show you how a real queen behaves (Gwen,Arwen fic)
Title: show you how a real queen behaves
Author: turquoisetumult
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1838
Characters/Pairings: Gwen, Arthur, Gwen/Arthur
Genre: Romance/general.
Notes: Rewatched the series with a friend and it just dawned on me just how wonderful Gwen is and what an amazing queen she was. But, of course, I doubt she herself was without doubt, particularly in the early days. So I wrote this little thing both as an attempt to showcase my Gwen and Arwen love and to get back on the creative horse. I'll let you be the judge of how well I managed. :) Feedback appreciated!
Summary:
Sandwiching Arthur’s hand between hers, Gwen glances down, and utters, “It feels like I can’t breathe.”
His head perks up and he distances himself slightly, as if to make his way to the door. “Oh, well, if it’s too tight, I’ll call back the seamstress and-”
Shaking her head, she finds herself blinking away the mist in her eyes, as she half-smiles and croaks out, “That- that’s not what I meant.”
--- Gwen is a true queen, but it isn't always easy to be introspective.---
There’s a moment when Gwen looks up from her feet and thinks it’s just a trick of the sunlight in the mirror’s reflection that makes it appear like a yellow halo hovers behind her shoulder in the distance. She shifts to one side for a wider view, to the meek protest of the handmaiden working at the hem of her dress, and moves swiftly to hide her cheek against her shoulder, now tinted pink at the sight of what she finds leaning beside the chamber’s opening.
“You shouldn’t be here, you know,” Gwen scolds playfully. “Bad luck and all. At least that’s what the other servants used to say.” With a smirk upon her lips, she stares ahead at Arthur’s reflection in the mirror and he stares at her in turn, slumped against the door frame, arms across his chest, a quiet lustfulness in his eyes, scanning his bride-to-be from top to bottom and up again.
Peeling himself off the frame, Arthur straightens, unfolds his arms, and points his chin a little, subconsciously transforming himself from man to king. (It’s a talent Gwen has long admired, curious as to how he’s learned to transition between common and courtly - worry scratching at her insides, that she will not learn to do the same.) Arthur directs his attention toward the young serving girl and commands, voice gentle but firm, “Leave us, please.”
The handmaiden lowers her gaze, curtsying slightly before the king, then scurrying off past him. Stepping forward into the room, Arthur softly closes the door behind him, his eyes never trailing far from Gwen. He pauses for a moment, quietly drinking in the sight of his Guinevere, her natural beauty only enhanced by the presently untailored ceremonial gown, before he shakes his head, as if shaking himself out of a stupor.
He widens his arms in a dramatic manner. “Forgive me, Guinevere, but honestly, I could not help myself. I thought it better to risk superstitious misfortune than to be caught unawares by this,” he gestures toward her, exhaling sharply, “and be left jaw-dropped and speechless at the altar in front of the entire kingdom.”
Gwen feels a warmth flush her face again. She quickly peers over her shoulder and quips, “Is that so? Merlin warned me to expect a clumsy and bumbling idiot instead.” She adds a curious, “Hmm.”
Arthur’s mouth opens in faux-indignation and lets out a weak laugh, causing Gwen to release her own chuckle, and return her gaze to the mirror while smoothing out the fabric of the burgundy gown across her belly. Within an instant, she sees a hand cover hers, intertwining their fingers.
“Truly, Guinevere.” He places a warm and tender kiss on her exposed neck, fleeting but enough to make her grasp his hand tighter. Arthur pulls her closer, nuzzling his cheek against her hair and resting his chin upon her shoulder, regarding her reflection. “You look beautiful. And every bit the queen that you are.”
At these words, Gwen bites her lip and darts her eyes to the ground at the unhemmed dress spooling around her feet. (She’s a fraud; the unfitted gown, proof of a frugal little girl only playing pretend in some noble woman’s clothing.)
Arthur, of course, notices none of this. Instead, he runs the fingertips of his unoccupied hand down the fabric over Gwen’s right hip and only says, smiling in puerile delight, “And it feels soft too!”
Sandwiching Arthur’s hand between hers, Gwen glances down, and utters, “It feels like I can’t breathe.”
His head perks up and he distances himself slightly, as if to make his way to the door. “Oh, well, if it’s too tight, I’ll call back the seamstress and-”
Shaking her head, she finds herself blinking away the mist in her eyes, as she half-smiles and croaks out, “That- that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.” Arthur pulls away a bit more, suddenly finding himself at a loss for words as realization dawns on him.
Gwen withdraws her hands from Arthur’s to slide them over her face. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to-”
Arthur’s carefree smile slips. For a brief moment, Gwen witnesses his mouth twist into agony, his expression revealing a hurt that she only saw once before on a dark and dreadful night, months earlier, when she knelt on the cold stone floor of the throne room before him. Soon enough, the facade of stoicism takes its place. “If you’re having doubts about marrying me…”
“Oh!” she exclaims in surprised recognition of his understanding. “No! Not that.” A memory of an inexplicable lover’s tryst upon the eve of her first wedding date gnaws at her and she adds, “Never that.” She breathes out slowly. “I love you, Arthur. And I want so very much to be your wife. It’s the part after that. And what that entails.”
“After?” Arthur knits his eyebrows in confusion, only for them to rise suddenly in apparent comprehension, and this time it’s his turn to blush. “Do you mean our wedding nigh-”
And this time, Gwen can’t help but laugh at Arthur’s utter puzzlement. She covers her mouth with her hands before removing them and smiling tremulously. “I mean, the part that comes after marrying you, King of Camelot… I happily accept being your wife, Arthur. But to be your queen? I’m not … it’s not like just anyone can be Queen.”
“Of course,” Arthur concurs. “Not just anyone can be Queen. It is a position of great influence and the person who is to sit upon the throne beside me must be wise beyond measure and unafraid to speak her mind, sympathetic toward all of her people’s plights, but steadfast and impartial when necessary.
“So you’re absolutely right. It’s not just anyone that can be worthy of queenship.” He tips his fingers under Gwen’s chin, thumb caressing her jawline and simply declares, “You are.”
With a half-hearted smile that does not meet her eyes, Gwen clears her throat. “I’m not quite sure some of the council will see it that way.”
Arthur parts his lips, only to let out a quiet huff. “You know, you baffle me, Guinevere.” Searching, he counters, “I don’t understand how you have come to me dozens of times over the past few years, essentially giving me the same words of encouragement about my competencies, and not see it in yourself!”
She snaps in retort. “It’s not the same! You’ve been groomed from birth to rule! You’ve had over two decades to play diplomat with other kingdoms, to learn their histories, to walk down the aisle of the throne room with grace and dignity whilst having hundreds judgmental eyes on you.”
It’s with ease and utmost conviction when Arthur replies to her, “Surely you don’t believe you don’t possess that grace and dignity yourself. Because of that, there is no doubt.”
She sighs. “Arthur. It just … feels like a warring battle inside of me. Part of me assures me to have patience and faith, but … it’s just … all so different. And overwhelming. I can’t muster the courage to leave my childhood home for a castle. A castle! With luxurious beds. And I’d rather sleep on a mattress made practically of straw! At times, I find myself driving my nails into my palms to stop myself from wanting to take my own measurements for this absurdly stunning gown! What’s wrong with me!?”
As if all of her breath had been expunged from her form, Gwen murmurs with all the energy she has left, small and despondent, “What if I shall never truly be more than Gwen, the blacksmith’s daughter?”
There’s a moment’s silence in the room after that and Gwen can feel her heart pound in her chest. I’ve been made, she thinks. The fraud’s been ousted by the king himself.
And then he simply brushes his fingers on her bare shoulders, slides them down until they are settled against the fleshiness of her biceps.
“Remind me. Have I always called Guinevere?”
Furrowed brows, she can only muster, “What?”
“Well?” he says, smiling encouragingly, and shaking her slightly to better gain her attention. “Have I?”
In her mind’s eye, there’s an acute echo of a pre-pubescent Arthur calling for Gwen in whispered tones to ask her about her maiden’s whereabouts. “Gwen,” the memory stammered and then called more urgently, “Psst! Gwen! Is Morgana still cross with me?”
She quirks a brief smile at simpler times. “You’ve only really started consistently using my given name in the past few years.”
With a slow nod, Arthur elaborates. “Since we started courting, in fact. Because I saw a queen in you even then. From the moment you followed me outdoors in Ealdor to give me a good thrashing about appreciating hospitality.”
Sheepishly, Gwen interrupts. “It wasn’t that ba-”
“Look, Guinevere,” he asserts. “I admit I haven’t the best record for trusting the right people all of the time. But I know when I see true nobility. I see it in your brother every day.” At this, Gwen beams but falters as Arthur continues, swallowing and looking away for a second. “I saw it in Lancelot, even through all the lies of his supposed lineage all those years ago.” Sardonically, Arthur adds: “Hell, even in Gwaine, and you know that was not easily noticeable straight away…”
The laughter bursts past her lips before she can even attempt to hide it and so Arthur is propelled to go on.
“And…” his hand shifts from her arm to rest gently upon her cheek as she melts into the touch. “I see it in you. I may be good with a sword, but you- you have a strength that I’m not sure I’ll ever possess. Any other qualities that you believe royalty should have will come with time. I’ve no doubt.”
Expelling breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, Gwen smooths her palm upon Arthur’s heart. “Thank you,” she utters, raising her hand to the nape of his neck and pulls him into a warm embrace.
In response, Arthur places a soft kiss on her temple, while she glides her hand down across his shoulder and arm. Disentangling themselves only to back away a hair’s breadth from the other’s face, respiratory heat trapped in the space between them, Gwen quirks a smile. “There are, at least, some queenly duties that do not worry me, you know.”
“Oh?” he wonders, pitch high and eyebrow raised, inviting explanation.
“Well…” she starts, swaying lightly in his continued hold. “It is the responsibility of a queen to help provide healthy heirs for the kingdom’s future, is it not?”
Her coyness is met with a dark-eyed, abandoned look of amusement. “Oh,” he repeats, alluringly, with a soft huskiness marking the word.
“And I am very much committed, as I imagine you are, to fulfilling that particular endeavor over the years to come. Are you in agreement?”
Clasping her hips, he tugs her even closer. With his eyes trailing the upward curl of her lips, he merely answers, “More than I can say, your majesty.”
Author: turquoisetumult
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1838
Characters/Pairings: Gwen, Arthur, Gwen/Arthur
Genre: Romance/general.
Notes: Rewatched the series with a friend and it just dawned on me just how wonderful Gwen is and what an amazing queen she was. But, of course, I doubt she herself was without doubt, particularly in the early days. So I wrote this little thing both as an attempt to showcase my Gwen and Arwen love and to get back on the creative horse. I'll let you be the judge of how well I managed. :) Feedback appreciated!
Summary:
Sandwiching Arthur’s hand between hers, Gwen glances down, and utters, “It feels like I can’t breathe.”
His head perks up and he distances himself slightly, as if to make his way to the door. “Oh, well, if it’s too tight, I’ll call back the seamstress and-”
Shaking her head, she finds herself blinking away the mist in her eyes, as she half-smiles and croaks out, “That- that’s not what I meant.”
--- Gwen is a true queen, but it isn't always easy to be introspective.---
There’s a moment when Gwen looks up from her feet and thinks it’s just a trick of the sunlight in the mirror’s reflection that makes it appear like a yellow halo hovers behind her shoulder in the distance. She shifts to one side for a wider view, to the meek protest of the handmaiden working at the hem of her dress, and moves swiftly to hide her cheek against her shoulder, now tinted pink at the sight of what she finds leaning beside the chamber’s opening.
“You shouldn’t be here, you know,” Gwen scolds playfully. “Bad luck and all. At least that’s what the other servants used to say.” With a smirk upon her lips, she stares ahead at Arthur’s reflection in the mirror and he stares at her in turn, slumped against the door frame, arms across his chest, a quiet lustfulness in his eyes, scanning his bride-to-be from top to bottom and up again.
Peeling himself off the frame, Arthur straightens, unfolds his arms, and points his chin a little, subconsciously transforming himself from man to king. (It’s a talent Gwen has long admired, curious as to how he’s learned to transition between common and courtly - worry scratching at her insides, that she will not learn to do the same.) Arthur directs his attention toward the young serving girl and commands, voice gentle but firm, “Leave us, please.”
The handmaiden lowers her gaze, curtsying slightly before the king, then scurrying off past him. Stepping forward into the room, Arthur softly closes the door behind him, his eyes never trailing far from Gwen. He pauses for a moment, quietly drinking in the sight of his Guinevere, her natural beauty only enhanced by the presently untailored ceremonial gown, before he shakes his head, as if shaking himself out of a stupor.
He widens his arms in a dramatic manner. “Forgive me, Guinevere, but honestly, I could not help myself. I thought it better to risk superstitious misfortune than to be caught unawares by this,” he gestures toward her, exhaling sharply, “and be left jaw-dropped and speechless at the altar in front of the entire kingdom.”
Gwen feels a warmth flush her face again. She quickly peers over her shoulder and quips, “Is that so? Merlin warned me to expect a clumsy and bumbling idiot instead.” She adds a curious, “Hmm.”
Arthur’s mouth opens in faux-indignation and lets out a weak laugh, causing Gwen to release her own chuckle, and return her gaze to the mirror while smoothing out the fabric of the burgundy gown across her belly. Within an instant, she sees a hand cover hers, intertwining their fingers.
“Truly, Guinevere.” He places a warm and tender kiss on her exposed neck, fleeting but enough to make her grasp his hand tighter. Arthur pulls her closer, nuzzling his cheek against her hair and resting his chin upon her shoulder, regarding her reflection. “You look beautiful. And every bit the queen that you are.”
At these words, Gwen bites her lip and darts her eyes to the ground at the unhemmed dress spooling around her feet. (She’s a fraud; the unfitted gown, proof of a frugal little girl only playing pretend in some noble woman’s clothing.)
Arthur, of course, notices none of this. Instead, he runs the fingertips of his unoccupied hand down the fabric over Gwen’s right hip and only says, smiling in puerile delight, “And it feels soft too!”
Sandwiching Arthur’s hand between hers, Gwen glances down, and utters, “It feels like I can’t breathe.”
His head perks up and he distances himself slightly, as if to make his way to the door. “Oh, well, if it’s too tight, I’ll call back the seamstress and-”
Shaking her head, she finds herself blinking away the mist in her eyes, as she half-smiles and croaks out, “That- that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.” Arthur pulls away a bit more, suddenly finding himself at a loss for words as realization dawns on him.
Gwen withdraws her hands from Arthur’s to slide them over her face. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to-”
Arthur’s carefree smile slips. For a brief moment, Gwen witnesses his mouth twist into agony, his expression revealing a hurt that she only saw once before on a dark and dreadful night, months earlier, when she knelt on the cold stone floor of the throne room before him. Soon enough, the facade of stoicism takes its place. “If you’re having doubts about marrying me…”
“Oh!” she exclaims in surprised recognition of his understanding. “No! Not that.” A memory of an inexplicable lover’s tryst upon the eve of her first wedding date gnaws at her and she adds, “Never that.” She breathes out slowly. “I love you, Arthur. And I want so very much to be your wife. It’s the part after that. And what that entails.”
“After?” Arthur knits his eyebrows in confusion, only for them to rise suddenly in apparent comprehension, and this time it’s his turn to blush. “Do you mean our wedding nigh-”
And this time, Gwen can’t help but laugh at Arthur’s utter puzzlement. She covers her mouth with her hands before removing them and smiling tremulously. “I mean, the part that comes after marrying you, King of Camelot… I happily accept being your wife, Arthur. But to be your queen? I’m not … it’s not like just anyone can be Queen.”
“Of course,” Arthur concurs. “Not just anyone can be Queen. It is a position of great influence and the person who is to sit upon the throne beside me must be wise beyond measure and unafraid to speak her mind, sympathetic toward all of her people’s plights, but steadfast and impartial when necessary.
“So you’re absolutely right. It’s not just anyone that can be worthy of queenship.” He tips his fingers under Gwen’s chin, thumb caressing her jawline and simply declares, “You are.”
With a half-hearted smile that does not meet her eyes, Gwen clears her throat. “I’m not quite sure some of the council will see it that way.”
Arthur parts his lips, only to let out a quiet huff. “You know, you baffle me, Guinevere.” Searching, he counters, “I don’t understand how you have come to me dozens of times over the past few years, essentially giving me the same words of encouragement about my competencies, and not see it in yourself!”
She snaps in retort. “It’s not the same! You’ve been groomed from birth to rule! You’ve had over two decades to play diplomat with other kingdoms, to learn their histories, to walk down the aisle of the throne room with grace and dignity whilst having hundreds judgmental eyes on you.”
It’s with ease and utmost conviction when Arthur replies to her, “Surely you don’t believe you don’t possess that grace and dignity yourself. Because of that, there is no doubt.”
She sighs. “Arthur. It just … feels like a warring battle inside of me. Part of me assures me to have patience and faith, but … it’s just … all so different. And overwhelming. I can’t muster the courage to leave my childhood home for a castle. A castle! With luxurious beds. And I’d rather sleep on a mattress made practically of straw! At times, I find myself driving my nails into my palms to stop myself from wanting to take my own measurements for this absurdly stunning gown! What’s wrong with me!?”
As if all of her breath had been expunged from her form, Gwen murmurs with all the energy she has left, small and despondent, “What if I shall never truly be more than Gwen, the blacksmith’s daughter?”
There’s a moment’s silence in the room after that and Gwen can feel her heart pound in her chest. I’ve been made, she thinks. The fraud’s been ousted by the king himself.
And then he simply brushes his fingers on her bare shoulders, slides them down until they are settled against the fleshiness of her biceps.
“Remind me. Have I always called Guinevere?”
Furrowed brows, she can only muster, “What?”
“Well?” he says, smiling encouragingly, and shaking her slightly to better gain her attention. “Have I?”
In her mind’s eye, there’s an acute echo of a pre-pubescent Arthur calling for Gwen in whispered tones to ask her about her maiden’s whereabouts. “Gwen,” the memory stammered and then called more urgently, “Psst! Gwen! Is Morgana still cross with me?”
She quirks a brief smile at simpler times. “You’ve only really started consistently using my given name in the past few years.”
With a slow nod, Arthur elaborates. “Since we started courting, in fact. Because I saw a queen in you even then. From the moment you followed me outdoors in Ealdor to give me a good thrashing about appreciating hospitality.”
Sheepishly, Gwen interrupts. “It wasn’t that ba-”
“Look, Guinevere,” he asserts. “I admit I haven’t the best record for trusting the right people all of the time. But I know when I see true nobility. I see it in your brother every day.” At this, Gwen beams but falters as Arthur continues, swallowing and looking away for a second. “I saw it in Lancelot, even through all the lies of his supposed lineage all those years ago.” Sardonically, Arthur adds: “Hell, even in Gwaine, and you know that was not easily noticeable straight away…”
The laughter bursts past her lips before she can even attempt to hide it and so Arthur is propelled to go on.
“And…” his hand shifts from her arm to rest gently upon her cheek as she melts into the touch. “I see it in you. I may be good with a sword, but you- you have a strength that I’m not sure I’ll ever possess. Any other qualities that you believe royalty should have will come with time. I’ve no doubt.”
Expelling breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, Gwen smooths her palm upon Arthur’s heart. “Thank you,” she utters, raising her hand to the nape of his neck and pulls him into a warm embrace.
In response, Arthur places a soft kiss on her temple, while she glides her hand down across his shoulder and arm. Disentangling themselves only to back away a hair’s breadth from the other’s face, respiratory heat trapped in the space between them, Gwen quirks a smile. “There are, at least, some queenly duties that do not worry me, you know.”
“Oh?” he wonders, pitch high and eyebrow raised, inviting explanation.
“Well…” she starts, swaying lightly in his continued hold. “It is the responsibility of a queen to help provide healthy heirs for the kingdom’s future, is it not?”
Her coyness is met with a dark-eyed, abandoned look of amusement. “Oh,” he repeats, alluringly, with a soft huskiness marking the word.
“And I am very much committed, as I imagine you are, to fulfilling that particular endeavor over the years to come. Are you in agreement?”
Clasping her hips, he tugs her even closer. With his eyes trailing the upward curl of her lips, he merely answers, “More than I can say, your majesty.”