LAS challenge 1 voting
LAS Challenge One Voting
- Please read each entry to vote.
- Vote for your favourite piece, be sure to at least include feedback for it.
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- Voting should be based around quality only: Was the prompt met? Does characterization ring true? How is the spelling, grammar and punctuation? Did the piece hold you attention?
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The prompt was: blood, sweat and tears. Participants also had to include two other characters in a significant way in their story.
Voting closes Tuesday, January 26 at 11:59 pm PST. Results and challenge two will be posted sometime on Wednesday.
#1. Erosion, R
Tears
“There must be something you can do!” Gwen’s voice cracks on the final word.
“Gwen, I’m sorry.” She thinks, for a moment, that she sees his eyes flicker. That cannot be, though. It’s been years since they’ve been anything other than gold. Sometimes she wonders if she can even recognise the boy she knew in the man now standing in front of her or if she only sees his ghost hovering over the Court Wizard.
“Then what use are you, Merlin?” She hopes the words hurt, but she doubts it. Nothing seems to touch him anymore, part of the price he paid to bring Albion into being, perhaps. It’s unfair but she wouldn’t take the words back even if she could. They’ve all had to make sacrifices for the great good.
She spins on her heals but when she walks out her steps are slow and measured. There might be tears dripping onto the silk of her gown but she is still Queen.
Sweat
She can’t help a moan as Arthur pushes into her. They don’t look at each other anymore when they’re in bed. Arthur focuses on the head board; Gwen turns her head to look at the window. Still, she can’t help but dig her nails into his shoulder as she comes and he brushes the hair from her forehead as he withdraws. She knows he still finds physical pleasure in the act, just as she does but there’s nothing else there. Years of barren marriage hasn’t killed the love between them but it has stunted it. Desire has gone from their most intimate moments, crushed under duty and the need for an heir. She wants to ask him if he remembers a time when he wanted her for herself; she wants to tell him that she’d be happy if they never did this again. She almost tells him that there is another man, who wants her and not the child she will never bear. In the end though, she lies next to her husband in silence and feels the chill as her sweat cools on her skin.
Blood
Her monthly courses come, of course, as she had known they would. Bess is among the maids who attend her that morning. She knows the girl will go straight from her chambers to report to Arthur. She knows that sometime in the next week or so she will find an excuse to have the girl put in the stocks. She wonders when she became the person she now seems to be. She looks down at the scarlet staining her discarded linens and decides she doesn’t want to know.
Tears
He comes to her solar that afternoon. She dismisses her ladies and he at least has the curtsey to wait for her to answer his unasked question before striding over and pulling her into his arms. She feels his tears soak though the fabric of her dress. She tries not to think about how this visit is his way of saying he doesn’t blame her. He has no reason to blame her.
Arthur’s determination to have a child is no match for a Morgause’s curse and it is his curse. Maybe there would still be hope if Arthur could swallow his pride and reach out to Morgana, but no -- the ghost of Igraine hovers over their marriage. Arthur will never seek a sorceress’s help to get a child. So she holds him and tries to pretend that she is allowing him to hold her and doesn’t think of the other choices she could have made.
#2. Capture, T
Warning: Violence
Gwen raised her head, wincing as pain shot through her. She gingerly touched at an area on her head, grimacing as her fingers found a raised bump that was sticky with blood. She lay back down on the cold, stone ground and tried her best to remember what had caused her to end up like this.
"Gwen," Morgana looked over at her quiet companion. They were riding through the woods and Gwen was surprisingly uncommunicative.
"Yes?" Gwen was slightly startled as Morgana's words brought her out of her reverie. She glanced over at her mistress, wondering what Morgana wanted. The sun shone down through the trees, the leaves on the forest floor clinquant as the sunlight bounced off the raindrops that had fallen the night before.
"I was thinking that-" Morgana suddenly stopped, and held up a hand to shush Gwen. The hair on the back of her neck stood up; it was as if someone was watching them. Observing them. She looked around, trying to not look as if she knew someone was there. To her left, a tree rustled in the wind and her breath caught in her throat.
Maybe she was just paranoid. Maybe-
"ATTACK!" The yell startled both Morgana and Gwen's horses, and Gwen was tossed to the ground as her horse bucked. Morgana managed to gain control of her horse quickly and drew her sword. Gwen struggled to get up quick enough after her fall and she felt the ground tremble as their attackers ran and jumped down the steep slopes of the forest.
"Gwen!" Morgana cried, throwing Gwen a sword. Gwen caught the sword deftly and swung at an approaching attacker. She glanced at Morgana who was now no longer armed and was using her horse to fight her attackers off. Gwen's attention was quickly brought back to her own situation as one man came running at her.
She held the sword at an angle that you might hold a lance and she could see the fear in the man's - not a man even, he couldn't have been that old - eyes as he realized that he would not be able to stop in time. Gwen fell backward as he was impaled on the sword, but regained her balance. She tugged at the sword but it was stuck. She pulled again, harder, but she knew that she had wasted time.
The next thing she knew, she was falling sideways and a searing pain shot through her skull.
"Gwen, ay?" Gwen looked up fearfully, trying to not look scared in front of whoever was talking. "And why would two pretty women like you be traveling the forests without an escort?"
Gwen didn't answer, but fixed the man with a steely glare.
"Your posh lady friend got away, so I guess that we've only got you to have fun with," the man grinned heinously and he roughly pulled her up off the stone floor on which she had been lying and banged on the bars of the cell that she had been locked in. A creaking sound heralded the lock being opened.
"Where are you taking me?" Gwen asked, holding her head high.
"To have a little fun with," the man smiled evilly, and his putrid breath hit her like a club in the face. She grimaced.
She surveyed her surroundings as she was roughly dragged along, his meaty fist gripping the dirty cloth of her dress. They seemed to be in the ruins of a castle although she couldn't know where they were, or how to get back to Camelot. She hoped Morgana had got back to the castle safely.
Gwen noticed a corridor leading off to her left and at the end an open door glowed like a doorway to heaven. Without taking time to think, she pulled herself from the man's grip, the arm of her dress ripping away in his hand as she fled.
He yelled in anger and took chase.
She was almost there... only a few steps to go and she'd be safe...
She ran through the doorway and bright light hit her. She was free!
She could hear his feet pouncing along behind her and she continued to run, even though her muscles burned as she sprinted away.
She knew she was slowing, but she had to keep going.
She had to...
FIN.
#3. Untitled, PG
She had never been so tired in all her life. Her bones ached and her muscles screamed, but still Gwen persevered. The groans of the wounded filled her ears and reminded her of just how lucky she was. That Odin’s soldiers hadn’t breached the castle walls yet was surprising, but Gwen felt that it was practically inevitable and that thought alone sent panic coursing through her veins. So she tried not to dwell on it, just as she tried to forget that he was out there. Amidst the fire and the swords, fighting with everything he had to save his father’s Kingdom.
‘Gwen,’ a voice pulled her from her nightmares, looking up to see yet more injured knights streaming in through the doors and Gaius motioning toward them. She ran to the nearest man, seeing only the red cape and blooded head, helping him to sit in the closest available space, and trying not to think where Arthur was right now.
*
Hours passed and the roars from outside had not quietened. It was the deep night now, and the halls were alight with torches and candles in every crevice, making Gwen feel lethargic and nauseous. Her lilac dress was now clinging to her uncomfortably and her curls were damp with sweat.
'Gwen, my dear,' Gaius had appeared behind her, his own face looking even more haggard than usual. 'Will you rest? Even for a moment or two? You look like you're about to faint-'
But another voice cut off the physicians.
‘The Prince!’ A voice shouted from close by, as Gwen snapped her head up, to see him. Wounded and bloody and alive.
‘Ar-My Lord,’ she almost forgot formalities and reverted back to the familiar, the natural, and reached for his arm to steady him. Gwen tried to assess his wounds, a cut chest, a gash beneath the eye, but all she could see was his smile. Totally unguarded, free and happy and relieved, and suddenly everything else stopped mattering. The noises from outside, the heat from the fires, her tiredness all melted away into a wistful grin on her own lips.
‘You’re alive.’ She breathed, and he grasped her hand in his, holding it tightly to his chest. ‘I thought- I didn’t know if-’
‘Guinevere,’ he chuckled, as if they were at her house again rather than in the midst of a battle, ‘Of course I’m fine. You didn’t think a little fight would kill me, did you?’ And Gwen found that she actually quite liked his smirk...
‘Well, you are hurt Arthur. So clearly you’re not as invincible as you like to think.’ And she readied the bandages to the sound of his laughter.
‘What’s happening out there?’ His chuckles stopped, and Gwen almost wished that she hadn’t asked. But she had to know. She had to know what he was out there fighting, what they were all up against.
When he didn’t reply she chanced a look up at him, only to find him looking back carefully.
‘Guinevere, I want you to do something for me.’
‘Anything.’
‘If things don’t turn out as they should-’
‘Arthur, really I-’
‘Please.’ He interrupted. ‘Just...please listen. This is important.’ Gwen just nodded, not used to seeing the man she loved like this. ‘If things go wrong, I need you to do as I say. In my chambers, behind the chest on the right, there’s a secret passageway. All you need do is pull it from the wall and slip inside. Follow the path, it goes in a straight line so you can’t get lost, keep going till it opens onto a door. It will lead you out of Camelot and into the Forests of Valla.’
‘Why are you saying this?’ Her voice now thick with tears and hurt. What did he mean ‘if things went wrong’? If Camelot fell? If he...if he was taken from her, Gwen didn’t think she wanted to leave Camelot. She didn’t want to do anything but keep Arthur here, safe, next to her.
‘Gwen? Do you understand me?’
‘No.’ she chocked, and Arthur felt his heart breaking. ‘I don’t understand. You are going to be fine, Camelot is going to be fine! Stop talking like this, just st-’
‘I need to know that you will be OK.’ Arthur voice cracked, and Gwen saw a thousand emotions dance across his eyes. There were so many things left to be said, but they were running out of time and she could feel her throat closing up. So she just nodded, silently taking his face in her palms and pressed a kiss to his mouth. The blood and the sweat was bad enough, but it was his tears that scared her the most.
#4. Triplicate, G
Blood.
The woman collapses, drained of everything - of pain, of bones, of breath.
There is no exhaustion such as this, she thinks, a little wildly.
But then the midwife says, "Here is your daughter!"
And the woman summons herself, and smiles, taking the squalling infant into her liquid limbs. "My love," she coos, wiping the last bits of sticky crimson from a tiny dusky face. "My Gwennie . . ."
Sweat.
The little girl watches them work, eyes round and lashes barely blinking. The fire flicks, crackles - orange sparks spit and smoke rises.
But the girl is attentive, sure - taking in every clang of metal, every footfall upon the floor . . . the drops of moisture that dribs and drivels down foreheads smudged with ash and soot.
And the heaves of bent shoulders, all from laughter - from both her parents, steadily working, as the day wanes.
Tears.
Again, there are ashes in the air.
She had been very young the last time she had seen ashes scattered like this - puffs of gray that rise and fall through the green and gold of the fields.
At least you're with Mum now, she thinks, wiping the wetness from her face, as she watches the last iron cloud swirl away from her.
#5. Forging Hope, G
Gwen could feel the sweat pouring down her back. She felt lightheaded and dizzy and knew that she should rest, but she couldn't, not while Arthur was gone.
Hopefully they would be back soon, Arthur and Merlin, and have the dragonlord with them.
Gwen shook the sweat out of her eyes and continued hammering away at the lump of metal in front of her. It was starting to form the shape of a sword, sharp and thin. There was a shortage of armour and swords in Camelot at the moment. The great dragon had destroyed most of the city.
When Arthur and Merlin had rode out on their crazy quest, Gwen knew that she had to do something, anything, to help Camelot. The forge had been quiet, the flames dead since her father had been executed. No longer.
Gwen poured her heart and soul into forging new swords and armour for the brave knights of Camelot. Every drop of blood, every line of sweat, every tear drop was shed willingly. Every sword she made kept her mind busy, distracted from the fact that Arthur wasn't here.
He would come back, she told herself firmly. Merlin will keep him safe, and they would bring back the dragonlord and rescue Camelot. It would all be over soon.
#6. Not Your Average Queen, PG
As the afternoon sun beat down on her back, Gwen worked tirelessly in the fields. Her limbs aching but there was a sense of purpose and worth, she was maneuvering quite quickly for someone in her condition. Beads of sweat dripping down her forehead, stinging her eyes with the saltiness, Gwen breathed out a stifled sigh. The air was humid, and it was hard to breathe.
It didn’t stop Gwen from continuing her work though. From the moment she was made Arthur’s queen, she was told to only do this or that. Her duties were relatively miniscule compared to her original duties as a blacksmith’s daughter and a lady’s maid. The confines of the castle were getting to be too much for Gwen. Pregnant women in the village were known to work every single day up to when they gave birth. Being queen, it didn’t change Gwen’s desire to go out and do her own work. She was still being told not to worry about the laundry or serving dishes. It was a habit of hers to pick up her own plate after meals were done and wash up for so long that she was unable to shake it.
Indulgences were made to the common born queen though. Gwen knew that Arthur would have a fit if anyone reprimanded her for doing what she wants to do. It was in her blood to work hard. There was no denying that she was good at giving people the kick in the hind quarters they deserved.
Upon filling the basket to the brim with harvest, Gwen started walking all the way to the storage bin. It was not that far, but the heat was excruciating. Gwen felt dizzy, and her pace slowed a little to catch her breath. One step forward, she toppled over and blacked out.
* * *
“What do you mean she was found like this?” Arthur was shouting at the maid when she informed Arthur of Gwen’s fainting spell, “is there something wrong with the baby?”
The maid was trying to console Arthur by saying that the queen and the baby were fine. “There isn’t anything to worry about, sire. I have seen many pregnant women in my time go through habits of unusual urges. One such woman even rode a horse, bareback, astride at full gallop for thirty some odd miles. Her majesty is merely exhausted.”
Arthur was still not consoled. He sat by Gwen’s bed and fixed a loose curl that fell into her face. Gently, he kissed her forehead and whispered to her, “I wish you wouldn’t be so reckless. I don’t want to lose you.” The maid, Faun, meanwhile, placed a cool rag on Gwen’s head to cool her down.
“It’s common to experience heat exhaustion during this season. Here,” Faun instructed Arthur, “keep dabbing her forehead with this,” indicating the cloth, “and give her this when she is revived. “
Wiping his eyes on his sleeves, Arthur did what he was told. His anger over almost losing had brought tears to his eyes. Faun left him alone with Gwen. “I am so glad you are going to be okay, Guinevere. There is no way I am going to let you out of my sight until our baby is born. We are so close to the due date.”
As she fluttered her eyelashes, Gwen opened her eyelids slowly. She found herself in her own bed, with a wash rag on her head. She barely heard Arthur’s voice, mumbling to himself. It tickled her to think that not so long ago; she was in the same position. There was a small movement on her part to sit up, but Arthur was right there to keep her from moving too quickly.
“Careful, we don’t want you to pass out on us again,” Arthur voiced concern. He gave Gwen the potion that Faun instructed him to give her when she woke up.
Gwen giggled after she downed the potion. The liquid burned the back of her throat. She let out a tiny belch, which led her to cover her mouth, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. You didn’t need to hear that.”
“Don’t be sorry, Guinevere.”
“This reminds me of the time I sat at your bedside patching you up. It was after you battled the questing beast. “ Gwen let out another giggle, nervous all of a sudden.
Arthur only smiled at Gwen. “I remember exactly what you said that day, too.”
Gwen swatted his arm playfully. “Why did you insist on torturing me then?”
“It was fun to tease you about it,” Arthur laughed and planted a chaste kiss on Gwen’s lips, “besides, how else would I have gotten a chance to talk to you?”
She just shook her head, “You were always a charmer, sweetheart.”
Arthur smiled.
#7. Where a Thousand Corpses Lie, PG-13
Warnings: Dark themes and violent imagery
They stop counting the dead at sunrise. Smoke is still rising from the towers of Camelot and every breath Gwen takes is burned wood, singed flesh. Her quarters were destroyed during the first attack. She stood helpless, watching her home (my father’s home) reduced to char and ashes. But there is loss all around her, mothers with dead husbands, sisters with lost brothers. Hers is small by comparison, but then it’s all she had.
There were cheers when news spread of the dragon’s defeat. Gwen’s voice was among them, bolstered by Arthur’s safe return. And then their eyes turned inward, to the bloody streets and crumbling towers. The sight of the charred castle walls was sobering, more frightening than the fires they’d just escaped. The time for celebration was over. The knights of Camelot had fallen and those left behind were in the first throes their grief.
She’s just removed a burned shield from another knight when Merlin approaches from behind. His skin is pale, more so than usual and his eyes are rimmed with red. He’s been crying again. Arthur mentioned an incident with the dragonslayer in passing but dismissed just as quickly. “We were weary. Most men would have done the same.” But the heat of battle has long past and Merlin stares at the line of bodies as though he’s lit the fires himself.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, and looks down at her hands. Her nails are caked with dried blood. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”
“I want to be here.”
A small crowd gathers near the castle. There is a flash of red fabric, the cloaks of four knights who escaped the slaughter. Uther is in the center, walking slowly through the courtyard. He stops in front of a woman. She is dark haired and tearful, hands gripping two young boys at her hips.
“Besides, there’s no one left.”
Merlin crouches beside another body. Gwen moves to its feet (his feet, Cearl the shopkeeper, who always gave her too much grain) and pulls them together while Merlin lifts his upper body. There is a wagon nearby. By the time they’ve put him inside, they’re both covered with dust and sweat.
Uther has moved down the line, to a fair woman with a small girl against her hip. He touches the child’s cheek with gloved fingers.
“Does he even know them?” Merlin slides his hands down his trousers. His voice is bitter, resentful. Gwen glances at him and then shakes her head.
“Most likely not.” Uther moves to the next woman, older this time, a grandmother. Her sobs intensify when he touches her shoulder. “But it doesn’t matter, his presence is enough.”
“I don’t believe that.” Merlin leans against the wagon. When Gwen turns to him, he is sullen, his lips pressed into a hard thin line. “No one feels safe anymore, not even him.” He looks at Uther. “Arthur says he hasn’t mentioned them. Those men died for his kingdom and he can’t remember their names.”
“He remembers.” Uther has reached the last widow. His eyes slide higher, over her shoulder, to the processional of bodies being removed from the courtyard. And then, as if he’s sensed Gwen’s presence, he turns to face her. She holds his gaze. “When someone dies for you, at your hand, it’s not something you forget.”
Uther blinks and looks away. Gwen turns to Merlin whose head is bowed, his shoulders hunched forward. He stares at his hands, flips them over and back again, then balls them into tight fists. She remembers what Arthur told her, how Balinor died saving his life.
“I’m so sorry.” She touches his arm. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, it’s fine.” He forces a weak smile. “You’re right.” Uther walks toward the castle, red cape billowing behind, partially obscuring his face. They watch until he disappears inside the charred, stone walls.
“You shouldn’t forget.” Merlin reaches for her hand. “Not ever.”
#8. the line is fine, PG
He bleeds and so does your heart. The wounds are fresh and open and just so raw. This is happening right now and she can’t help but think on how relevant it seems to their entire situation. Of course it’s thinking of their ‘relationship’ - or lack thereof - as a situation further reminds her of where they’re going, and where they’re not.
She tends to him. Cleans him. Smiles at him. She ignores their past and her dream of their future. Right now she is his nurse and nothing more. She must fix the future King. These wounds she can manage. Just about.
She stops when he slips his fingers in between hers. “Don’t look like that,” he tells her. “It’s just a little blood.” He waits and smiles at her, reassures her. “I’ll be fine.”
She goes to sleep that night wishing he had said “we’ll be fine” instead.
+++
Arthur’s back fighting the good fight and Gwen watches from a window in the castle when she’s given a moment’s rest from healing the wounded. She feels a hand on her shoulder. “He’s made of strong stuff that one,” says Morgana.
Gwen wakes from her daydream and half jokes: “That’s unlike you, to say something nice about Arthur, I mean.”
“He’s not all bad.” She pauses and then smiles. “I suppose.
“Besides, he’s the one who’ll save us.”
And then Gwen realises.
She turns to face Morgana. “And I must help him.”
“What?” Morgana is confused because she wants to know when it became ‘him’ and not ‘Camelot’ in Gwen’s mind.
“I’ll be fine,” is all she hears as Gwen sets to work.
+++
She’s grown quite accustomed to her hand in his, but this time it feels different. He says the words that have eluded them so long and she half feels like laughing as it’s nothing like she thought it would be, not like in those books she used to read when she was younger. There are no tears, no heart songs, and most importantly no fear. It’s just the two of them.
“We’ll be fine,” is all she says in response.
He smiles at her and she sees that he feels the same. They’ll be fine.
#9. Untitled, PG
Gwen tests the edge of the sword against her thumb. It scrapes dully over the skin, leaving no mark. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she keeps working, her aching back bent over the grindstone.
"Can we save them, Gwen?" Morgana asks her, that night. The villagers gather around a fire a little ways from them, passing bowls of soup and mugs of weak beer between them. Morgana's own bowl sits untouched at her feet. "Are we setting ourselves up to fall?"
Gwen watches an old man accept a bowl of soup from a young girl, watches him flash her a smile bright as sunshine. She watches as the girl slides through the crowds, back to the fire. She sees her duck and stutter when Arthur catches her arm, sees Arthur smile, as if he's gentling a horse.
She sees Merlin, bright and faithful, beaming at everyone from Arthur's side. His eyes are dark and shining, his face so full of reassurance and certainty that tears prick behind Gwen's eyes. She swallows past the lump in her throat, presses Morgana's bowl into her hands. "Eat, my lady," she says, firmly. "We have a village to save, come tomorrow."
**
"How are you so sure?" She murmurs to Merlin. Morgana is curled under her cloak, hair spreading out like shadow from her head. The hut is dark, darker than the city ever gets, and it worries at the edges of Gwen's mind with subtle teeth.
Merlin lowers his head, his lips working. He has an answer, she sees it, but he can't quite let it out, even in a dark such as this. Finally he looks up at her, meeting her eyes. "Arthur," he says, and it's true, though not the truth he began with.
She glances down at her Prince, sleeping sprawled and lithe. He shines golden and unreal in the last dying embers of the fire, and there is a cast to his features that makes something in Gwen ache, and ache sharply.
She looks back to Merlin and nods, smile tight over words she doesn't know. I hope he is enough, she wants to say, but she knows he is. Knows he will be, backed by their faith in him.
**
Sweat gathers in the hollow between her breasts, slides down the line of her spine. She runs the back of her hand across her brow, strikes out with her broom. The bandit sneers at her, batting it aside, and advances. Scrambling back, her foot hits something hard, something metallic, in the mud below.
She throws the broom into his face and crouches to pick it up. The hilt is familiar in her hands, all crude iron, and she swings it up and under his defense.
The noise, perhaps, is the worst.
She is gasping and almost sobbing when she gets his corpse off her, but her fist is tight around the sword. Its edge gleams in the sunlight, and its tip is stained with blood.
#10. Better Reasons, PG
“When I was little,” she says, hands soft on his arm, “I used to fall down a lot-not like I was clumsy, I just . . . I just couldn’t manage my own feet. I had to master it before I started working for-well, before I became a maid; you can’t really carry heavy trays or dirty laundry or anything if you’re tripping over your own feet all the time.” She laughs a little, sweet and almost sincere as she smoothes a warm, damp cloth around the cut on his bicep, wiping away the dirt and dried blood. “Anyway, I used to fall down a lot and I’d, you know, skin my knees or bump my elbow against the table and cut it open and blood would just go everywhere, all on my dress and down my legs or my arm. And I’d start to cry, like little girls cry, big tears and sobbing breaths, and then I’d hear a crash from the other room because my father would drop whatever he was doing and come running in.” She stops for a second, smiles sadly and picks up a roll of clean, white bandaging from the table across from them. “He’d pick me up and kiss my head and tell me I was all right and I could smell his soap and sweat and feel the warmth of his skin through his clothes. He’d put me down on the table and wipe off all the blood with cold water and I hated how the cloth would turn red and you could see the rip in my skin, but he’d bandage it and kiss it and it wouldn’t hurt anymore. But until he kissed it, I could feel the pain through my whole body and, at that age, I couldn’t imagine anything hurting worse. But as soon as he kissed it, all the hurt would go away.” She checks the bandage she’s secured on his arm, making sure it’s not too tight or too loose and presses a surreptitious kiss to the skin of his shoulder, right above the bandage. “It was probably just my imagination though,” she mutters, so soft he can barely hear. When she raises her head, she’s blushing, face flushed and warm in the dim light. He lifts a hand towards her face, but she catches it and turns it over to see the scraped skin on his palm. She makes a soft noise-a noise of disapproval or of pity, he can’t tell.
“I sometimes let myself believe my struggles are the hardest in the world,” she says, back turned to him. “But I know they’re not.” When she turns back to him, her eyes linger on the body of one of the guards laid out on the table next to them, covered with a stained bed sheet. “I sit here and I watch you and your knights and see you go out and almost kill yourself for all of us here and all I do is clean up your blood and sweat and tears. I used to . . . I used to watch Morgana and she would do anything, risk everything, bleed and sweat and cry for something she thought was right. And all I would do was hold her hand or brush her hair or make sure her dress didn’t have any wrinkles.” Her face is set and careful, her lips tight, but her hands are gentle and confident as she checks the scrapes on his palm and begins to bandage them.
He looks at her, quiet and sure, with sweat shining on her forehead and neck, bloodstains on her dress, tears making her eyes bright and he catches her hands in his and smiles, feeling like he’s smiling for the first time in years. His lip cracks and bleeds, but he looks at her and can’t think of anything more worth bleeding for. “Guinevere,” he starts, and laughs a little, affectionate, “without people like you” (without your blood, sweat, and tears he thinks) “without you what reason would I have to fight?”
#11. In Grief, PG
Warning: Angst/dark theme
She knows he is awake: he is not snoring. She cannot blame him for it: he would not be accustomed to such noises in the night; noises that she, only recently, had learned to tolerate; noises, that in darkness, grow louder.
“Who is she?” he whispers, as soon as she has come close enough. It is too dark to see his face, but the whites of his eyes are reflecting some distant candlelight: they look haunted.
“I don’t know,” Gwen says, plainly: after all she doesn’t know everyone in the city; she's just a servant. She feels sorry for him though, having to stay here and listen to the cries of his dying people: but he'd lost too much blood battling the Dragon to be moved to the comfort of his room. To distract him, she keeps talking: “The little girl cries all night, every night; it is not unusual.”
This doesn’t appear to comfort him: His head bows lower and his broad shoulders shiver.
The little girl is not in her healing station, therefore is not her responsibility: Gwen isn't the only servant in the castle. So soon there is movement past the dividing curtain: someone has gone to quieten the little girl. Arthur exhales slowly.
"So many..." he murmurs: it is almost lost in the drone and whine of the moaning patients around them. He guides her hand to his cheek and holds it there. She frowns: Gaius had tended to the prince himself, and had said the salve he’d applied there would not allow the gash to bleed any further.
Yet here there was wetness. Sighing, she pulls away and brings a damp cloth to his face, wiping gently. When she peers at the cloth though, she cannot make out his blood on there: but then, she reasons, it is too dark to see anything.
*
She knows something is wrong: he is actually putting effort in his work. He is moving a heavy piece of broken wall: the grunt is raw, but is not a complaint. His dark hair is sticking to his brow; his shirt is sticking to his thin back, revealing every bone in his spine: the dark stain of sweat is steadily spreading.
She knows of that wetness, and of the fiery pain in all those straining muscles within: after all, she has been working under the same sun that burns him. But her concentration is genuine: the sting of grit entering her fingernails is not a way of keeping her mind focused far from other thoughts. She has no other thoughts.
Her dry tongue has stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her lips are sealed together: that is why she breaks them apart and lets her tongue slide over them, tasting salt. She wants to test her unused voice: that is why she asks him, “What’s wrong?” Thus she notes that her voice still works.
He looks up at her: “Nothing,” he says, shrugging. His voice was not really working.
He is lying: it is that simple. She could press him for the truth now, and he would tell her: he was her best friend. He trusted her.
But Gwen is very busy right now. They both are: there is no time to talk. Talking will then lead their minds to dwell on things other than their duty at hand. After all Camelot needed to recover after the Dragon’s attack, and there was no time to think about anything else: that is why she doesn’t press him.
She remains silent and lets him rub the sweat from his eyes.
*
“Where are you going?”
She hadn’t realized it was anything unusual until Merlin spoke. She pauses now, mid-step and blinks.
“Guinevere, come here,” Arthur calls to her, tenderly. She obeys: but moves slowly, stunned, unsure of herself. But he doesn’t scold her: he holds her close. Merlin hovers nearby, too.
“I thought I needed to- She needs-” Gwen offers as explanation.
“Guinevere…” Then she understands. Her eyes widen with surprise, then prickle with the shame of realization: after all there was no reason to be climbing stairs that lead to an empty room. “Oh, Gwen, I’m so sorry...Guinevere, she’s gone.”
She stays silent, feeling only Arthur’s arms around her back, Merlin’s fingers touching her hair. For a moment she wants to say her eyes are itching with sleep: it had been a long day. But she is too tired now, and accepts defeat at their game: she is not good at hiding. She has run out of excuses.
So she whimpers, “I know," because she does know now. And she is glad they are there: it is her turn to grieve.
#12. Life's Making, G
The hammer bells out against steel, furnace heat salting Gwen's skin with a light wreath of sweat.
On the anvil, fine steel is worked in folding layers, hot metal meeting cold as the sword takes shape.
"Bellows hard, Gwennie."
Gwen stands and begins to work the bellows with steady strokes. Working in her father's forge isn't easy, but she finds the work fascinating and different every time, whether he's casting nails for a house, or shoeing the king's horses, or fixing a cast iron pot with careful taps.
Or making a sword.
Swordmaking's a secret skill - one that's passed down through the blood, from father to son - or through the art, from smith to apprentice. But her father has neither son, nor apprentice, and while Gwen can work with smaller steel and cast iron, she doesn't have the muscles for this kind of long, protracted work.
All she can do is pump the bellows and watch her father work.
The familiar ache in her arms and back grows with each squeeze of the bellows, and she matches its rhythm to the clangour of hammer on fiery metal. Coal chunks glow, their dull scarlet centers spreading through the beads as Gwen peers through the spyhole until her face feels like it glows as bright as the forge's insides.
"And in she goes." Her father lays the blade in the coals to reheat until it's ready to be beaten out again.
The final stages are the most difficult - Gwen knows her father's practices in this. The metal must be kept at a constant temperature to avoid uneven cooling which would affect the strength of the blade. It needs to be swiftly hammered out, long and straight and even for the full length of the blade. It needs to be made flat - sandwiched layers of steel - for a smooth, balanced sword.
Her father's arm comes around her shoulders, a brief hug between pumps of the bellows in the too-fierce heat. "This'll be a good one. I can feel it."
"It's turning out beautifully."
"Fit for a knight, it'll be." His arm squeezes her before he reached out for the mug of beer standing behind him on one of the empty anvils and takes a long hard swig. "I tell you, though, Gwen, it almost feels like the sword's making itself."
"How can a sword make itself, Dad?" Gwen keeps the air flowing to the forge, puffing a little with the effort. "That's why it has you."
He grins as he puts the mug down - a simple man, full of passion for his smithcrafting lore, full of love for her. And Gwen will never be a fine lady like Morgana up at the castle, but she wouldn't exchange all the jewels and silks in Camelot for her father's love. "Well, let's to it. My life's making's in this. I know it."
She doesn't question his certainty, just watches as he takes it out and gets to work.
Tom works fast and hard. Drops of dark sweat fall from his brow onto the glowing cherry of the steel as he beats it out. Gwen feels every blow like she's landing them, like the pinchers are held in her hand, like the hammer is gripped in her fingers.
It's not just her father's sword, or the sword of the knight who'll wield it - it's her sword, too.
She can feel it.
Soft steel melds with hot as her father shapes the blade with swift skill and sure strokes. Sparks leap from the force of his blows, escaping the hammer's beat to sputter and die on the dirt floor.
Gwen watches, the forge forgotten, the bellows limp. All light in the smithy is drawn to the sword, glowing on the anvil.
With a great gusty sigh, Tom lifts the blade and turns to the cooling trough where clean water shimmers, ready to quench the forge's fire.
Steam scalds the air, hissing in great clouds of heat and damp. Gwen's skin stings from it, but she can't look away as her eyes tear up, dripping helpless trails down her cheeks as her father lifts the still-warm steel from the water.
"Look, Gwen..."
He turns the blade for her to see the fine, shining lines of the folds, delicate as engravings on crystal, the blade's width wobbling and wavering a little, requiring further grinding to make the straight, sharp edge that it needs.
A drop falls on the sword - a tear escaping her cheek, hissing softly as it slides the length of the blade.
"It's beautiful, father."
--
Years later, Gwen watches Arthur lift Excalibur before the assembled people of Camelot and remembers its making.
#13. Respite, G
Her eyes are too dry for relieved tears, though she has plenty to spare. Gwen rubs at them absently to ease the sting, transferring another thin, gritty layer of soot from her hand to her brow. It trails through the sweat on her forehead; she's beginning to think it will never wash off, no matter how much she rinses. The soot is in the water, on the linens, in the air.
The Great Dragon may be dead, but the air still smells of fire and there's work to be done for a long time.
Sitting on the bench in Gaius' chambers, Gwen soothes her dry throat with tepid water as she listens to Gaius putter around the room. She can't remember the last time she sat down for longer than it took to catch her breath. The need to stay busy was something he understood.
Merlin drops onto the bench beside her. His shoulders look heavy, weariness permeating his limbs. She offers a smile as she lowers her cup. He's barely even injured, she thinks, looking him over critically. "Has Gaius finished fussing over you?"
"For now," he quirks a smile. "Don't you start. I'm fine."
"I wasn't going to," she tells him with a laugh that feels much too good, then looks at him closely. "We really thought …" she glances down. "I'm so happy you're all right, Merlin."
"Takes more than a Dragon to do away with me, Gwen. Arthur, too." His smile deepens but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Is he still with the King?"
She nods, closing her eyes briefly as fresh relief washes over her. Arthur, she thinks, remembering how it had felt when he wrapped his arms around her and turned his face into her hair, solid and real and whole. It doesn't even seem possible.
"What happened?" she asks quietly. "How did you do it?"
"I didn't," Merlin says quickly, and the swift reply makes her glance at him. "Arthur did. Erm. Hit him in the right place, I suppose."
Gwen nods and raises her cup to her lips again. As with most times when Merlin does that evasive ... thing, she doesn't press. Being a servant means keeping some secrets; besides, it's enough that they're both all right. But there's a heaviness about Merlin that Gwen's never seen on him before. As foreign as it looks on him, she recognizes it easily enough.
Loss.
She reaches for his hand and he grips her fingers tight. When his gaze flicks up to meet hers, whatever it is that he can't tell her is all over his face for just an instant. Gwen looks away first, remembering how hard it still is for her to talk about it.
"Well," she says simply. "It's good to have you back."
He nods. Neither of them speaks further and they sit in the quiet, listening to Gaius muttering over his worktable as they wait for Arthur.
#14. Three Memories, PG
Blood: Memories in Comfort
One of Gwen's earliest memories is sitting on the floor next to her Mother while she sews. It was, Gwen assumes now, work she picked up from noble women to earn extra money for the family. As a child Gwen never thought about the work her mother did as related to anything outside the house - Gwen's world was barely bigger than her home and her father's forge at that point anyway. The memory always starts with her mother humming. Next she remembers hearing her mother's hissing breath and looking up. The needle was hanging from the thread still attached to the dress hem and her Mother was clutching her finger, red blood welling up from the tip. Gwen's remembers thinking there was so much blood, but having pricked herself countless times she knows it must not have been much at all. Her mother sucked at it until the bleeding stopped.
The sight of the blood had scared Gwen. She remembers starting to scream and cry, scared both of her mother being injured and the intensity of her own reaction to it. Finger and gown forgotten, her Mum pulled her up placing her on her lap. She hugged and rocked Gwen, showing her the finger, now magically whole, no blood anywhere. Then came the only words she can remember her mother speaking to her anymore. "Shhh, Gwenny, I'm fine. I'm fine."
Sweat: Memories in Pride
Gwen loves to remember her father at his forge.
Their repeated scenes of domesticity - making him his lunch before she went to the castle or watching him repair a stool in their house - are still so painful. Her anger at her father for working with the Druids has been wrapped in linen and stored in a deep trunk like the dress. She cannot bear to look at either.
She only ever feels pride for her father when she thinks about him standing in front of his forge. She can still see him perfectly: his leather apron on over his work clothes, holding his hammer in one hand and his tongs in the other. He would heat the metal and hammer it and heat and hammer again and again while Gwen would watch the sweat trickle down his face into his eyes. He would wipe it away absentmindedly with his forearm paying attention only to the metal sparking under his hammer. She heard more than one man say Tom's armor was the best in all of Camelot, better even than the castle smith's but that matters less to her now. No one will speak his name now for fear of treason under Uther's laws, but she remains steadfast to this memory and her pride in him.
Tears: Memories in Isolation
Gwen often finds herself thinking about the changes in Morgana. Something is wrong but she doesn't know what it is or how to help. It's a ghost of a feeling and it haunts her.
The only change Gwen can think of has been the lack of nightmares. Morgana no longer wakes up scared, tears staining the bed linens. Gwen tells herself she is glad Morgana no longer needs her in the middle of the night but to be truthful she is angry with Morgana for pulling away from her. She might not be dead like her parents, having died in childbirth like her Mother or at the King's orders like her Father, but she is still gone from Gwen's life. Gwen finds herself wanting to walk up behind Morgana when she is standing at the window watching Arthur ride out of the gates on a patrol. To put her hand on her shoulder and feel Morgana lean into the silent support offered, but now she doesn't dare for fear Morgana will snap or pull away.
All she can do now is be the dutiful and attentive servant she has always prided herself on being and hope that the Morgana she loves will come back to her, because she misses her terribly.
#15. the old vise is laid, G
She remembers, as she's bandaging someone's wounds and turns to Morgana - automatically, before realising - for some cloths, that her father had thought Morgana would see her; keep her safe; marry her.
*
The days after the dragon: two, three. Three days of interlude, where Gwen helps the townsmen rebuild their homes, and runs back and forth in the sick bay to alleviate Gaius's load. And on the fourth day, when it seems Camelot will recover and people both in and out of the castle consider resuming their lives, Gwen reopens the smithy.
It's not easy. The roof has fallen in where the dragon indiscriminately spread its fire, but Gwen binds it up with planks of wood and rubber. And all the machinery and tools - the extra hands, her father had called them - lie bent, old, twisted and forgotten in rusty heaps. But she cleans out the grating, fiercely, till the dust from the coals flies out like a storm. She pulls out the bellows and oils them till they contract and expand smoothly; she scrubs down the work surfaces and polishes at the leather-bound tools till they're bright and sturdy once more. Her knuckles have peeled and her skin is stinging raw from the chemicals she's been using, but she looks about the forge, gleaming as she once knew it, and thinks it's a small sacrifice.
And like that, she commences her first work.
*
The day she'd found employment with Morgana, her father had comforted her as he finished his work.
"I'm just a servant," Gwen had grumbled, young. "She won't even look at me. Keeps stropping about how horrible life is and throwing her dinner around the room. Which I have to clean up. And the King keeps coming in and making things worse."
He had told her Morgana, in time, would come to see her, and that all grieving children were alike, and needed time. He told her that maybe, if Morgana was still upset and refusing to eat, she might like to get some fresh air in the village, and pop here for a bite. Gwen had pulled a face, but the next day - amidst a chair being flung out of the window and the royal physician being sworn at six ways backwards - she had tentatively suggested it. It's how Morgana came to eat her first meal in Camelot, and how she came to look at Gwen in a yellow smock dress and smile. Her father had eventually sent them out of his way, and they exchanged secrets in the back room, to the clash and beat of swords being forged.
*
When they were fifteen, both, Uther had suggested that he relocate Gwen, so that Morgana might consider associating with the ladies-in-waiting rather than the serving staff; Morgana, with her flair for dramatics, had stormed into the court and declared she would never give up her friends. Thrilled, Gwen had recounted these happenings to her father, as she sat on his table in the evening and kept him company. He worked late those days, always later so he could do more.
He had ruffled her head, and said, "I think you'll be safe with her," and she had swung her legs cheerfully beneath the table, and held out the tools as he needed them.
*
It was the evening Gwen returned to the smithy, after a banquet had been given for the prince's eighteenth birthday, Morgana's arms linked firmly with her own, and their conversation merry. Morgana had insisted on walking her back, and once in the forge, Morgana had looked around with such unbridled longing, that Gwen had offered the first sword she could lay her hands on. They'd hugged, and parted that night with dancing eyes.
"I think your Morgana will try to marry you, if she gets half a chance." Her father had smiled benignly, and Gwen had laughed, and ducked her head.
"It's not -- ", she tried, and couldn't find the words. "We just care about each other."
"I'm glad," her father had replied. "Everyone needs someone to look out for them."
*
In the days after the dragon, Gwen forges a shield for Morgana, sharp steel melded into an arc that will curve like close armour over her body and keep her safe, no matter what battles she comes to fight. It's probably treason, but it's not like she's handing Morgana a rapier and the addresses of every magic-hating denizen in Camelot, so Gwen feels relatively secure doing it; there is a horse, she knows, that will find Morgause. She scores the figures of Morgana's body and reckons them with the depth of the shield, and makes a dozen wooden mocks till the points of balance (chest-to-arms-to-legs) are just right. The smithy is hot; she still hasn't got the ventilation system working properly yet, but she works at it, constant, nonetheless.
And when the design is ready, she puts it together. The material is dense, and weighs her limbs and arches her arms, but she pours it into the cast and bolts it together, molten metal falling into joints and melding, cooling, solidifying. Gwen waits by, and etches in the corner an emblem of long stalks and falling flowers and thinks, she cannot stay with Morgana, but she can keep her safe her a little longer yet. She waits by, hair clinging to her neck in the heat, and thinks it will be all right.
#16. Between Hope and Despair, PG
Blood
There is a metallic taste on her lips as she raises a cup of water to her mouth; she can smell it in the air as she ties back her hair. Its presence is almost tangible.
The bloods clings to her body like an afterthought. She has bandaged and comforted and nursed so many - getting it out from under her fingernails is almost impossible. So instead Gwen lets it dry on her skin, cake into the creases of her palms. Blood from men, women, children - the Dragon has taken them all. Her hands are like a map; the reddish stains simply points that mark the fallen. (Here? The woman who is still lying comatose. There? The man who left his pregnant wife behind. And what about that place, almost hidden in the corner? She was only four.)
Each attack brings more. Each attack brings more death and anguish and broken bones; each night Gwen can only hope that the blood spilled on the ground isn't Arthur's, Merlin's, Morgana's -
The world is just a frenzy of fumes and flames, and so Guinevere forgets - she forgets oh-so-easily.
Morgana isn't there.
Sweat
The night has given way to bright sunlight. The day is nearly as worse as the night, Gwen thinks. The damage is plain, and the ruined sight of the castle is a bleak one; it is only in the daylight that the people realize that the Camelot's fall must be inevitable.
Beads of sweat appear on Gwen's forehead as she works throughout the day. There is much to do whilst the Dragon is gone - carry water, put out fires, move the bodies of the dead, and put more defences for its return. She has not slept for more than a day, but as long as there is work to do, she cannot rest. Gwen doesn't even notice as sweat trickles down the side of her face.
As she finishes changing the dressing on a young man's leg, Gaius hands her some bread and a cup of water. It's his way of forcing her to rest.
Gwen goes out into the corridor and rests on a low wall. Her body suddenly starts to ache, and she stifles a yawn. She can feel exhaustion starting to take over, and quickly downs the dry bread and splashes some of the water onto her face. A stench of smoke still lingers in the air, and it feels cool and fresh against her face - it's an escape from the oppressive atmosphere, if only for a moment. She stands up, ready to return to work.
'Guinevere.'
She looks up, but she already knows who it is. He sounds a little surprised.
Arthur's standing at the end of the corridor, a little way from her. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.
He opens his mouth to say something, but then is interrupted by a loud 'Sire!' from around the corner. So instead he nods at her, as if he's encouraging her somehow - and suddenly Gwen feels like she's in Ealdor again, ready to face a battle. He smiles at her again before turning away.
Her own smile lingers on her face as she returns to Gaius's side. It's a small consolation, she knows, but she is content. She has to be.
Tears
Gwen watches quietly from the castle turrets, running her thumb along a small crack in the stone. The families and lovers of the knights have gathered in the courtyard. Some of them are nodding their encouragement, keeping a stiff upper lip; most of them have succumbed to tears. They are saying their goodbyes, hoping it won't be their last. (But knowing that it will.) Perhaps Arthur has already spoken with the King - he and Merlin alone are already on their horses. (Oh Merlin, Gwen thinks with a sigh.)
Arthur turns his head and looks towards the castle, and Gwen tilts her head and squints as the late afternoon sun glints off his armour. It takes a moment to realize that he's searching for someone. (Searching for her.)
She drops her gaze.
There's a gentle pat on her back, and Gwen looks up; it is Gaius. He does not say anything more - there is no need. He slowly walks towards the edge of the turret, steadying himself and quietly looking down at the city.
Suddenly, she hears the sound of hooves drumming along the ground, and quickly turns back to the courtyard. The knights slowly disappear into the town, then into the forest.
An anguished sob rises from the courtyard. Several more follow. Gaius looks at Gwen worriedly, but she keeps her gaze steady. She will not cry. When - if - Arthur falls, Camelot will weep, and then will she weep with them. Only then.
So Gwen descends the stairs with Gaius, and returns to the Great Hall. She has work to do.