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“It’s possible I didn’t think this through,” Gwen says, dancing nervously on the balls of her feet. The heel of her ridiculously high shoe snags in the deep carpet, and she pitches forward unsteadily. Elyan, slouched comfortably against a wall, raises one eyebrow. “What? Letting Morgana pick out your clothes or the press conference?” He pauses. “Or the entire engagement?”
“Uh,” Gwen says, kicking off her shoes and glaring at them balefully. They’re a muted gold and strappy, decorated with suspiciously diamond-like little jewel things that Gwen’s afraid to inquire about. This one pair of shoes probably costs more than her entire wardrobe. Or at least, her wardrobe up to this point. “All of the above?”
Her brother smirks but says musingly, “I wonder, if you break it off, do you have to give the ring back?”
Gwen looks down at the enormous blue sapphire currently adorning her left hand. It might be worth a ton of money, but it is probably the gaudiest piece of jewelry she has ever seen in her life, ringed as it is with diamonds and taking up practically a third of her finger. Today is the first day she’s worn it for any length of time, and the unexpected weight of it keeps tripping her up at odd moments, like when she runs her hand through her hair, or picks up a teacup, or rifles through the paper. Arthur had been fairly apologetic about it, saying, “I know it’s not at all to your taste. As soon as we’re married, you can stop wearing it. But for now, do you mind terribly?”
And she had smiled and assured him that no, she was not at all freaked out about wearing a quarter-million pounds on her ring finger, why ever would he think such a thing?
Now she just makes a face at Elyan. “Of course I’d give it back, what on earth would I do with something like this?”
Elyan shrugs. “Sell it.”
Gwen laughs, a little wildly. “Sell Queen Ygraine’s engagement ring? Are you mad? They’d hate me forever!”
“Oh, like they wouldn’t already hate you for breaking their prince’s heart into a million tiny little pieces,” he points out helpfully.
“Oh god,” Gwen says. “Oh god, I know. Why am I doing this again?”
“Presumably, because you love him.”
“Yes, there is that,” Gwen says. “Damn it.”
Morgana breezes into the room. Gwen watches the other girl stride in effortlessly on heels even higher than Gwen’s, as though the shoes were just a natural extension of her already long legs. Merlin’s trailing behind her, and he presses a bottle of water into Gwen’s hand. “Here. Have some. It’ll help.”
“Please tell me you put a shot of vodka in there,” Gwen says pathetically.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you’ll be fine,” Morgana orders, fingers fussing over Gwen’s dress. “As long as you don’t fall flat on your face or accidentally insult anyone, no one’s going to care. Have you been mucking around with your hair? I told you not to touch it!”
“I—what? No!” Gwen protests as Morgana gives a hmph of displeasure.
“Curls like yours should not be mussed over,” Morgana says authoritatively. “We don’t want the ringlets and tendrils to separate.”
“The words coming out of her mouth sound like English, but I don’t understand any of them,” Merlin says to Elyan, who shrugs in agreement.
“Be quiet, you’re not helping,” Morgana says to him, and then turns back to Gwen. “Now, there are going to be a million flashes going off in your face. Blink a few times when you first walk into the room so your eyes can adjust and then stop. Resist the urge to squint: you’re not going to be able to see anything anyways. Keep your eyes open and keep smiling, and let Arthur control the room and call on reporters, he knows all of them.”
“Okay,” Gwen says, breathing out slowly. Morgana tips Gwen’s chin up, smiling reassuringly.
“Relax, Gwen. You look stunning. You’re intelligent and beautiful and accomplished and every time Arthur looks at you, it’s like rainbows and starlight and baby unicorns shoot out of his eyes and it becomes annoyingly obvious he can’t think about anything else but you. People will see that, and they’ll respond to it. Everyone loves a good love story.”
Gwen nods, swallowing. “Yes. Okay. Thank you.”
Morgana smiles winningly. “You’re welcome. Now put on your shoes.”
So ordered, Gwen takes a seat on one of the many overstuffed chairs that litter the antechamber, pulling the offending shoes toward her. Her dress, an iridescent purplely-blue taffeta contraption that manages to be somehow both stylish and regal, crinkles around her on the chair and she has a moment of blind panic at the thought that she’d somehow ruined it. She’s fastening the second strap when Arthur walks in, accompanied by Lady Sarah, his long-suffering press secretary.
“I gave Gwen the flashbulb speech,” Morgana says brightly to her.
“Thank you, dear,” Sarah says, going over to one of the heavy oaken doors and slipping through it. Arthur goes straight to Gwen, placing his fingertips lightly on her shoulders and smiling down at her. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” Gwen says automatically. “Actually, you should be thanking Morgana, she’s responsible for all of it.”
“You will eventually learn to dress yourself, right?” he says teasingly, and she swats him on the arm.
“You’re not helping, Arthur.”
“Sorry,” he replies as Sarah reenters the room.
“All right, they’re ready for you.”
Arthur leans down to kiss Gwen and stops, eyes wide, as Morgana shrieks at him. “You’re going to ruin her makeup!”
“I was just--”
“Do. Not. Touch. Her.”
He scowls at his sister. “She’s my fiancé and we’re about to announce our engagement. I will kiss her if I want.” Morgana just glares at him.
“Erm,” Gwen says cautiously, “Why don’t we let this one go?”
“Coward,” Arthur mutters, and she pinches him, smiling.
Elyan straightens up, nodding at Gwen encouragingly. “Good luck. Break a leg.”
Merlin glances quizzically at him. “‘Break a leg?’ Are you trying to jinx her?”
“You don’t think that’s what you say?”
“I think that only applies to the theater, mate.”
“Huh,” says Elyan. “Probably I should figure that out. She’s gonna be doing loads more interviews in the future.”
“It’s pretty much going to be her new career,” Merlin agrees.
“I hate both of you,” Gwen tells them, and then Arthur’s tugging her through the doorway.
Gwen is immediately grateful for Morgana’s flashbulb speech because the minute they enter the room, she’s blinded by exploding light. The sound of hundreds of flashes going off rings deafeningly in her ears and it’s only Arthur’s hand, steady and firm, that keeps her going.
“Prince Arthur!”
“Arthur!”
“Gwen!”
“Guinevere!”
They stop somewhere hopefully near the center of the room, turning to face the cameras. Sarah had instructed them on how to stand, side-by-side with Gwen’s left hand tucked over Arthur’s right arm, the sapphire prominently on view. It’s an awkward, unnatural pose, and Gwen feels like a chicken dressed up as a peacock, on display for the entire world to see.
She can feel Arthur move, and realizes a moment later that he must have put up a hand, because the shutters stop flashing. Gwen blinks a few more times and a sea of photographers and journalists swim into focus.
“As you’ve all seen from the press release,” Arthur says, ignoring the reporters who are still calling out, “we’re thrilled to announce our engagement. I asked Gwen to marry me a few weeks ago, and fortunately, she said yes. We’ll take a few questions. Harry?”
“Where did you propose?” a man--Harry, presumably--calls out.
“We were at Windsor, actually,” Arthur replies. “With the rest of the family. I was planning on taking her away somewhere romantic, but, uh, I couldn’t wait that long. Yes, Will?”
“Gwen, how did you feel? Were you surprised?”
Gwen swallows. “Shocked, actually,” she says truthfully. There’s a little pause, and she realizes that she’s supposed to elaborate. “But I was thrilled, of course, and there was no question in my mind of saying anything other than yes.” This is a bald-faced lie, and Gwen imagines that Morgana, back in the antechamber, is feeling extremely proud of her teaching abilities. Fortunately, no one thinks to probe more closely.
Arthur nods at another reporter. “Yes, Beatrice?”
“When’s the wedding? Do you have a location? Gwen, how about a designer for your dress?”
Arthur laughs. “We just got engaged! Give us a little time to enjoy it before the hard part starts.”
“I haven’t even begun to think about dresses yet,” Gwen adds. “Any suggestions would be welcomed.”
“I’m sure the public will have an opinion,” Beatrice replies, and Gwen manages a smile. “Oh, I’d be disappointed if they didn’t.” There’s some good-natured laughter, and then another reporter asks, “What will you be called, Gwen or Guinevere? I think Queen Guinevere has a nice ring, don’t you?”
“Well,” Gwen says. “Hopefully, it will be many years before that happens. I suppose on all the official documents and things, I’ll be Guinevere. But I still want people to just call me Gwen.” Arthur squeezes her arm, approvingly, and then there are more questions about the expected invite list (“We’ll have to talk to the protocol officers, of course”) and where they’re going to spend the holidays (“Here, with all of our families”) and a few more fishing for any details, at all, about the ceremony. Then someone asks, “Arthur, you gave Gwen your mother’s ring. Can you talk a little about that?”
“Oh, yes. Well, it was important to me as a way to keep her involved, you see. And I just thought that giving Gwen the same ring that my father gave my mother was appropriate. She was the love of his life, and Gwen’s the love of mine.”
A few of the women noticeably “aww” at this admission. “Gwen, how do you feel about the ring?”
“It’s a huge honor, obviously,” Gwen says. “Everyone’s familiar with this ring, and I know what it means to Arthur. So, yes, I’m just going to have to take extra care of it.”
“Gwen, is it true that you had a poster of Arthur on your bedroom wall growing up?”
Gwen’s jaw drops open momentarily in surprise. “Uh, he wishes?” she ventures, and the room laughs. “No, not at all. I was more of a Tom Cruise and Denzel Washington fan. Sorry,” she adds, grinning at Arthur, who pretends to look affronted.
They answer a few more questions, and then Arthur’s walking her out again. Once safely ensconced in the antechamber, Gwen lets her spine relax, exhaling noisily. Morgana bounds up, squealing. “Oh Gwen, you were perfect!”
“Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“No, no,” Morgana shakes her head vigorously. “You were sweet and funny and modest. It was totally ideal for the first official meeting.”
“And what about me?” Arthur asks, elbowing Morgana in the ribs. She makes a face at him. “You were there, too, I suppose.”
“Gee, thanks,” Arthur says.
Morgana smirks. “Face it, Arthur, from now on the number one priority is going to be what Gwen is wearing, not anything you say.”
“Me and Jack Kennedy,” Arthur quips. “I’m just gonna be the guy who accompanied Guinevere Pendragon to Paris that one time.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” Morgana says, and Arthur grins at her.
Elyan looks critically at his sister. “You know, you weren’t half bad,” he says. “You only looked like you wanted to throw up for the first several minutes.”
“Did I really?” Gwen worries her bottom lip, looking from Elyan to Merlin.
“No, you were fine,” Morgana insists. “Don’t listen to them.”
“Well,” Elyan says. “Now at least the hard part’s over.”
“Er,” Arthur says, looking a little apprehensive. “I’m afraid the hard part’s just beginning.”
“Yeah, there is the whole planning-a-royal-wedding bit coming up,” Merlin says.
“We really can’t just elope?” Gwen says to Arthur. Before he can even respond, Morgana chirps, “Are you kidding? It’s a royal wedding! And you can get married anywhere you want. How is this not awesome?”
“Who is this person, seriously?” Merlin asks. “And what have you done with Morgana?”
Morgana whacks him across the shoulder and pulls Gwen away, spouting off the pros and cons of Westminster Abbey as a wedding venue. Gwen twists around to wave a little helplessly at Arthur, Merlin, and Elyan before Morgana's tugging her around a corner, still talking. Midway through a tirade on the draftiness of the pews, Gwen stops her, saying, “My life really is never going to be the same, isn’t it?”
Morgana pauses. “No, it’s really not.”
“So I should just sit back and try and enjoy this as much as I can, right? And not focus on all the crap stuff that’s probably coming?”
“Yeah,” Morgana says. “Sure, there’s going to be crap stuff, but what life doesn’t have that? As much as it pains me to say, your fiancé is a wonderful guy who loves you, and who just happens to be a prince. Focus on the first part of that, not the second part. And over these next few months, just try and spend as much time with him as you can, so you both have these memories together to look back on.”
“Well,” Gwen says. “I would. That sounds very nice. But you just dragged me away from him.”
“Oh,” Morgana says. “I suppose I did do that. Oops.”
Gwen grins. “It’s okay. Honestly, Morgana, I don’t know how I’d get through this without you.”
Morgana slings an arm over her shoulder. “Arthur’s not the only person who loves you, Gwen. Don’t ever forget that. I’m always here if you need me.”
“Oh believe me, I’m going to need you. If only to tell me what the hell fork to use at dinner.”
“Just pick the pointiest one, and dump the rest under the table,” Morgana says confidingly. “The butlers never tell.”
“Huh. I’ll be sure to remember that.”
“Besides, you’re going to be Queen. What are they going to do, scold you?”
Gwen frowns. “I’m pretty sure you can’t be a butler without learning how to look politely disapproving.”
“Yeah, lord knows they’ve had loads of practice with me,” Morgana says, and Gwen laughs. The tight, panicky feeling in her chest eases somewhat, and she says, with the most enthusiasm she’s been able to muster all day, “So, talk to me about dresses…”