Chapter Text
Gwen would like to think that she was very logically driven, She wasn’t impulsive, until she was. She wasn’t going out into the world and searching for answers, preferring to stay with what she knew and what she had.
She had a good life.
A blacksmith’s daughter who had caught the eye of the ward of the King one random day when said ward wandered into the shop and demanded a sword. Her father had, at the time, been in the forge while leaving Gwen alone with her brother Elyan, and she gave the young Lady Morgana a beautiful blade.
Not long after guards came to the house for her.
It wasn’t anything bad, they had said, only that the King had requested her. Which, usually, meant it was something bad.
Not this time, however, as she was offered a job as Morgana’s serving-maid.
She loved the time she spent with her Lady, helping her with her appearance, elaborate hair-do’s that Morgana taught her… She did the same as any maid really, readying baths, cleaning clothes, and serving breakfast. But she loved playing with Morgana’s hair the most.
It was soft, silken almost. And while it was her job she only wished someone else would do the same for her.
It was much later, years in fact, when things in the castle started to change. When the people grew to respect the monarchy and the Prince and Ward were commonly on the same side of fights. She had watched these changes quietly, standing at the side with Arthur’s new manservant, Merlin.
The boy had been clueless when he started the job, but she taught him what she knew. In return, he offered her companionship. Someone to talk to. Which, while new, was nice.
She never felt like she could confess the things she spoke to Merlin about to Morgana. It was highly inappropriate for a Lady’s maid to speak to her Lady in such ways after all. As it was for a manservant and his Lord.
Not that Merlin ever seemed to care. The only time he followed protocol was when King Uther was about. Which meant, not much.
Nevertheless, Merlin was wonderful.
He treated her like she had longed for.
When her father died, she spent weeks sharing his bed. He held her and let her cry and would weave braids into her hair and with the mutter soft nothings she’d fall asleep.
It felt almost mutual, those evenings they spent together. When Merlin carded his fingers through her hair, he’d hum beneath his breath. He’d relax, but that relaxation didn’t cause loose braids or a loss of focus. If anything, he was more grounded with steadier hands.
It was always a thrill to room with Merlin, waking and examining the braids the following morning and deeming them well enough to survive her tasks of the day. And the more she let him, the more elaborate and peculiar they became. Beneath beautiful braids lay almost knot-like braids, which still never seemed to fall out until she brushed them out when she had the time.
Over time, she left them in rather than tried to take them out. There were compliments and questions on how she had learned to do such elaborate plaits. She just bowed her head and muttered something to distract them. She was, after all, a busy woman.
And life went on.
The castle was overrun by their enemies.
She fought back, because of course she did. This was an entirely logical action, she was defending her home. Not at all impulsive, no matter what Leon would say.
That’s when she learned that the braids woven into her hair were much more than that. Because each swipe that should have hit her in such close quarters missed almost nearly every time, but each time it did, more hair fell from their braid.
In the moment, logically, she assumed it was to do with the harsh movements and the commotion.
Later, as she watched Merlin playing with Arthur’s hair in a small cave in the woods, where the Prince rested his head in the lap of his servant... She realised it was much more than that.
That Merlin was more than what he seemed.