Merlin: Gwen Battle Winter 2009 | Prompt: Fairytales
This is one of my two submissions for the Gwen Battle Winter 2009 at thefuturequeen.
Title: Forgotten But Not Lost
Prompt: 011. Gwen gen, fairytales
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1,366
Spoilers: Spoilers for 1x12 and 1x13
This started turning out a little more Gwen/Arthur than I'd meant, considering it was supposed to be gen, so I tried to keep it as gen as possible. :D; It's mostly an introspective piece, anyway.
This takes place during episode 1x13.
Fairytales weren’t for someone like Gwen.
Fairytales were for princes and beautiful ladies, the sorts of people who had been destined for greatness since birth. They were for people like Morgana - beautiful, witty, and intelligent - and for people like Arthur - brave, brash, and handsome. Fairytales weren’t for maidservants perfectly content with their lot in life; they weren’t for people like Gwen and she had to admit, perhaps it was better that way.
Gwen’s life had hardly been as easy as it could have been; she’d come to accept a lot of things as she grew up, and she’d kept up a smile while doing it. Some things just couldn’t be changed, no matter the number of wishes whispered into the dark of the night, and it was no use dwelling on them with a heavy heart when their time had passed. Her mother was gone, barely a faded face in her deepest memories, and now her father was gone, too; all of the wishes in the would couldn’t bring either of them back, and so fairytales had no more place in Gwen’s life than fine dresses or priceless gems. They couldn’t give her what she wanted, not any longer. She’d given up on stories and wishes a long time ago, left them in a forgotten corner of her mind to tarnish and fade as childhood hopes and memories do. They weren’t for her, and some days she thought perhaps they weren’t for Camelot at all - Camelot, which had lost its queen and seen its king grow hard and angry even in peace. Magic wasn’t the way it was in the tales - it wasn’t welcomed, it was feared, and it had brought about too many deaths for it to be the thing that children should believe in, let alone those grown past adolescence.
But as she sat, here and now, at the bedside of a dying man, she couldn’t help but wonder just where the fairytales and magic she’d believed in as a child had gone. Arthur’s chambers were too warm and too quiet; the only sounds were the popping of the fire and the labored breathing of the prince. He lay, unmoving and ashen, in a tangle of bedsheets and bandages.
If ever there was a time for magic, she thought, now would be it. She’d seen a great deal in the past few months - things that defied logic and reason, things that had made her wonder if maybe, just maybe, the tales were truer than she’d thought. But if that was true, then why should cold hard reality haunt the castle halls now? Had the magic she’d only just begun to believe in deserted them all again so quickly, just when they needed it, when a prince lay broken and dying in his bed in the night?
Arthur’s skin was waxy and his chest was barely moving; she feared that at any moment it might still, never to rise again. For all of the life within her, Gwen did not know how to keep the fading light within him alive, but she knew she would have poured it out of herself and into him if only she’d had that power.
Sitting in the night, it was all too easy for the thoughts that she’d so carefully kept at bay to creep upon her. With those thoughts came feelings, strong and sure, almost choking her with their intensity. Even so, Gwen could not name what exactly it was that she felt. There was no word to accurately describe the emotion that washed over her as she sat; the past few weeks were still too raw, too new, and she hadn’t gotten a chance to sort everything out. She was still surprised, some nights, to come home to a cold, quiet, and empty house. How would it make Uther feel, to sit every night at supper and have the chair to his right remain empty?
Of course she did not - could not - wish Uther dead for the death of her Father; she’d told Merlin the truth when she’d said so. Death would not bring her father back, and nothing ever would. But she held no love for the king either, lost though she knew he was. Even so, for all her pain and anger, she could not wish Arthur’s death upon him, not even in her darkest moments. And certainly not now, not as she sat at the prince’s bedside, wringing cloth after cloth out over the bowl of tepid water and laid them upon his brow, watching his face twist with nightmares or pain.
She could not wish such empty loss upon anyone, least of all Uther Pendragon, who had lost his queen and could not bear to lose his son. And she could not wish death upon Arthur, who was a cocky, brutish prat - though somewhat less so of one, Gwen thought, since Merlin had come. He might be a prince but he called her Guinevere like it was a title of rank; he looked her in the face when they spoke and he did not belittle her for speaking her mind when it clashed with his. She could not name what it was she felt when she saw Arthur go about his life, but she knew it was not fear or hatred or malice. She could see what he might become, in small moments, as clearly as if she had a magic mirror or pool, and she could not for one second wish that it might end prematurely.
And so perhaps fairytales had deserted Camelot, but Gwen would not. She would stay here, where she was needed, and do all that she could and more to ensure that it became a place of peace and prosperity. She would bring a little joy and ease into the lives of those who dwelled here, and in doing so ensure that maybe, while fairytales were things that could never come true, happiness would never be too far out of reach.
But for now, all she could do was sit at the bedside of a dying prince and speak to him in the hopes that he might hear. In the still of the night, she recited every last story she knew, pulling them out of her memories and filling up the dark and the time with quiet tales of miracles and hope; perhaps they could not do any good, but maybe the words alone would give Arthur something to cling to, some little strength with which to fight.
Morning came and Gwen was ushered away; she went on with her duties as though in a daze, and the rest of the castle seemed to follow her example. She felt as though she was walking through a dream - a nightmare, fraught with fog and a coldness she could not escape. She almost couldn’t bear to be doing things like cleaning, mending, and washing while Arthur lay taking his last breaths.
When the shouts began to ring through the castle, time seemed to freeze. Gwen felt her stomach clench, her fingers turning white-knuckled as she gripped Morgana’s newly-laundered dresses as though they might keep her from falling over an imaginary precipice.
But the shouts, she realized soon enough, were not cries of loss - no, she thought, they were cries of joy.
The news spread more quickly than wildfire. The fever had broken - Arthur would live. Gwen felt as though she might melt away with the fog she had only just been trudging through. The air already felt lighter, smelled sweeter. Perhaps the magic that Uther no longer believed in had worked its way into his life nonetheless.
She was called in later that evening to attend to the prince; this time, he was seated in his bed, propped against pillows but awake and aware and beginning to look just a little bit healthier. Gwen gave him a smile that could not be hidden as she entered the room, and looked up at the stone ceiling for a moment, as though to thank whoever or whatever had made this miracle possible.
Fairytales might not be for Gwen, but it seemed they had not wholly deserted the kingdom of Camelot after all.
Title: Forgotten But Not Lost
Prompt: 011. Gwen gen, fairytales
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1,366
Spoilers: Spoilers for 1x12 and 1x13
This started turning out a little more Gwen/Arthur than I'd meant, considering it was supposed to be gen, so I tried to keep it as gen as possible. :D; It's mostly an introspective piece, anyway.
This takes place during episode 1x13.
Fairytales weren’t for someone like Gwen.
Fairytales were for princes and beautiful ladies, the sorts of people who had been destined for greatness since birth. They were for people like Morgana - beautiful, witty, and intelligent - and for people like Arthur - brave, brash, and handsome. Fairytales weren’t for maidservants perfectly content with their lot in life; they weren’t for people like Gwen and she had to admit, perhaps it was better that way.
Gwen’s life had hardly been as easy as it could have been; she’d come to accept a lot of things as she grew up, and she’d kept up a smile while doing it. Some things just couldn’t be changed, no matter the number of wishes whispered into the dark of the night, and it was no use dwelling on them with a heavy heart when their time had passed. Her mother was gone, barely a faded face in her deepest memories, and now her father was gone, too; all of the wishes in the would couldn’t bring either of them back, and so fairytales had no more place in Gwen’s life than fine dresses or priceless gems. They couldn’t give her what she wanted, not any longer. She’d given up on stories and wishes a long time ago, left them in a forgotten corner of her mind to tarnish and fade as childhood hopes and memories do. They weren’t for her, and some days she thought perhaps they weren’t for Camelot at all - Camelot, which had lost its queen and seen its king grow hard and angry even in peace. Magic wasn’t the way it was in the tales - it wasn’t welcomed, it was feared, and it had brought about too many deaths for it to be the thing that children should believe in, let alone those grown past adolescence.
But as she sat, here and now, at the bedside of a dying man, she couldn’t help but wonder just where the fairytales and magic she’d believed in as a child had gone. Arthur’s chambers were too warm and too quiet; the only sounds were the popping of the fire and the labored breathing of the prince. He lay, unmoving and ashen, in a tangle of bedsheets and bandages.
If ever there was a time for magic, she thought, now would be it. She’d seen a great deal in the past few months - things that defied logic and reason, things that had made her wonder if maybe, just maybe, the tales were truer than she’d thought. But if that was true, then why should cold hard reality haunt the castle halls now? Had the magic she’d only just begun to believe in deserted them all again so quickly, just when they needed it, when a prince lay broken and dying in his bed in the night?
Arthur’s skin was waxy and his chest was barely moving; she feared that at any moment it might still, never to rise again. For all of the life within her, Gwen did not know how to keep the fading light within him alive, but she knew she would have poured it out of herself and into him if only she’d had that power.
Sitting in the night, it was all too easy for the thoughts that she’d so carefully kept at bay to creep upon her. With those thoughts came feelings, strong and sure, almost choking her with their intensity. Even so, Gwen could not name what exactly it was that she felt. There was no word to accurately describe the emotion that washed over her as she sat; the past few weeks were still too raw, too new, and she hadn’t gotten a chance to sort everything out. She was still surprised, some nights, to come home to a cold, quiet, and empty house. How would it make Uther feel, to sit every night at supper and have the chair to his right remain empty?
Of course she did not - could not - wish Uther dead for the death of her Father; she’d told Merlin the truth when she’d said so. Death would not bring her father back, and nothing ever would. But she held no love for the king either, lost though she knew he was. Even so, for all her pain and anger, she could not wish Arthur’s death upon him, not even in her darkest moments. And certainly not now, not as she sat at the prince’s bedside, wringing cloth after cloth out over the bowl of tepid water and laid them upon his brow, watching his face twist with nightmares or pain.
She could not wish such empty loss upon anyone, least of all Uther Pendragon, who had lost his queen and could not bear to lose his son. And she could not wish death upon Arthur, who was a cocky, brutish prat - though somewhat less so of one, Gwen thought, since Merlin had come. He might be a prince but he called her Guinevere like it was a title of rank; he looked her in the face when they spoke and he did not belittle her for speaking her mind when it clashed with his. She could not name what it was she felt when she saw Arthur go about his life, but she knew it was not fear or hatred or malice. She could see what he might become, in small moments, as clearly as if she had a magic mirror or pool, and she could not for one second wish that it might end prematurely.
And so perhaps fairytales had deserted Camelot, but Gwen would not. She would stay here, where she was needed, and do all that she could and more to ensure that it became a place of peace and prosperity. She would bring a little joy and ease into the lives of those who dwelled here, and in doing so ensure that maybe, while fairytales were things that could never come true, happiness would never be too far out of reach.
But for now, all she could do was sit at the bedside of a dying prince and speak to him in the hopes that he might hear. In the still of the night, she recited every last story she knew, pulling them out of her memories and filling up the dark and the time with quiet tales of miracles and hope; perhaps they could not do any good, but maybe the words alone would give Arthur something to cling to, some little strength with which to fight.
Morning came and Gwen was ushered away; she went on with her duties as though in a daze, and the rest of the castle seemed to follow her example. She felt as though she was walking through a dream - a nightmare, fraught with fog and a coldness she could not escape. She almost couldn’t bear to be doing things like cleaning, mending, and washing while Arthur lay taking his last breaths.
When the shouts began to ring through the castle, time seemed to freeze. Gwen felt her stomach clench, her fingers turning white-knuckled as she gripped Morgana’s newly-laundered dresses as though they might keep her from falling over an imaginary precipice.
But the shouts, she realized soon enough, were not cries of loss - no, she thought, they were cries of joy.
The news spread more quickly than wildfire. The fever had broken - Arthur would live. Gwen felt as though she might melt away with the fog she had only just been trudging through. The air already felt lighter, smelled sweeter. Perhaps the magic that Uther no longer believed in had worked its way into his life nonetheless.
She was called in later that evening to attend to the prince; this time, he was seated in his bed, propped against pillows but awake and aware and beginning to look just a little bit healthier. Gwen gave him a smile that could not be hidden as she entered the room, and looked up at the stone ceiling for a moment, as though to thank whoever or whatever had made this miracle possible.
Fairytales might not be for Gwen, but it seemed they had not wholly deserted the kingdom of Camelot after all.