Fic: You are the only exception
Title: You are the only exception
Author: mustbethursday3
Rating: G
Word count: 4,550ish (I post and edit and write AND IT COUNTS MY ELLIPSES(!), so who knows XD)
Characters/Pairings: Guinevere/Arthur, with a bit of A/G/M Ot3, Guinevere/Lancelot, and Gwen/Morgana thrown in.
Spoilers: None. It's purely random
Summary: Uther's gone, captured by Morgana (or something) and Arthur, Gwen and Merlin are coping fairly well. But then Lancelot makes a return and Gwen makes a choice.
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin, I'd have thought that was obvious.
Author's notes: I don't know what this is about, I finished 2 big assignments and had a little breathing room and SOMEHOW that meant I felt like writing angst . . . even though it's not really my thing because I seemingly can't help putting happy things in :( Also, this turned out really vague, even I'm not too sure what's going on @_@. And I think it's becoming really obvious that I have a THING about this triangle. This is like my third? Forth? Fifth spin at it? Oh and it has been FOREVER since I wrote something because I wanted to, no prompt to guide me which might explain it XD
Unbeata'd like WHOA, it's a little choppy and quick in places . . . IDK. It's all very frustrating.
Oh and DANGER: I change POV at the drop of a hat, and italics could be the past getting stirred up OR thinking.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Her eyes on the courtyard before her, Gwen’s foot hovers from the final step.
His hands slip over her cheeks, fingers falling and tangling in her hair, keeping her eyes on his, trying to make her understand.
“If you ever have the choice . . . stay,” he implores.
He’s had a dream, ‘a nightmare’, he’d swiftly corrected, impatiently closing the gap between them when she’d hung back.
She’d been far too surprised to do anything but gape when he’d spun around in the corridor, taking her arm, his blue gaze locking onto her almost feverishly as he started to babble - sounding like her when she couldn’t focus on one thought, or filter it suitably.
Gwen takes a shaky breath.
It’s dark, candles fluttering threateningly in the stand nearby, and he’s half cornered her against the wall, but she’s not uneasy . . . just anxious to know how she can help . . .
She wills her foot to touch down. Wills it.
Looking up at him now she can’t help but wonder how she, of all people, could be in his head, even the slightest bit . . . what does he see of her . . . what could it possibly signify . . . and how it can be possible that his hands could be so frantic over her skin . . . when the two of them are barely anything to one another.
Her foot doesn’t lower, not even wavering in the air.
Propriety, if nothing else should have stopped him from pleading with her, from looking at her so . . . so vehemently that something in her chest stirs, fitful and bewildering . . .
“Gwen,” Lancelot calls softly, but urgently, offering his hand to her, palm up.
Not understanding the importance of what he’s asking, Gwen nods, gently drawing Arthur’s hands away from her face, to enclose them soothingly in hers.
She smiles thoughtfully up at him. “Where would I go, anyway?” . . .
Gwen can’t move. Only able to look at Lancelot helplessly, as she hesitates, frozen; between word and need.
Arthur had bound her that day and she hadn’t realized it . . . thoughtlessly agreeing because he was upset.
Because she had seen it as the least she could offer, when it was so much more.
“Guinevere.”
“Gwen.”
The two voices mix and her stomach flutters uneasily at the sound, while the torn, frayed nerves in her throat make her breath catch. Damn it.
Instinctively, her foot sweeps back to the safety of the step. She holds in her sigh as Lancelot’s eyes rise to behind her, to the deliberate approaching footfalls of her prince. She half expects him to leave . . . but after a moment Lancelot’s eyes return to hers, just as pleading, just as sincere, his hand and arm rising slightly in the air, as he sits up higher in his saddle.
She wants to run to him, leave, because if she sees Arthur . . . then how could she ever . . .
But, as if she’s been rooted to the ground through her boots, she stays.
She waits, feeling his eyes on her back, as Lancelot’s hazel eyes hold hers.
An indubitably small shake of her head makes him stop from dismounting. It won’t help.
Arthur takes his time as he walks down the stairs; eyes trailing around the soft-coiled braid at Gwen’s neck, flowers dotting it, white, like stars in the sea of her hair.
She’d done it especially for the midwinter feast.
Presumably after, spending hours on a stool with a mirror instructing Merlin, with a patience Arthur envied.
Having skilfully convinced their lanky friend with little more than announcing a subtle doubt in his ability to do it. Her eyes dropping to Merlin’s hands and wincing as she murmured that surely he couldn’t perform something so delicate as to style hair, her eyes then flipping musingly to Merlin’s head. Where upon she allowed a well-timed giggle to pass her lips.
She was well aware of his ego.
And that was all it took.
Merlin’s ‘trust-me-i-know-what-I’m-doing face’ had slid into place, which he’d heroically tried to hold onto, as Gwen laughed and teased, adding words of encouragement, regularly, to appease, while he botched it with his fumbling fingers.
Arthur had watched, amused, as a small pile of squashed, abused and discarded flowers formed on the floor near his friend’s boots.
Merlin’s fingers and buttons getting trapped more than once in her curls, as he hunched over her, trying to gather all her hair together and twist it this way and that. Arthur had wisely stood back and ‘observed’ from a safe distance, ignoring the half hearted glares and hints to leave that both of them would toss over their shoulders at his comments.
Eventually, Merlin’s swearing became more vocal and less muffled. Arthur’s commentary derisive enough to warrant Merlin to throw the comb he was wielding, barely missing his ear by an inch.
It hit the wall with a clatter before falling behind a table.
Arthur had turned to him with a frown, sharp words at the ready, but had faltered, noticing Gwen.
A full-fledged grin sweeping his face, when his eyes had drifted down to the hand clawing into her own knee. Her mouth twitching as she struggled not to laugh, cheeks reddening, while Merlin conceitedly, and none too quietly, announced that that had been a warning shot.
Lowly telling him to shut up or leave . . . or suffer the consequences.
Arthur had stared at him. Unable to look away as his hands waved madly near in front of his face, his dark hair askance from rubbing it in frustration, seemingly not noticing Gwen’s amusement, and unjustly taking offense at Arthur’s.
And then the cheeky bugger had held out a free hand and seriously asked him to fetch the comb, quick smart.
The door had opened before Arthur could tell him exactly why that was never happening, a servant girl poking her head in.
She’d brought news that a visitor had arrived in Camelot, and all three of them had hastily abandoned what they were doing. None of them suffering any lack of curiosity. Gwen neatly twisting her hair up (to Merlin’s infuriation) as she followed Arthur out, to see who had the girl blushing and backing out of the room so quickly.
(Looking back, perhaps the girl had just been uncomfortable on interrupting them.)
Absurdly, Merlin had been hoping for some kind of flying Unicorn.
Well, something with wings and really small teeth and claws, he had surmised, remaining untroubled when Gwen had blithely reminded him that such a creature would not be labelled a ‘visitor’ and be led into the Hall.
Merlin retorting that they’d all seen weirder things, and scoffing lightly when Arthur had butted in to say that he certainly hoped it wasn’t a Unicorn. Those things were trouble.
The sad thing was, he’d have preferred a blasted Unicorn to who it actually was.
Merlin raising a smug eyebrow, as he pushed open the door, should have tipped him off, or at least Gwen’s uncertain glance over her shoulder as she followed Merlin in.
There weren’t many people would could consistently cause trouble in Camelot and live to return again.
Lancelot, Arthur had rolled his eyes at himself, as he’d stepped through the door.
He should have guessed.
It was about time for him to make his casual appearance into their lives, Arthur of course hoping that, as was Lancelot’s style, his departure would be just as sudden.
And to some extent he’d been right. And so very wrong.
Once the awkward greetings were over, Gwen and Merlin speaking with more warmth then he could summon up, he’d noticed shrewdly, that Lancelot’s eyes had barely left Gwen’s face. Though he hadn’t found it too suspicious at the time.
Guinevere had only grown more beautiful since their last meeting; long tendrils of curls winding down to frame her shoulders, and a new confidence adding a playful glint to her eyes. Also Arthur would be a fool if he hadn’t made sure that she had every shade of material with which to fashion her dresses.
Today’s being ruby red, involuntarily and delightfully, she matched the jacket he was wearing (though Arthur had the sly feeling, on the various occasions that it occurred, that Merlin did it on purpose, for his own amusement).
So, he couldn’t blame Lancelot for being unable not to stare at the self-assured woman before him. Her collar revealing a warm expanse of soft skin that guided, and curved around her neck and over her face, drawing eyes up to full lips that sat, pert and almost smiling, and those dark eyes that were very difficult to escape once they caught you.
But trying to voice any of this to Gwen and Merlin was a lost cause.
They had become most fond of teasing him about it all, neither seeing anything particularly different or new about her appearance over the last year.
Neither believing her to be a great beauty, just pretty enough, Gwen had corrected shyly, while Merlin had nodded.
They had frowned in amazement, at his detailed descriptions of the longing he’d witnessed first hand, from other courtiers, before their gazes had met, from either side of him. The moment drawing out, long and serious, and . . .
. . . then they had burst into very childish giggles.
Actually, the first few times he’d followed up his opinion by telling them they were both blind and ignorant and they’d just laughed harder.
So he’d stopped, for now.
There was only so much you could be laughed at, before you started to take it personally.
Whenever the two of them ganged up, it was a losing battle for whoever was on the receiving end.
And he really hated it when it was him.
Especially, because he knew he was right. He wasn’t imagining the way people’s - men and some women’s- gazes lingered. It wasn’t all in his head, and he wouldn’t change his mind, no matter how many times Gwen rolled her eyes or Merlin raised his eyebrows incredulously.
So, Arthur had managed to shrug off Lancelot’s concentrated focus, until he’d turned back - from correcting Merlin about something - to find Lancelot speaking low in Gwen’s ear, his hand lightly gripping her arm as Gwen’s mouth dropped open in surprise at whatever he was saying.
Her brow furrowed in that way he’d learned meant she was listening and planning.
Never a good sign.
Evidently, Lancelot had new information about Morgana.
Which Arthur had had to chuckle dryly at.
As no one else had found anything in months . . . and yet here was Lancelot, riding in to the rescue . . . again. Gwen had made a face at him and promptly gone back to the silent contemplation that had stolen over her naturally good mood.
Later, Merlin had managed to coax a few more details from her, by using his innate tenacity, which for once Arthur couldn’t fault him on. Reporting worriedly that Lancelot was claiming to know how to track Morgana, having found out something about the items she was seeking all around the Kingdom.
Merlin believed that Gwen wanted to go with Lancelot, leaving Camelot to find her former mistress. Though he did admit that she hadn’t said so in so many words.
Arthur had been sure that that those aspirations of Gwen’s had died long ago.
And he’d been wrong again.
Her cloak flutters, as he moves around to stand in front of her, like dark green wings that enclose her small frame, the movement revealing her riding clothes.
Not what she was wearing only an hour ago.
Eyelevel, they stare at each other, defiantly.
You were trying to run from me.
Gwen gets the kind of look she has whenever she knows what he’s thinking, her eyes narrowing.
More than anything, he just wants to pick her up and cart her inside, perhaps find a nice tower or something to lock her in until she comes to her senses. He crosses his arms against the familiar longing to protect and shield her. They aren’t children any more . . . and as much as he’d like to disagree he has no formal ties with which to demand her compliance.
. . . not to mention, his title is a meaningless bundle of words to both of them, and has been for a very long time.
It’s becoming startlingly obvious that he should be making more of an effort to marry this woman, so he has something to bring her back to him, something that other people can understand.
She belongs here, with him. And he’d appreciate it very much if people would stop trying to get in the way of that.
Gwen tries not to, because it’s unreasonable, and silly, but despite her best efforts, her bottom lip trembles.
She knows that they’ve become dependant on each other in the many days passed since the first time the dragon took to Camelot’s skies. And usually she can pretend that it doesn’t really effect her, that it hasn’t made her more aware of where he or Merlin are in a room in case something should happen, but she can’t ignore it now.
Not when he’s staring right at her, practically pouting.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t left a detailed note on her bed. An apology.
More than he’d left her sometimes.
It’s ridiculous, that she is to be some kind of . . . hostage to affection and love. How fairytale.
Studying the worried frown on his brow, she supposes it’s more than that, that keeps her here . . . it’s the respect, trust and belief in Arthur that has gathered in her over the years.
And a great faith in them.
In their Kingdom.
But . . . still it doesn’t change any of the swirling feelings inside her.
The anticipation that has begun to build on finally getting answers, the truth from some of the many people involved in this web of treachery and deceit and lies.
She wants it over.
“Arthur,” she says softly.
It’s a prayer, a wish for something she knows he doesn’t want to give her.
His eyes darken to a deep blue, marking his turbulent emotions, drowning her, as he stares.
I can’t live waiting for the axe to fall,she wants to say, but doesn’t.
In his eyes, she’s startled to detect a resigned misery.
It’s palpable, and directed, stinging as it washes over her, compelling her as strongly as if he’s stated it. And Gwen can’t help it, her face softens.
He has the power to make her stay, whether he feels right using it against her or not.
Please.
She swallows, her throat feeling dry.
How many more sleepless nights can we all suffer waiting?
How much longer can you live with not knowing?
Arthur’s eyes close abruptly, because he can’t look at her. Begging. Trapped. Breaking. “Go,” he murmurs hoarsely, hating what he has to do.
Stay.
Gwen stares blankly.
Bemused, she reaches for him; fingers feather light on his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheek. “Arth-” she begins, a small confused smile forming on her lips. He can’t possibly mean-
“Go,” Arthur repeats harshly, louder. “I’m-” he sucks in a breath, eyes fast shut. It’s the only way he can compel the words on his tongue. Because they are the words he never wants to say. Not to her. Never to her.
“I’m ordering you to go. I will not keep you like this, against your will.” Under her hand his jaw twitches, why isn’t he enough for her to stay? “I free you of your promise.”
He doesn’t bother clarifying which one, he’s well aware that she recognizes every word they’ve ever spoken to each other, and somehow, blessedly, that she can speak his sporadic trains of thought fluently.
Arthur tentatively leans into her touch, needing to, even as Gwen’s mouth silently moves, trying to comprehend, trying to unearth a will to protest.
Instead, sheer relief floods through her like a dam has burst or a long held breath released and she smiles stunned and pleased.
Love and pride engulf everything Gwen’s feeling and thinking in a heady rush, and suddenly she want to recant everything.
Wants to stay, almost, more than anything.
She smooths a thumb over his lips, her breath coming in uneven puffs. No falling apart.
And then, just for one moment, the rest of the world mercifully blinks out of existence, to leave just the two of them.
When did you become so understanding?
Quickly, feeling as if time is racing against them; Gwen hauls Arthur’s mouth to hers and kisses him, sweetly, so he can feel it. No words will do. One of her hands laces through his hair, as he grins faintly against her lips, while her other presses gently against his shoulder.
On a whim Gwen takes Arthur’s arm and begins to lead him back to his chambers, it’s not far, but it’s hard to ignore the way he’s looking at her . . . like she’ll disappear at any moment . . .
They’re going to figure this out, one day, where no one has to leave.
His hand brushes hers, before he takes a breath and nods, disappearing through his chamber door . . . and she feels, like she missed something, that perhaps she wasn’t paying enough attention . . . but now she’s alone . . .
Arthur’s arms loosen across his chest, and then fall away completely, without needing to ask, his tongue slips into Gwen’s mouth, and he takes the opportunity to intensify the kiss, pulling her securely against him. His hands slipping under her cloak to rest on her hips and back.
She wasn’t going to say goodbye. He bites her lip in reprimand.
She stands there for longer than she has to, staring at his door and wondering . . . while on the other side Arthur leans back against the door and closes his eyes . . .
Ignoring the fact that they aren’t completely alone gets easier, when she sighs softly into his mouth, in that way that makes the toes curl in his boots. And he pulls her, possessively, indefinitely closer, and her hand clutches at his shoulder, fingers curling tight, as her eyelashes brush his skin, so light.
He can still remember the first kiss, how, even innocently, it felt just like this, sending his heart a flutter in his chest as his lips tingled and burned.
It always feels like the first time with her.
Resting her forehead against Arthur’s, her breath uneven, Gwen smiles tenderly, eyes still closed, “You always surprise me.”
It’s a weary smile that lifts the corners of his mouth, and blindly he bends forward to kiss her again. God, stay. “Go . . . before I regain my senses,” he warns, half seriously.
Sobering, Gwen opens her eyes as she leans back to look at him, his eyes are still closed. Her hands reach to fiddle with skirts that aren’t there and she settles for smoothing her hands down the sides of her britches with a frown. “While I’m away don’t die,” she orders sternly.
“Same to you.” He releases her.
It doesn’t feel the time for declarations; she knows it all already.
Gwen doesn’t even fight the smile at his glib tone, “I mean it,” she says, slipping past him on the stairs and finally walking across the flagstones to the waiting Lancelot. “And I expect to return to find you with at least as many appendages as when I left.”
“Will you be checking?” He asks the empty air in front of him.
“Arthur,” Gwen hisses, her cheeks glowing, as she tries not to look at Lancelot.
Cold air presses against him, as the flush of pleasure at embarrassing her fades. Solemnly he nods, “For your sake then, love . . .”
Gwen’s lips twist at the endearment, because it’s a private one he won’t even use in front of Merlin. Doesn’t want it tainted by teasing. So his aim in using it now . . .
“. . . I’ll try.”
Oh, now THAT'S unquestionably meant to make her stay, but . . . but she can’t.
This is too important.
She frowns, thinking. “And Merlin . . . tell him-”
“I’ll make him understand what I cannot,” Arthur interrupts, shortly, as he restlessly shifts his weight. Every extra moment she stays is torture, it’s an extra moment to take it all back, grab her and run to find a place to hide her from the world.
From Lancelot and Morgana and anyone else who could have ulterior motives.
Gwen stops and glances back, thinking for a moment that he’s going to make good on the promise she’d read in his eyes and seize her, but he stubbornly hasn’t moved.
And she’s not sure how she’s supposed to feel about that.
“If you think I’m going to watch you ride off into the night,” Arthur calls out, opening his eyes to look at the empty staircase before him. “Then you have another thing coming, Guinevere.”
After a moment of silence, Gwen speaks, her words mindful and soft, though it doesn’t dim their sharpness.
“It’s different being the one left behind, isn’t it?”
He wants to turn and look at her, apologise for thinking it easy, but he doesn’t.
Can’t.
One word leads to so many others. And the last thing any of them need to experience is him pathetically begging her to stay.
Instead, he listens conscientiously, as Gwen takes a few more steps, as there’s a rattle of metal and leather and a murmur when Lancelot pulls her up onto the saddle with him. He imagines her slender arms winding around Lancelot’s waist; those small hands linked over his stomach, her chest pressed to his back, her breath on his neck. The hands at his side tighten.
Seated in front, Gwen glances back uncertain. While behind her, strong arms next to her sides, Lancelot shifts to get a tighter grip on the reins through the gap under her arms.
The next day everything’s seems back to normal, he doesn’t look at her or even speak to her and she sighs with what she hopes is relief, though she not quite sure . . .
Her fingers tighten on the saddle. Arthur still hasn’t so much as taken a step.
Go, he’d said.
Whether he’d meant it or not.
“If the trail goes cold . . .” Lancelot murmurs, his breath ghosting over her shoulder. And he doesn’t need to finish his sentence, they both know the outcome if they don’t seize this opportunity.
War.
She frowns when she notices that the laundry basket isn’t where she left it, but her breath catches when, at the very bottom, she finds a small piece of card with a crudely drawn flower on it . . . do you keep your promises? is scrawled messily across the bottom . . .
She nods mutely, and he urges the horse forward.
Gwen sits on edge the bed and runs the pads of her fingers over the drawing, and smiles, he’s never going to be an artist . . .
Arthur can estimate, roughly, by the sounds, and his knowledge of the grounds, when the pair reach the gate and inhales sharply at the twinge that runs through his body.
But maybe a friend . . .
Gwen exhales softly, shivering as she shuts her eyes, as they shift under the arch into the shadows of the town. Opening them again once they’re on the other side, as Lancelot urges the horse on faster.
She jumps up with a startled laugh when Morgana waves a hand in front of her face, breaking her from her thoughts . . . her mistress following the card’s exit into Gwen’s pocket, with raised eyebrows . . .
The world blurring, she has to lean back to keep from falling. No regrets, she tells herself firmly. Though she feels deeply unsettled leaving Arthur behind.
They both giggle when Morgana taps the side of her nose conspiratorially . . . I see you . . .
If only there had been time to warn Merlin. Or say goodbye.
Though she had left him a letter too.
But it’s barely half a sheet of wildly inept half thoughts and assurances, far too quickly written to say any of the right things.
So, he’ll just have to muddle through, as he keeps Arthur on track, focused and not brooding.
And do the same for himself.
She’s seen the shadows creep around the both of them when they stop to think of what has been done to them . . . what they’ve been forced to do themselves. And she’s taken it upon herself to clear away those doubts.
Nevertheless Gwen has to wonder if, perhaps, in her quest for answers and peace, she’s isn’t just causing more problems.
But since when is that ever a good enough reason not to ask or seek?
She closes her eyes and thinks of her whispered promise into his ear as she pulled back.
I’ll always come home.
She hopes he believes it.
The silence tugs at him.
She’s gone and he let it happen.
Numb, he starts to mount the stairs, back up to his chambers, where no doubt Merlin is waiting to find out if he spoke to Gwen.
Yes, and I let her go off, possibly to get herself killed with nothing more than a wanna be knight for protection. But what was I supposed to do lock her in the dungeons?
Say no?
Advise my 'advisors', like either of you listen to me when your minds are made up?
The back of his throat burns, though somehow, despite everything, his feet keep moving.
Still he doesn’t look back.
Not ready, just yet, to see the void behind him empty of her.
Arthur can’t help but wonder if in fact Guinevere hasn’t taken his heart with her, leaving him vacant, cold.
His foot falters on the step as a thought catches him unaware. One.
It takes just one.
One mistake, and the world can unravel. Has unravelled.
If this time . . . his breath shudders through his torso, but he forces himself to find the next step, keep moving.
Because she’s as good as asked him to trust her, to have the same unwavering faith in her that she has for him.
And he owes her that.
But if he has made a grave error, IF-
Then she’ll pay dearly for any harm that befalls Guinevere.
He’ll make sure of it, he needs Gwen because he's building this place for her, and one day their family, he wants her happy and safe and by his side.
Gwen’s surprised laugh bubbles out of her when Arthur and Merlin jump into view from either side of her doorway, small packages gripped tightly in their hands . . . she waves them in with a roll of her eyes, YES she made her own cake, she remembers what happened last time, vividly . . . Arthur passes by her and kisses her forehead, stopped when she catches his tunic in her fingers with a grin . . .
Climbing the last step, his father’s logic unexpectedly becomes easier to understand.
He did what he had to, and in some aspects Arthur is nothing if not his father’s son.
If Gwen does not return safely, then it shall seal all of their fates.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
So, yeh . . . was that angst? I don't even know.
But yes, after I finish my last assignment (on Friday) I shall be free to do all my prompts . . . i think the bodyswitch one might kill me, but we'll see XD . . . AM NOW understanding why noone ever chooses it . . . OH well live and learn and all that :D
Hope that wasn't as confusing a mess as i think it might be.
(AND \o/ YAY! \o/ GWEN HAS A NEW DRESS FINALLY!)
Author: mustbethursday3
Rating: G
Word count: 4,550ish (I post and edit and write AND IT COUNTS MY ELLIPSES(!), so who knows XD)
Characters/Pairings: Guinevere/Arthur, with a bit of A/G/M Ot3, Guinevere/Lancelot, and Gwen/Morgana thrown in.
Spoilers: None. It's purely random
Summary: Uther's gone, captured by Morgana (or something) and Arthur, Gwen and Merlin are coping fairly well. But then Lancelot makes a return and Gwen makes a choice.
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin, I'd have thought that was obvious.
Author's notes: I don't know what this is about, I finished 2 big assignments and had a little breathing room and SOMEHOW that meant I felt like writing angst . . . even though it's not really my thing because I seemingly can't help putting happy things in :( Also, this turned out really vague, even I'm not too sure what's going on @_@. And I think it's becoming really obvious that I have a THING about this triangle. This is like my third? Forth? Fifth spin at it? Oh and it has been FOREVER since I wrote something because I wanted to, no prompt to guide me which might explain it XD
Unbeata'd like WHOA, it's a little choppy and quick in places . . . IDK. It's all very frustrating.
Oh and DANGER: I change POV at the drop of a hat, and italics could be the past getting stirred up OR thinking.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Her eyes on the courtyard before her, Gwen’s foot hovers from the final step.
His hands slip over her cheeks, fingers falling and tangling in her hair, keeping her eyes on his, trying to make her understand.
“If you ever have the choice . . . stay,” he implores.
He’s had a dream, ‘a nightmare’, he’d swiftly corrected, impatiently closing the gap between them when she’d hung back.
She’d been far too surprised to do anything but gape when he’d spun around in the corridor, taking her arm, his blue gaze locking onto her almost feverishly as he started to babble - sounding like her when she couldn’t focus on one thought, or filter it suitably.
Gwen takes a shaky breath.
It’s dark, candles fluttering threateningly in the stand nearby, and he’s half cornered her against the wall, but she’s not uneasy . . . just anxious to know how she can help . . .
She wills her foot to touch down. Wills it.
Looking up at him now she can’t help but wonder how she, of all people, could be in his head, even the slightest bit . . . what does he see of her . . . what could it possibly signify . . . and how it can be possible that his hands could be so frantic over her skin . . . when the two of them are barely anything to one another.
Her foot doesn’t lower, not even wavering in the air.
Propriety, if nothing else should have stopped him from pleading with her, from looking at her so . . . so vehemently that something in her chest stirs, fitful and bewildering . . .
“Gwen,” Lancelot calls softly, but urgently, offering his hand to her, palm up.
Not understanding the importance of what he’s asking, Gwen nods, gently drawing Arthur’s hands away from her face, to enclose them soothingly in hers.
She smiles thoughtfully up at him. “Where would I go, anyway?” . . .
Gwen can’t move. Only able to look at Lancelot helplessly, as she hesitates, frozen; between word and need.
Arthur had bound her that day and she hadn’t realized it . . . thoughtlessly agreeing because he was upset.
Because she had seen it as the least she could offer, when it was so much more.
“Guinevere.”
“Gwen.”
The two voices mix and her stomach flutters uneasily at the sound, while the torn, frayed nerves in her throat make her breath catch. Damn it.
Instinctively, her foot sweeps back to the safety of the step. She holds in her sigh as Lancelot’s eyes rise to behind her, to the deliberate approaching footfalls of her prince. She half expects him to leave . . . but after a moment Lancelot’s eyes return to hers, just as pleading, just as sincere, his hand and arm rising slightly in the air, as he sits up higher in his saddle.
She wants to run to him, leave, because if she sees Arthur . . . then how could she ever . . .
But, as if she’s been rooted to the ground through her boots, she stays.
She waits, feeling his eyes on her back, as Lancelot’s hazel eyes hold hers.
An indubitably small shake of her head makes him stop from dismounting. It won’t help.
Arthur takes his time as he walks down the stairs; eyes trailing around the soft-coiled braid at Gwen’s neck, flowers dotting it, white, like stars in the sea of her hair.
She’d done it especially for the midwinter feast.
Presumably after, spending hours on a stool with a mirror instructing Merlin, with a patience Arthur envied.
Having skilfully convinced their lanky friend with little more than announcing a subtle doubt in his ability to do it. Her eyes dropping to Merlin’s hands and wincing as she murmured that surely he couldn’t perform something so delicate as to style hair, her eyes then flipping musingly to Merlin’s head. Where upon she allowed a well-timed giggle to pass her lips.
She was well aware of his ego.
And that was all it took.
Merlin’s ‘trust-me-i-know-what-I’m-doing face’ had slid into place, which he’d heroically tried to hold onto, as Gwen laughed and teased, adding words of encouragement, regularly, to appease, while he botched it with his fumbling fingers.
Arthur had watched, amused, as a small pile of squashed, abused and discarded flowers formed on the floor near his friend’s boots.
Merlin’s fingers and buttons getting trapped more than once in her curls, as he hunched over her, trying to gather all her hair together and twist it this way and that. Arthur had wisely stood back and ‘observed’ from a safe distance, ignoring the half hearted glares and hints to leave that both of them would toss over their shoulders at his comments.
Eventually, Merlin’s swearing became more vocal and less muffled. Arthur’s commentary derisive enough to warrant Merlin to throw the comb he was wielding, barely missing his ear by an inch.
It hit the wall with a clatter before falling behind a table.
Arthur had turned to him with a frown, sharp words at the ready, but had faltered, noticing Gwen.
A full-fledged grin sweeping his face, when his eyes had drifted down to the hand clawing into her own knee. Her mouth twitching as she struggled not to laugh, cheeks reddening, while Merlin conceitedly, and none too quietly, announced that that had been a warning shot.
Lowly telling him to shut up or leave . . . or suffer the consequences.
Arthur had stared at him. Unable to look away as his hands waved madly near in front of his face, his dark hair askance from rubbing it in frustration, seemingly not noticing Gwen’s amusement, and unjustly taking offense at Arthur’s.
And then the cheeky bugger had held out a free hand and seriously asked him to fetch the comb, quick smart.
The door had opened before Arthur could tell him exactly why that was never happening, a servant girl poking her head in.
She’d brought news that a visitor had arrived in Camelot, and all three of them had hastily abandoned what they were doing. None of them suffering any lack of curiosity. Gwen neatly twisting her hair up (to Merlin’s infuriation) as she followed Arthur out, to see who had the girl blushing and backing out of the room so quickly.
(Looking back, perhaps the girl had just been uncomfortable on interrupting them.)
Absurdly, Merlin had been hoping for some kind of flying Unicorn.
Well, something with wings and really small teeth and claws, he had surmised, remaining untroubled when Gwen had blithely reminded him that such a creature would not be labelled a ‘visitor’ and be led into the Hall.
Merlin retorting that they’d all seen weirder things, and scoffing lightly when Arthur had butted in to say that he certainly hoped it wasn’t a Unicorn. Those things were trouble.
The sad thing was, he’d have preferred a blasted Unicorn to who it actually was.
Merlin raising a smug eyebrow, as he pushed open the door, should have tipped him off, or at least Gwen’s uncertain glance over her shoulder as she followed Merlin in.
There weren’t many people would could consistently cause trouble in Camelot and live to return again.
Lancelot, Arthur had rolled his eyes at himself, as he’d stepped through the door.
He should have guessed.
It was about time for him to make his casual appearance into their lives, Arthur of course hoping that, as was Lancelot’s style, his departure would be just as sudden.
And to some extent he’d been right. And so very wrong.
Once the awkward greetings were over, Gwen and Merlin speaking with more warmth then he could summon up, he’d noticed shrewdly, that Lancelot’s eyes had barely left Gwen’s face. Though he hadn’t found it too suspicious at the time.
Guinevere had only grown more beautiful since their last meeting; long tendrils of curls winding down to frame her shoulders, and a new confidence adding a playful glint to her eyes. Also Arthur would be a fool if he hadn’t made sure that she had every shade of material with which to fashion her dresses.
Today’s being ruby red, involuntarily and delightfully, she matched the jacket he was wearing (though Arthur had the sly feeling, on the various occasions that it occurred, that Merlin did it on purpose, for his own amusement).
So, he couldn’t blame Lancelot for being unable not to stare at the self-assured woman before him. Her collar revealing a warm expanse of soft skin that guided, and curved around her neck and over her face, drawing eyes up to full lips that sat, pert and almost smiling, and those dark eyes that were very difficult to escape once they caught you.
But trying to voice any of this to Gwen and Merlin was a lost cause.
They had become most fond of teasing him about it all, neither seeing anything particularly different or new about her appearance over the last year.
Neither believing her to be a great beauty, just pretty enough, Gwen had corrected shyly, while Merlin had nodded.
They had frowned in amazement, at his detailed descriptions of the longing he’d witnessed first hand, from other courtiers, before their gazes had met, from either side of him. The moment drawing out, long and serious, and . . .
. . . then they had burst into very childish giggles.
Actually, the first few times he’d followed up his opinion by telling them they were both blind and ignorant and they’d just laughed harder.
So he’d stopped, for now.
There was only so much you could be laughed at, before you started to take it personally.
Whenever the two of them ganged up, it was a losing battle for whoever was on the receiving end.
And he really hated it when it was him.
Especially, because he knew he was right. He wasn’t imagining the way people’s - men and some women’s- gazes lingered. It wasn’t all in his head, and he wouldn’t change his mind, no matter how many times Gwen rolled her eyes or Merlin raised his eyebrows incredulously.
So, Arthur had managed to shrug off Lancelot’s concentrated focus, until he’d turned back - from correcting Merlin about something - to find Lancelot speaking low in Gwen’s ear, his hand lightly gripping her arm as Gwen’s mouth dropped open in surprise at whatever he was saying.
Her brow furrowed in that way he’d learned meant she was listening and planning.
Never a good sign.
Evidently, Lancelot had new information about Morgana.
Which Arthur had had to chuckle dryly at.
As no one else had found anything in months . . . and yet here was Lancelot, riding in to the rescue . . . again. Gwen had made a face at him and promptly gone back to the silent contemplation that had stolen over her naturally good mood.
Later, Merlin had managed to coax a few more details from her, by using his innate tenacity, which for once Arthur couldn’t fault him on. Reporting worriedly that Lancelot was claiming to know how to track Morgana, having found out something about the items she was seeking all around the Kingdom.
Merlin believed that Gwen wanted to go with Lancelot, leaving Camelot to find her former mistress. Though he did admit that she hadn’t said so in so many words.
Arthur had been sure that that those aspirations of Gwen’s had died long ago.
And he’d been wrong again.
Her cloak flutters, as he moves around to stand in front of her, like dark green wings that enclose her small frame, the movement revealing her riding clothes.
Not what she was wearing only an hour ago.
Eyelevel, they stare at each other, defiantly.
You were trying to run from me.
Gwen gets the kind of look she has whenever she knows what he’s thinking, her eyes narrowing.
More than anything, he just wants to pick her up and cart her inside, perhaps find a nice tower or something to lock her in until she comes to her senses. He crosses his arms against the familiar longing to protect and shield her. They aren’t children any more . . . and as much as he’d like to disagree he has no formal ties with which to demand her compliance.
. . . not to mention, his title is a meaningless bundle of words to both of them, and has been for a very long time.
It’s becoming startlingly obvious that he should be making more of an effort to marry this woman, so he has something to bring her back to him, something that other people can understand.
She belongs here, with him. And he’d appreciate it very much if people would stop trying to get in the way of that.
Gwen tries not to, because it’s unreasonable, and silly, but despite her best efforts, her bottom lip trembles.
She knows that they’ve become dependant on each other in the many days passed since the first time the dragon took to Camelot’s skies. And usually she can pretend that it doesn’t really effect her, that it hasn’t made her more aware of where he or Merlin are in a room in case something should happen, but she can’t ignore it now.
Not when he’s staring right at her, practically pouting.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t left a detailed note on her bed. An apology.
More than he’d left her sometimes.
It’s ridiculous, that she is to be some kind of . . . hostage to affection and love. How fairytale.
Studying the worried frown on his brow, she supposes it’s more than that, that keeps her here . . . it’s the respect, trust and belief in Arthur that has gathered in her over the years.
And a great faith in them.
In their Kingdom.
But . . . still it doesn’t change any of the swirling feelings inside her.
The anticipation that has begun to build on finally getting answers, the truth from some of the many people involved in this web of treachery and deceit and lies.
She wants it over.
“Arthur,” she says softly.
It’s a prayer, a wish for something she knows he doesn’t want to give her.
His eyes darken to a deep blue, marking his turbulent emotions, drowning her, as he stares.
I can’t live waiting for the axe to fall,she wants to say, but doesn’t.
In his eyes, she’s startled to detect a resigned misery.
It’s palpable, and directed, stinging as it washes over her, compelling her as strongly as if he’s stated it. And Gwen can’t help it, her face softens.
He has the power to make her stay, whether he feels right using it against her or not.
Please.
She swallows, her throat feeling dry.
How many more sleepless nights can we all suffer waiting?
How much longer can you live with not knowing?
Arthur’s eyes close abruptly, because he can’t look at her. Begging. Trapped. Breaking. “Go,” he murmurs hoarsely, hating what he has to do.
Stay.
Gwen stares blankly.
Bemused, she reaches for him; fingers feather light on his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheek. “Arth-” she begins, a small confused smile forming on her lips. He can’t possibly mean-
“Go,” Arthur repeats harshly, louder. “I’m-” he sucks in a breath, eyes fast shut. It’s the only way he can compel the words on his tongue. Because they are the words he never wants to say. Not to her. Never to her.
“I’m ordering you to go. I will not keep you like this, against your will.” Under her hand his jaw twitches, why isn’t he enough for her to stay? “I free you of your promise.”
He doesn’t bother clarifying which one, he’s well aware that she recognizes every word they’ve ever spoken to each other, and somehow, blessedly, that she can speak his sporadic trains of thought fluently.
Arthur tentatively leans into her touch, needing to, even as Gwen’s mouth silently moves, trying to comprehend, trying to unearth a will to protest.
Instead, sheer relief floods through her like a dam has burst or a long held breath released and she smiles stunned and pleased.
Love and pride engulf everything Gwen’s feeling and thinking in a heady rush, and suddenly she want to recant everything.
Wants to stay, almost, more than anything.
She smooths a thumb over his lips, her breath coming in uneven puffs. No falling apart.
And then, just for one moment, the rest of the world mercifully blinks out of existence, to leave just the two of them.
When did you become so understanding?
Quickly, feeling as if time is racing against them; Gwen hauls Arthur’s mouth to hers and kisses him, sweetly, so he can feel it. No words will do. One of her hands laces through his hair, as he grins faintly against her lips, while her other presses gently against his shoulder.
On a whim Gwen takes Arthur’s arm and begins to lead him back to his chambers, it’s not far, but it’s hard to ignore the way he’s looking at her . . . like she’ll disappear at any moment . . .
They’re going to figure this out, one day, where no one has to leave.
His hand brushes hers, before he takes a breath and nods, disappearing through his chamber door . . . and she feels, like she missed something, that perhaps she wasn’t paying enough attention . . . but now she’s alone . . .
Arthur’s arms loosen across his chest, and then fall away completely, without needing to ask, his tongue slips into Gwen’s mouth, and he takes the opportunity to intensify the kiss, pulling her securely against him. His hands slipping under her cloak to rest on her hips and back.
She wasn’t going to say goodbye. He bites her lip in reprimand.
She stands there for longer than she has to, staring at his door and wondering . . . while on the other side Arthur leans back against the door and closes his eyes . . .
Ignoring the fact that they aren’t completely alone gets easier, when she sighs softly into his mouth, in that way that makes the toes curl in his boots. And he pulls her, possessively, indefinitely closer, and her hand clutches at his shoulder, fingers curling tight, as her eyelashes brush his skin, so light.
He can still remember the first kiss, how, even innocently, it felt just like this, sending his heart a flutter in his chest as his lips tingled and burned.
It always feels like the first time with her.
Resting her forehead against Arthur’s, her breath uneven, Gwen smiles tenderly, eyes still closed, “You always surprise me.”
It’s a weary smile that lifts the corners of his mouth, and blindly he bends forward to kiss her again. God, stay. “Go . . . before I regain my senses,” he warns, half seriously.
Sobering, Gwen opens her eyes as she leans back to look at him, his eyes are still closed. Her hands reach to fiddle with skirts that aren’t there and she settles for smoothing her hands down the sides of her britches with a frown. “While I’m away don’t die,” she orders sternly.
“Same to you.” He releases her.
It doesn’t feel the time for declarations; she knows it all already.
Gwen doesn’t even fight the smile at his glib tone, “I mean it,” she says, slipping past him on the stairs and finally walking across the flagstones to the waiting Lancelot. “And I expect to return to find you with at least as many appendages as when I left.”
“Will you be checking?” He asks the empty air in front of him.
“Arthur,” Gwen hisses, her cheeks glowing, as she tries not to look at Lancelot.
Cold air presses against him, as the flush of pleasure at embarrassing her fades. Solemnly he nods, “For your sake then, love . . .”
Gwen’s lips twist at the endearment, because it’s a private one he won’t even use in front of Merlin. Doesn’t want it tainted by teasing. So his aim in using it now . . .
“. . . I’ll try.”
Oh, now THAT'S unquestionably meant to make her stay, but . . . but she can’t.
This is too important.
She frowns, thinking. “And Merlin . . . tell him-”
“I’ll make him understand what I cannot,” Arthur interrupts, shortly, as he restlessly shifts his weight. Every extra moment she stays is torture, it’s an extra moment to take it all back, grab her and run to find a place to hide her from the world.
From Lancelot and Morgana and anyone else who could have ulterior motives.
Gwen stops and glances back, thinking for a moment that he’s going to make good on the promise she’d read in his eyes and seize her, but he stubbornly hasn’t moved.
And she’s not sure how she’s supposed to feel about that.
“If you think I’m going to watch you ride off into the night,” Arthur calls out, opening his eyes to look at the empty staircase before him. “Then you have another thing coming, Guinevere.”
After a moment of silence, Gwen speaks, her words mindful and soft, though it doesn’t dim their sharpness.
“It’s different being the one left behind, isn’t it?”
He wants to turn and look at her, apologise for thinking it easy, but he doesn’t.
Can’t.
One word leads to so many others. And the last thing any of them need to experience is him pathetically begging her to stay.
Instead, he listens conscientiously, as Gwen takes a few more steps, as there’s a rattle of metal and leather and a murmur when Lancelot pulls her up onto the saddle with him. He imagines her slender arms winding around Lancelot’s waist; those small hands linked over his stomach, her chest pressed to his back, her breath on his neck. The hands at his side tighten.
Seated in front, Gwen glances back uncertain. While behind her, strong arms next to her sides, Lancelot shifts to get a tighter grip on the reins through the gap under her arms.
The next day everything’s seems back to normal, he doesn’t look at her or even speak to her and she sighs with what she hopes is relief, though she not quite sure . . .
Her fingers tighten on the saddle. Arthur still hasn’t so much as taken a step.
Go, he’d said.
Whether he’d meant it or not.
“If the trail goes cold . . .” Lancelot murmurs, his breath ghosting over her shoulder. And he doesn’t need to finish his sentence, they both know the outcome if they don’t seize this opportunity.
War.
She frowns when she notices that the laundry basket isn’t where she left it, but her breath catches when, at the very bottom, she finds a small piece of card with a crudely drawn flower on it . . . do you keep your promises? is scrawled messily across the bottom . . .
She nods mutely, and he urges the horse forward.
Gwen sits on edge the bed and runs the pads of her fingers over the drawing, and smiles, he’s never going to be an artist . . .
Arthur can estimate, roughly, by the sounds, and his knowledge of the grounds, when the pair reach the gate and inhales sharply at the twinge that runs through his body.
But maybe a friend . . .
Gwen exhales softly, shivering as she shuts her eyes, as they shift under the arch into the shadows of the town. Opening them again once they’re on the other side, as Lancelot urges the horse on faster.
She jumps up with a startled laugh when Morgana waves a hand in front of her face, breaking her from her thoughts . . . her mistress following the card’s exit into Gwen’s pocket, with raised eyebrows . . .
The world blurring, she has to lean back to keep from falling. No regrets, she tells herself firmly. Though she feels deeply unsettled leaving Arthur behind.
They both giggle when Morgana taps the side of her nose conspiratorially . . . I see you . . .
If only there had been time to warn Merlin. Or say goodbye.
Though she had left him a letter too.
But it’s barely half a sheet of wildly inept half thoughts and assurances, far too quickly written to say any of the right things.
So, he’ll just have to muddle through, as he keeps Arthur on track, focused and not brooding.
And do the same for himself.
She’s seen the shadows creep around the both of them when they stop to think of what has been done to them . . . what they’ve been forced to do themselves. And she’s taken it upon herself to clear away those doubts.
Nevertheless Gwen has to wonder if, perhaps, in her quest for answers and peace, she’s isn’t just causing more problems.
But since when is that ever a good enough reason not to ask or seek?
She closes her eyes and thinks of her whispered promise into his ear as she pulled back.
I’ll always come home.
She hopes he believes it.
The silence tugs at him.
She’s gone and he let it happen.
Numb, he starts to mount the stairs, back up to his chambers, where no doubt Merlin is waiting to find out if he spoke to Gwen.
Yes, and I let her go off, possibly to get herself killed with nothing more than a wanna be knight for protection. But what was I supposed to do lock her in the dungeons?
Say no?
Advise my 'advisors', like either of you listen to me when your minds are made up?
The back of his throat burns, though somehow, despite everything, his feet keep moving.
Still he doesn’t look back.
Not ready, just yet, to see the void behind him empty of her.
Arthur can’t help but wonder if in fact Guinevere hasn’t taken his heart with her, leaving him vacant, cold.
His foot falters on the step as a thought catches him unaware. One.
It takes just one.
One mistake, and the world can unravel. Has unravelled.
If this time . . . his breath shudders through his torso, but he forces himself to find the next step, keep moving.
Because she’s as good as asked him to trust her, to have the same unwavering faith in her that she has for him.
And he owes her that.
But if he has made a grave error, IF-
Then she’ll pay dearly for any harm that befalls Guinevere.
He’ll make sure of it, he needs Gwen because he's building this place for her, and one day their family, he wants her happy and safe and by his side.
Gwen’s surprised laugh bubbles out of her when Arthur and Merlin jump into view from either side of her doorway, small packages gripped tightly in their hands . . . she waves them in with a roll of her eyes, YES she made her own cake, she remembers what happened last time, vividly . . . Arthur passes by her and kisses her forehead, stopped when she catches his tunic in her fingers with a grin . . .
Climbing the last step, his father’s logic unexpectedly becomes easier to understand.
He did what he had to, and in some aspects Arthur is nothing if not his father’s son.
If Gwen does not return safely, then it shall seal all of their fates.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
So, yeh . . . was that angst? I don't even know.
But yes, after I finish my last assignment (on Friday) I shall be free to do all my prompts . . . i think the bodyswitch one might kill me, but we'll see XD . . . AM NOW understanding why noone ever chooses it . . . OH well live and learn and all that :D
Hope that wasn't as confusing a mess as i think it might be.
(AND \o/ YAY! \o/ GWEN HAS A NEW DRESS FINALLY!)