevere gapes. "No! How many victims?"
I think we should go on a picnic.
Okay, just let me-
The three of us.
I'm...sorry. What?
Trust me.
That's what you said before the fire...
That was a six months ago!
And my father still brings it up!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
No rhyme this time guys, maybe next time . . . she says, hoping that there's no next time XD
P1>>>Awkward
P2>>>Duel
P3>>>Running
So YES. A little different then the rest . . . but still alright?
I can finish things \o/
What this chapter/part/ending didn't include was that the guys, Lancelot's crew are:
DeWolves (A band of renegade misfits or rob and give stuff);
Robin - Lancelot
Doc - Gaius
Haughty - Arthur
Dopey - Merlin
Sleazy/Sleepy - Alvarr
Happy - Leon
Bashful aka 'Bash'- William
AND I KNOW. I SUCK FOR NOT BEING ABLE TO WRITE THAT. Maybe a little something next MERLIN-GAP? I could *struggles for a straight face* write a DRABBLE?
Author: mustbethursday3
Prompt(s): #129, Running for camelot_love's drabble part of SPRING FLING.
Rating/Warnings: G
Word Count: N/A
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Gwen/Merlin, Arthur/Merlin (friends) Arthur/Gwen/Merlin (friendshipyness), Lancelot?
Summary: Gwen just needs time to heal and recover. Maybe making friends with the weirdos in the forest will help?
Author's notes: It's some weird retelling of Snow White that popped into my head. So, yeh, going to muddy up the waters of fairytaledom as much as possible . . . coz I can XD. It's been 'a while' since I last posted to this story. Spring fling you whisper incredulously as you look at you screen. YES. I still owe things, lets not go into it. I meant to take this some place different, but that was taking me forever (I had people cursed with shape changes at night) so I opted out? LOL. And bypassed my own crazy. Who knew I could swerve? Oh, you should have told me!
A/N PART 2: Italics are thinking, memories and exaggeration. I didn't use talking marks for the mems, I like it without it. Gwen could be called anything from Guinevere, Neve, Nev, or Never. This is unbetad and imperfect. But it's off my conscious. \o/
FYI I made Gwen an Empath; 'Empathy is the ability to read and understand people and be in-tune with or resonate with others, voluntarily or involuntarily of one's empath capacity.
Empaths have the ability to scan another's psyche for thoughts and feelings or for past, present, and future life occurrences. Many empaths are unaware of how this actually works, and have long accepted that they were sensitive to others.'
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The sunlight strikes the interloper’s partially covered head, as he moves towards them. And Guinevere knows she’s being studied. Even before Arthur pulls himself up to his full height.
She always knows.
People have always stared at her, and it had only increased with each year until her father’s death - whereupon no one had even bothered to pretend that they weren’t gawking.
These past years she’d been the shadow within Talia’s walls, the memory of a past that was purposely veiled and rewritten to favor its new monarch. As easily brushed aside as the winter snow in the courtyard, or the leaves in autumn.
She is the last surviving piece of her father in the whole world.
The last to speak to him.
The girl who was hated and feared more than any other, for reasons she could not control, choices she did not make, and rules she did not write.
And everyone had waited for the tide to turn; she’d seen it in their eyes, felt it, a quiet desperation which had become acceptance. Because she had been as helpless as they, her limbs frozen and her voice silenced by a murky indecision and grief.
Guinevere notices a rehearsed grace in each step, as the man frees himself from the shadows as if shaking off cobwebs. She gets the feeling that there’s more to him than this, that he ignores her unkempt appearance - filing it away for later reflection - preferring to favor the things less obvious.
Unknown is unpredictable. 'never, you must know your opponent before you strike.
Father, are these lessons necessary? We've never been at war...
“Is he yours?” she asks, and feels Arthur’s arms loosen at the man’s approach. But still he is unwilling to release her, so she speaks to the stranger again. “And would you be so kind as to call this thug off?”
The man keeps his silence so Guinevere begins an assessment of her own.
The light reveals him to be tall, with broad shoulders - though perhaps not as wide as Arthur’s, but an attractive build nonetheless. A freemason's son possibly, as his arms are well muscled. Maybe from a farming background, going by his tanned skin. Though that might just be from the last few years.
His clothes are worn, well used and faded as they poke out from his long green cloak. And unless she’s greatly mistaken, with a vaguely confident air swirling around him, he’s a leader.
But surely Arthur cannot be taking orders from this man?
Guinevere shoots a furtive glance over her shoulder, only managing to see Arthur’s Adam’s apple bobbing, letting her know that he’s as unsure about this as she. And it worries her to think of what she could have missed.
May I have this dance?
Do I look that desperate?
Yes. Get up. You could probably use the exercise.
The Arthur of her memory is proud. Single-minded and awfully straightforward, he without doubt would not defected from Camelot? From his father?
Guinevere's eyes widened slightly, could Merlin have . . .
You should tell Arthur...
Neve.
How can you still not trust him?
How can you?
That's unfair.
“You can let her go.”
Startled back into the present Guinevere stands straighter. He’s stopped a few feet from them, his hazel eyes locking with hers. And then his head tilts, as if he’s trying to draw a name to mind, to place her.
“Where do I know you from?”
The mask covers the lower part of his face, but even with that she’s willing to guess they’ve never met. It had been long since she has had the opportunity or the will to associate with anyone. No longer attending court for months, not since she’d be turned away by order of the Queen. Guinevere highly doubts that they are of any acquaintance, no matter how small.
Not that she is about to out herself as part of a royal line. She’d been part in one too many kidnap attempts and sieges to warrant any trust in her name outside the castle. And even there her name was enough to draw tension from nothing, filling the air, and her lungs as if it drowned her.
She is no fool.
Importunely Arthur seemed happy to disregard thought.
“Princess Guinevere was just explaining her presence,” he announces, stepping back. And Guinevere cannot help the twist in her mouth as she resists the urge to stamp on his foot.
“My Lady,” the man practically purrs, reaching for her hand, which she allows him to bring to his mouth. She should charge money for the honor. Given her current situation part of her almost seriously considers it. His lips are cool and she stands firm against her nose, which is desperate to wrinkle in displeasure.
She hasn’t got time for ceremony.
“And you are?” Guinevere asks, considering him carefully. Arthur will defend her, she has no doubt of that much, but maybe this man could prove useful to her.
“A friend.”
“My 'friends' have names.”
“You may call me Robin.”
Her eyes roll on their own accord. “You will not even pretend that that is your name?”
“I do not believe you fool enough to fall for such deception, my La-”
Guinevere's quick, her hand slapping his forearm with perhaps more force than necessary but it’s been a tough day and her nerves are frayed. She hears Arthur’s muffled chuckled from behind her.
“You’re going to want to stop calling me that now,” She advises ‘Robin’ slowly, stepping even closer to him, her dark eyes holding his as she removes her hand. “It’s 'Never.” Her mouth lilts a little, her lips forming an imperfect smile, “. . . to my friends.”
_ _ _
What are-...Arthur?
Dance with me.
It's midnight.
The moons out.
You're mad . . . let me get my cloak.
Arthur watches Guinevere smiling to herself as they walk, silently following after ‘Robin’, who had insisted she come back to camp with them.
The Princess had even shot him a wicked little grin as she'd agreed.
I'd be honored.
“What?” he demands finally. Tired of guessing at what Guinevere is thinking with that wiry mind of hers.
Currently, they are trailing a good ten meters after Robin so he feels relatively safe talking, as long as they keep their voices low. Robin’s hearing is keen, he knows from experience.
Those big brown eyes turn on him, and he feels a flush cover his cheeks, his eyes falling to her lips, full, soft and ripe with mirth. She really is the last person he needs to see right now.
“What is all this?” Guinevere laughs, softly, also aware of the other man. “And why are you wearing a mask and where’s Merlin? I need someone sensible to talk to.”
He stares at her, before doggedly tearing his gaze away, “Which question first?”
He listens as she takes a breath, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her glance up at the canopy above, “Okay, where’s Merlin?” she sighs.
“You’re just assuming I brought him?”
“Yes.”
His lips twist in a dry grin, “Fine, he’s around,” he admits.
“Around . . . being?”
Arthur chuckles, “You hate me knowing more than you don’t you?”
“Well,” she says turning to look up at him. “Maybe if you weren’t drawing it out for fun.”
He makes a scoffing noise. “Look, I’ll make you a deal-”
“Uh oh, that sounds ominous,” she mutters, lifting her skirts with her hands to stop them trailing over the leaf matter.
He looks down at her, feeling safer now that she isn’t looking back at him, and takes in her appearance. Her skirts are torn, large jagged holes lining the outer layers, and part of the bottom has been removed in one long strip as if she’d ripped it instead of stopping to free herself. And there is that sleeve he’d removed, so she has one tattered one left, little blotches of red marking the delicate cloth in a way that makes him completely furious at her for being so blithe.
It was nothing I couldn't handle.
But amazingly, despite the barest trace of dirt and leaves in her hair, and that angry red line marking her neck, she looks unhurt and her hair is still curled and perfect.
If he is honest she looks good.
No. That isn’t true.
More than good, she is gorgeous, the wild look about her only adding intensity. And she's still holding her head high; nothing it seems is capable of dulling her beauty and vivacity.
“You answer one question, and then I’ll answer one question. Now what happened to you?”
He doesn’t miss the way her mouth tightens before she turns her head away, as if to study the plants to her left, “I finally . . . said something,” she answers, softly. “Now I’m here with you - go on guess how it went.”
_ _ _
Papa, I have found the most delightful creature-
'Never-
SIRE, we cannot have that beast in the throne room.
Oh, Percy you brute! He can hear you! And look, Sir pawington likes you! Can you not just return the sentiment?
Guinevere...do you not feel you were hasty in naming him before knowing if he could stay?
But he is the last one I promise. Papa, please. Is he to be thrown out into the cold when we have so much room for him here?
...'Neve-
I knew you'd say yes! Didn't I paws? I said Papa was wonderful.
When Guinevere was a little girl her father had told her stories of past Kings and Queens, warriors and knights, sorcerers and sorceresses. Of days that ended too soon and moments that lasted forever, of loss and triumph, of the great men and women who crafted and cared for Talia, for their home, and how she was to play her part in that.
That one day she would take the reins from him, hold her head high during the hard times, staying steady and true, and never losing sight of the bigger picture. That she was being relied upon to care and try and fight for her people, for herself.
She was supposed to stand when others fell, run toward when others ran away, she had been raised to be this great person who she could never quiet see, or understand. She had nothing, but she wasn’t afraid, she was lost, but she had purpose, she wanted to stop, to cry, but she didn’t. Couldn’t.
What she wanted to more then anything was to ask him why? What he wanted her to do now? Why he’d armed her with these personality traits? What was she supposed to do with them? When was it time to give up and would she even recognize it?
At night, she would curl up on her side and wonder if perhaps his lessons hadn’t been cut short, if maybe he hadn’t finished equipping her with what she needed to know, and that’s why she felt so unbalanced. So, shaky and unpredictable.
But she knew now that there were some things you couldn’t be told, you needed to get the scratches and bruises to know better - the people and actions and consequences - you needed to weather through the pain to deserve the better times. To know who you are, and not who people think you are.
Father?...Papa what is it? What's wrong?
Please get up...please Papa.
Don't leave me
And she’d survived, though the poison was probably meant for her as well.
_ _ _
“It looks worse than it is,” Guinevere says, pulling self-consciously at her skirts, when she sees him.
Merlin doesn’t say a word, he just hugs her - it’s a childish hug, all hands and arms and hair caught on buttons - and her smile stutters for a moment. He was always different, like her, but at the same time and like no one. And there’s something so upsettingly calm and familiar about him that she starts to cry.
Exhaustion isn’t a complete enough word for her feelings, she’s sick of fighting to exist in a world that has no place for her. She’s tired of being the problem. She’s fatigued from living this long. And it scares her how easy it all comes rushing back when she presses her ear to Merlin’s chest.
Listening to the thump of his heart she feels something stir, waking finally.
Merlin?
You looked lonely.
...I can smile if you want.
Nev . . . you never have to be anything but you.
“I missed you,” she whispers, as she pulls back.
“Oh . . . Guin-” Merlin frowns, looking her over for injuries.
Get out!
No!
You don't belong here!
“I’m sorry for what I said to you at the funeral,” Guinevere says quietly. “Merlin, I-”
“-don’t need to apologize,” he interrupts. “I shouldn’t have let you get to me. I knew you were grieving.”
It’s quiet for a moment.
Do you still have the nightmares?
Only every other night.
“Morgana’s going to kill me. And after everything, can I honestly say I don’t deserve it?”
“The crown isn’t hers-”
“Do you know what the real difference is, for someone of birth compared to anyone else? We have to be great, we have to be fearless, and work tirelessly to deserve the respect that is handed to us - I didn't have the luxury of being anything less, Merlin.”
“You can’t change what’s already done,” he replies, wisely. It's something she's told him more than once.
“And if I can’t live with it?”
They're to be executed.
Standing back, Arthur watches the other side of the clearing pretending not to listen them. Robin is alerting the other men to their new guest, probably warning them as well, if he knows what’s good for him.
I swear my Lord it is the truth, she called flame into being with will alone...
If he knows to believe the rumors of the fair princess.
Inadvertently, Guinevere's head whips in Arthur’s direction, the sharp sting of anxiety tingling along her nerves. Merlin’s hand slips into hers and she meets his calm blue eyes.
One breath at a time, one thought at a-
Merlin, did you just explain breathing to me?
Since she was small she’s been the observer, and her talent - something that had emerged in her teenage years - had strengthened that disposition.
To be able to see the grey and yellow marring the space around Arthur, to smell burned metal and taste the bitterness from him is powerfully distracting.
Who someone is, is always very clear to her after a certain amount of exposure. But skin to skin contact is the strongest.
Arthur’s natural state is gold and red waves, faintly scented with roses. Beautiful and ornate. And the last time Guinevere had witnessed it had been at the feast held in memoriam for her father. Where the prince had tried to talk to her, but she’d turned him away, instead choosing to join a conversation that his father had been having with a knight. Committed to ignoring the hurt she’d felt pulse down her spine.
Don't kiss me.
What?
You were thinking it. Oh Arthur, I can always tell.
You can not!
...You're thinking it right now.
Arthur’s overwhelming. Perpetually. He gives himself over to one emotion, and sinks into it. It weighs on him, and in his presence it weighs on her.
But Merlin’s the opposite . . . he feels everything all the time, ambivalent, always changing like a current in a river, his emotions move too fast to all be seen at once. A lifetime ago, during visits, Guinevere would press her hand to Merlin’s cheek, his arm, his hip, experimenting, laughing with him as he blushed. The flames from the candles licking higher up the wall to her delight and his exasperation.
Stop.
Make. Me.
I will...
If this is you trying . . . I fear for Camelot.
And ultimately Merlin had had influence enough to block her. Like a wall he had shielded himself off from the sparks of amusement she had been sharing with him. And now, as he links their fingers she feels the memories ebb.
“You don’t deserve anything near as bad as you think you do,” Merlin speaks firmly, like he’s expecting an argument. “You’re human, you make mistakes. And as a leader you will do what’s best for your people. They need you.”
Lilacs, spring, cobalt blue. Affection.
He doesn’t dismiss it by saying that she was young - he knows better.
Guinevere looks at him for a long moment, his hand is warm pressed to hers, and she must sit before she falls down. For, there is much to think about, many things she has been waiting to say.
Waiting for someone to want to know.
However, time is short; Morgana comes for her as sure as the sun rises tomorrow.
“I think we should get some food into you,” Arthur says, surprising both Guinevere and Merlin, who had forgotten him, “how long since you last ate?”
Guinevere can’t even remember and shakes her head, but shakes it firmer when Arthur takes her free hand and starts dragging her (and Merlin) over to the campfire. “Arthur-”
“Guinevere, have you power enough to change my mind?” Arthur asks suddenly, slowing just a tad and allowing both her and Merlin to regain some balance.
“Well-”
The prince is firm. “Didn’t think so.”
Guinevere frowns, “Merlin,” she turns, gripping his hand tight when he tries to let go.
Oh, she’s well aware of the waves of annoyance and frustration that he must be gleaming from both her and Arthur. That together their feelings are too strong for Merlin’s little shield wall.
But Guinevere reasons that if she has to feel this than so does he.
“Just like old times,” Merlin mutters. “This brings back memories of that picnic…”
In sync, both Guinevere and Arthur turn to glare at him. Arthur looks at the bandana around Merlin’s neck.
“Why aren’t you wearing your mask?”
“It’s itchy.”
"Itchy."
"And I'm getting a rash from it."
Arthur blinks. “I don’t even know . . . how to respond to that. We're on a mission.”
“So, I'm a hostage now,” the princess muses. “Am I going to have to fight you both for my freedom? That might be a laugh.”
“Nev, we’ll introduce you ‘round . . . and then work that little detail out,” Merlin replies, still glaring at Arthur.
“Don’t believe for a second that you could beat me, Guinevere.”
“That’s because you beat yourself so well, Arthur,” Merlin smirks.
Arthur looks at him in disbelief, while Guinevere's face flushes hotly, before she cracks up and begins anxiously trying to pull her hand from his.
“Oh my god, too much information!”
“He’s LYING. You're lying.”
"Let go."
“Exactly, like that picnic,” Merlin says, shaking his head.
Roses. Flashes of red and gold.
Guinevere catches Arthur’s gaze, and makes him laugh by widening her eyes comically.
"You and that picnic. From what I remember someone ended up in the lake. And it wasn't me."
"You TRIPPED me."
Amused, Merlin watches the colours dance on 'Never's skin, before they move along her torn clothes. She’s a mirror of the prince; as almost reminiscent of lightening, flashes of red and gold, wash from her to him and back again.
“Did I mention that Arthur’s been cooking?”
Guinevere gapes. "No! How many victims?"
I think we should go on a picnic.
Okay, just let me-
The three of us.
I'm...sorry. What?
Trust me.
That's what you said before the fire...
That was a six months ago!
And my father still brings it up!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
No rhyme this time guys, maybe next time . . . she says, hoping that there's no next time XD
P1>>>Awkward
P2>>>Duel
P3>>>Running
So YES. A little different then the rest . . . but still alright?
I can finish things \o/
What this chapter/part/ending didn't include was that the guys, Lancelot's crew are:
DeWolves (A band of renegade misfits or rob and give stuff);
Robin - Lancelot
Doc - Gaius
Haughty - Arthur
Dopey - Merlin
Sleazy/Sleepy - Alvarr
Happy - Leon
Bashful aka 'Bash'- William
AND I KNOW. I SUCK FOR NOT BEING ABLE TO WRITE THAT. Maybe a little something next MERLIN-GAP? I could *struggles for a straight face* write a DRABBLE?