SC6 Entry 3: Silk
Title: Silk
Themes: Silk or Addiction
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,458
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen
Disclaimer: Mordred is a good guy in this, not evil at all. He gets a minor mention.
Summary: While tending an injured Arthur, Guinevere makes an interesting discovery.
“What happened, Arthur?” Merlin asks frantically, helping Arthur down from his horse and into his tent. The king was nearly un-horsed by Sir Gwaine, something that never happens.
“I don’t know, Merlin, my lance suddenly felt as heavy as ten lances,” Arthur gasps, clutching his left bicep. “I’m sure Gwaine is off gloating somewhere,” he adds darkly. “I’ll never live this one down.”
“Arthur!” Gwen comes flying into the tent now. “What happened? Gwaine never beats you!”
“Merlin, go check it out,” Arthur says, sending his trusty servant/wizard out.
Merlin nods gravely, knowing that Arthur is in good hands with his queen tending him. “I’ll check the lance itself first, then I’ll go see Gwaine.”
“Scan the crowd, too, please, Merlin,” Gwen says over her shoulder, helping her husband with his armor.
“Do you need Gaius?” Merlin asks.
“No!” Arthur answers, too quickly. Then, “No, Guinevere is more than capable of tending me.”
Merlin puzzles a minute, but, with more important things on his mind, he leaves.
“Arms up,” Gwen says, lifting the last piece of armor off so that Arthur is just in his chainmail.
Arthur says nothing, removing his gloves, avoiding her eyes.
“Let’s get this chainmail off,” Gwen says sweetly, as if she is talking to a child.
Arthur lifts his arms and bends over with a groan, and Gwen heaves the heavy garment from his torso.
“You’re so much stronger than you look,” Arthur mutters.
“You always say that,” Gwen chuckles, bending over him now to look at his injured arm.
“Looks like your own shield is what got you,” she says, touching gently. “Gwaine’s lance sent it into you, but this gash is from the edge of the shield.”
She blinks a moment, seeing something lavender peeking from the hole in his padded jerkin. Lavender silk, the edges now stained with blood.
“Arthur?” she asks, fingering the material.
“Just a strip of cloth, nothing more,” he says quietly.
“Is this from one of my old gowns?” she asks.
He nods, even blushing slightly. “I took one of your old dresses, one of the ones you wore before you were queen.”
“This was one of my best,” she says quietly. “I only had one silk one back then.”
“I know. I took it and I take a piece of it with me whenever I go into any kind of battle. Whenever I’m away from you. Usually wrap it around my arm or someplace hidden. Depends on the size of the piece, really.”
“Why this one?” Gwen asks. She doesn’t ask why he does it; she knows already.
“Um… because of the color. It reminds me of you. Also… I like silk,” he admits, his voice dropping to a bare whisper. “I like how it feels. And the fact that it was yours, that it was against your skin…” He lifts his hand and runs a solitary finger down her cheek.
“You are silly and sentimental, and I love you,” she tells him, leaning over to kiss him.
“Does Merlin know?” she asks.
“He may suspect. It’s hard to tell what he knows, now that his secret’s out.”
“True,” Gwen allows, and resumes tending his wound, smiling over her husband’s little secret.
The tent flap whips open again and Merlin reappears. Arthur looks down at Gwen, slightly panicked, only to see her calmly tucking the edges of the purple material higher, out of sight.
“It was the Lance,” Merlin announces. “But the crowd is clean, so whoever did it must have fled.”
“Hmm. Send-”
“Already done,” Merlin cuts him off. “I’ve sent Sir Mordred and that new Druid knight, Sir Caedmon, along with Percival and Elyan.”
“Very good. I must say, Merlin, that yours and Mordred’s little subgroup of knights is coming in very handy, indeed,” Arthur says, wincing slightly as Gwen finishes binding his wound.
“Thank you, Sire,” Merlin grins. “I’m taking the lance back to my quarters so I can examine it,” he says, turning to leave. “And Gwen, you might want to think about keeping your current wardrobe under lock and key,” he tosses this last over his shoulder just before he disappears.
xXx
Arthur enters the royal bedchambers that night to find Guinevere clad in a silk nightdress, waiting for him.
“That’s new,” he breathes, stopping in his tracks.
“I was having it made, but after this afternoon, I made sure that it would be ready tonight,” she says, walking slowly forward.
Arthur stands rooted to the spot, watching how the fabric moves, clinging to her body, sliding sensually against her curves.
She reaches him, and his hands immediately find her waist, sliding along the soft material, feeling it between his fingers, his eyes closed.
“Guinevere,” he breathes her name, closing his eyes, luxuriating in her.
Gwen’s heart skips at his touch, at the way he speaks her name. Even after all this time, his touch and his voice still leave me breathless, she thinks, feeling the familiar quiver in the pit of her stomach.
She unbuckles his belt and tosses it aside before taking his hand and leading him to the bed. Arthur pulls his boots off as he walks, almost tripping himself in the process. At the bed, she pulls his white shirt over his head, mindful of his injured arm.
She no sooner tosses the shirt aside and he gathers her into his arms, pressing his body against hers, feeling the silk against his chest.
“Why silk, Arthur?” she asks softly, curling her fingers into his chest, her arms pinned between them.
“It feels as soft as your skin,” he whispers into her hair. “I cannot think of silk without thinking of you.”
Gwen gasps just slightly at his sweetness, his sentimentality, even the fact that he is able to surprise her at all anymore. She lifts her face to his and he accepts the invitation, kissing her softly.
He pulls her down onto the already turned-down bed, slips out of his trousers and climbs in beside her, pulling her flush against him. He groans low in his throat as he pulls the material of her gown around him, wrapping it around his lower half while he wraps his arms around her upper half.
“When did this little obsession of yours begin?” Gwen asks, tilting her head up to look at him.
“Full of questions, you are,” he rumbles, hiding his face in her hair, slightly embarrassed.
“I’m just curious,” she shrugs.
He emerges from his hiding place. “Remember when we rescued your brother? And you brought those two silk dresses in to complete our ruse?”
She leans further back, looking up at him suspiciously. “Arthur, what did you do to those dresses? They were borrowed, you know.”
“I didn’t do anything, Guinevere,” he laughs, pulling her close again. “I’m not that way. I happened to lay my hand on the back of the chair where you had laid them, and it was like my hand had been burned.” She feels him rubbing the silk of her gown between his fingers at her back, remembering.
Gwen furrows her brows.
“It called to mind the few times I had touched your skin. At that point, they were very few.”
She smiles now, and kisses his chin.
“It just kind of built from there,” he admits, gazing down at her. He moves his one arm and runs the palm of his hand down her arm, from her shoulder to her wrist. She watches as he closes his eyes just as he did when he was feeling the silk of her gown.
Arthur opens his eyes again, just long enough to lower his lips to hers and kiss her ardently, slowly sliding his arms and legs, pressing his hips forward, anything to feel her silk-wrapped body as much as possible.
“This is a deadly combination, my love,” he mutters against her lips. “You, this silk gown, and our bed.” He trails his lips down the side of her neck, placing small, wet kisses on her silken skin.
“I suppose I should tell you, then…” she whispers, lifting her hand to run her fingers into the silken threads of his hair.
“Tell me what?” he lifts his head. Then he pecks her lips once, as if he is unable to be so close without kissing her.
“I’m having new sheets made for our bed,” she tells him, kissing him sweetly in return.
“Oh?”
“Silk ones.”
Arthur’s eyes widen and he grins, capturing her lips with his own again, leaning over her now, his tongue exploring the familiar interiors of his wife’s mouth.
Even that is like silk.
___
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