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I&
It's something that's there, in your peripheral vision, for years maybe. Something that, as long as you didn't see it, it didn't bother you but now that you've seen it then it's all you can think about, like something that's weighting you down, every step a little heavier, every day a little darker, that knowledge like stones in your pockets pulling you to the bottom of a lake.
(what do you do now that you know? How to survive that knowledge? How could you make your way through the castle now that you wonder if the echo of every footstep is hers? And sit at the table and talk to your father and wipe your mouth as if nothing had changed?)
II&
`Nothing's changed.´
III&
You spend all winter not looking at her, the way frost solidifies on the walls of the castle, impervious to the world but holding a secret in silver light. You think in these strange words and colours now, so unprincely, willing them away with the strength of sword, legacy, expectations. Gwen remains in the corner of your eyes – a blur you can't get away from. All winter like this; not registering her face, not looking up from your place in the world to see her expression, what she would say. Was it all forgotten for her, that handful of days, those moments where they sat by a small fire and you were someone else, like learning to write yourself all over again? Maybe she does not think of it, of you that much. At all. It doesn't matter. What you know now.
The slow succession of days and nights and horses and shields and valour and knighting ceremonies, months of thinking "sit, eat your meals, keep your head down, do as it's expected of you". Your father, at the far side of the table has no idea of the extent of your betrayal.
You know what your father would say, what he would think above anything. How could she expect to deserve someone like you, a prince, the future king? And yet you are thinking, the thing that's eating you away, the thing that's keeping you as far as possible from her, from is this, is other question, the question of how could you ever deserve her. Reality is reversed in the most perverse fashion. Like somebody pulled the ground from under your feet and now you keep falling, and falling.
And falling.
IV&
Merlin catches him staring into some faraway horizon. Funny, because they are behind closed doors, no sky now tonight.
Arthur rubs his elbow absently, an ugly bruise raising on his skin; this morning, training, Sir Leon's sword caught by surprise, on the blunt side. Arthur was distracted.
(a flash of promised daylight, perhaps, on such an icy morning; a flash of Morgana coming down from city walls, the way Arthur turned his head away from that before seeing who walked behind her, a mere hint of lavender clothes)
It will hurt for days, the bruise, close to the bone, a constant remainder. Arthur curses silently. Merlin is saying something but Arthur, absent from the world these days, locked in his own head and skin, does not register what the boy is saying.
`My lord?´
Arthur looks at him as if trying to place him, as if he didn't know Merlin for a moment. Merlin waits, Arthur's expression (a frown, but something gentle in his eyes, some kind of phantom light) somewhat worrying.
`Do I treat you badly?´ Arthur says.
Merlin takes a couple of breaths to make sure he's heard the question, or that Arthur is not possessed by some kind of entity with good manners but surely bad intentions.
`Sorry?´ He asks, mouthful of disbelieving laughter.
`As a servant. Would you say I treat you badly?´
`Are you alright?´
Arthur looks away.
`Forget it. It's just something Gwen said once.´
He can hear Merlin taking a couple of steps forward, lifting the weight from one foot to the other.
`Ah,´ is all he says, mildly amused.
Arthur shakes his head.
`Yes, you treat me badly,´ Merlin adds. `Appallingly. But that's alright. I know you won't always be like this.´
Something about the tone of his voice, something forgiving in it, older than Arthur, wiser, expecting. Arthur feels it, the weight of that expectation, and he is not strong enough and something cracks. It's different from what his father, what the code of knights, demand of him. Gwen, Merlin, this moment – they don't demand, they hope.
That's much, much worse.
Arthur stares at Merlin for a while, wondering how long before-
`My shirt needs mending,´ he says finally, voice that's familiar and a lie. `The sword caught a thread and it's ruined now. Have it tomorrow morning or-´
`Or I'll know your fury or some such,´ Merlin interrupts him. He smiles. `Yes, of course, my lord and so on.´
And the boy turns on his heels and walks out of the room like it's his right, before Arthur can dismiss him, and Arthur is about to say something, about to protest, but for the first time since he's known Merlin he thinks twice about it and then it's too late, Merlin is gone, swiftly escaped without an insult from Arthur's lips and Arthur shakes his head and pretends it has nothing to do with Gwen.
V&
It happens, what you've been dreading more than anything. Seeing her, talking to her, alone. And it's all a matter of chance.
Your favourite horse takes a tumble on the south side of the river and breaks a leg, gets sick. Very sick. Hopelessly so. It happens quickly. You summoned all the humility you had and asked Gaius to take a look at him, Gaius can do wondrous things, you tell yourself over and over. But Gaius sees the horse and says "sorry" and you remember when you broke it down and gave it a name and you feel your eyes grow big and wet. You say thank you without thinking and Gaius touches your arm in solidarity.
But you will not let the animal die alone – it has been of much service, such loyalty. You think it's the least you can do, stay with it through the small hours of the night until its last breath. You take a stool and sit by its side on the floor of the stable, dirt everywhere but you don't mind. You don't know what kind of king you want to be yet but he will do this kind of thing.
Your horse breathing grows shorter and more elaborated as the minutes go by, but he still kicks and put up a good fight. It makes you proud.
At some point in the night Gwen comes in, unexpected, quietly as a mouse, with a bucket in her hand, and you softly and under your breath curse her presence, her very existence sometimes.
`Gaius told me to give you this,´ she points at the bucket. There's water in it, but when it moves there are twinkles of green on the light reflected. `Said it would easy the pain.´
She kneels next to the horse and starts feeding it the medicine with a sponge. You stare, mesmerized by this simple gesture, how casually she does it, the pride in it. You feel jealous.
She doesn't stop what she is doing when she starts speaking to you.
`Why don't you talk to me anymore?´ she asks.
When she glances up at you her eyes are clear, like water, as ever. No lie or deceit can reach them. You swallow. You do what you fear the least. You lie.
`I talk to you.´
Defensive. Cold.
She gives you a wayward look, her lips trembling a bit as a sigh leaves them.
`You haven't spoken to me in months. How do you think I feel?´
`I don't know.´
`I feel like I did something wrong. Something inappropriate. Something that hurt you in some way.´
`No.´
You thought not seeing her was enough, it would suffice, you told yourself. You call Merlin an idiot but maybe he is a genius compared to you. Not seeing her, not talking to her – it didn't ease things, not for you, not for her. It was no mercy. You have caused her pain. You cannot stand the notion, but you thought that being near would hurt her even more.
(you tried turning your eyes away from her; she creeps behind your retina and she is flicker found there, like torches on the snow)
Your horse lets out a tired sound in that moment. Its eyes are big and sad and you see yourself reflected there. You don't look at her when you say-
`Did I disappoint you too much? When I said my father would never understand? When I brushed you off like that?´
She, deadly like a small hawk, is swift and unforgiving in her gestures. The look on her face pierces you like no sword or spear has ever done. From battle wounds you can heal, from Gwen you will not. You start to realize, and it terrifies you.
`You didn't even ask me to wait for you,´ she tells you, accusingly.
You look down, you touch your fingertips to the hooves of the poor animal. The stable fills with the scent of hay and heat and your silence.
VI&
There's a sweet sickly smell in his father's room, honey-like, from the medicine Gaius has made. Uther is already up and dressing up and grinning, a resilient cough then and there and though Arthur knows it was just a cold, some light fever, he also knows that the whole of Camelot twitches with anxiety every time the king is less than in perfect health.
`That is all, Gaius,´ he says when he sees Arthur walk through the door. Arthur realizes that his father doesn't say thank you and wonders if this is exactly how it looks, himself and Merlin.
The physician, without a word, does as told and leaves, exchanging a gentle, friendly look with Arthur.
`How are you, father?´
Uther gestures for him to come over. The bed is unmade but the king is already putting on his jacket, a leathery creak as it fits around his shoulders, his arms.
`Oh, it was nothing,´ he says with forced cheerfulness; Arthur does his best not to notice. `A couple of days resting and I feel newborn.´
Arthur smiles with just the corner of his lips. It's good to see his father up again.
`How did you manage while I was indisposed?´
He takes a couple of steps and reaches the bed and his smile widens.
`Believe it or not father, but I managed not to lose the kingdom while I was in charge,´ he teases.
Uther gives him a stern look.
`Of course not.´
Arthur's grin disappears.
`It was a joke.´
And though Uther laughs – halfheartedly – the solemnity stays in him.
`Sometimes I wonder if we should talk about these things,´ he tells his son.
`Which things?´
The king shifts on the bed, finding a comfortable position, sitting at the edge. He holds Arthur's glance, at great pain, but he does. He clears his throat.
`When I was with fever it occurred to me that... we've never really spoken about what's to happen if I were to die. With you, with the kingdom, your prospects.´
At that Arthur shakes his head furiously, like a little child.
`There's no need to talk about that. Your health is perfect.´
`Yes, it is. And I don't intend to make you king in a long time. But, we should talk about it. I'm not young. And things happen.´
`I... refuse to think about it.´
Uther gives him a grateful, loving look, so soft at the edges that Arthur finds it hard to reconcile it with the usual image of his father, as if his face had changed in all its features, in a moment.
`Arthur... I lost my father, too. But my father didn't leave me the kingdom in peace. It's different for you. You need to keep things how they are now. Promise me.´
He knows what Uther is talking about, of course he does.
`Yes, father.´
Uther puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder, gently squeezing.
`I fear because you are so young. And these times are so dangerous,´ he says in a wistful voice.
Arthur has known his father loves him and is proud of him for a long time now. And he used to think that should be enough, enough for everything, enough for the rest of his life. It's what he wanted more than anything.
Now he feels he has to get away from this room, he takes his leave, hurriedly, leaving his father worried by unalarmed. Air, he needs air, Arthur thinks. He needs somewhere else.
VII&
The thought of your father's mortality (& yours) follow you for hours, turning corner with you, walking down the city's streets and you haven't even realized you were out of the castle. You are out of the castle.
VIII&
He finds himself at Gwen's door without excuses in his pockets, without lies. It's late but she welcomes him nonetheless.
The cupboards and cabinets, carved in humble wood, the flowers that Gwen picks and changes each day, it's all here, as he imagined, as he left it, in his mind, and months ago. Like waiting for him.
`I haven't been here since-´
`Yes,´ Gwen quickly cuts him, as if his next words might cause her pain.
He remembers the room well, he has been remembering for months; the sparse furniture, the narrow windows, the scent that he once mistook for poverty and now he knows is the smell of a place lived in and well-loved. The oddest sense of arrival.
`What are you doing here, Arthur?´
She sounds hard, impatient. He has missed this. Her. Her voice that can be so unforgiving. He has the feeling he needs it. He wonders if it's just youth and his body making him believe in something grander than a prince and a servant and the usual desires that sometimes binds those together.
`I want to... hide.´
He holds her in one swift movement and buries his head in her shoulder. She doesn't holds him back but she lets him be, for now, and Arthur kids himself thinking that's all he needs, all he came for, the smell of her clothes, washed by her hands, her nearness, the feel of her hair against his cheek. He mutter to her: `I want to stay like those days when the jousting tournament. Remember? I don't want to be out there right now.´
Gwen pulls him away.
`This is not your playground,´ she says.
Arthur frowns.
`You cannot come here and disturb my life whenever you need a refuge, when things are too much for you.´
Her voice fills with unwanted emotion and breaks and she turns her back to Arthur, hiding her face, embarrassed by tears to come. He comes closer.
`What is wrong, Guinevere?´
When she turns around her eyes are bright, watery.
`The way you say my name, for one,´ she says with a sad smile. `I cannot do this, my lord. If all we have is a few moments when you stayed at my house, pretending to be someone else...´
`I-´ Arthur starts, realizing he has no idea what to say. `You are right. It was wrong of me to intrude like this.´
Gwen's glance falls to her hands, a brief moment of disappointment flashing through her eyes. Arthur, bold from this, takes half a step forward.
`But,´ he rectifies, voice between hopeful and ridiculously formal. He notices the pot by the fire, something shimmering inside. It's late but still she hasn't- then there's hope that maybe- `I would be obliged if I could dine with you, here. I can go out and get some wood for the fire.´
`Of course,´ Gwen replies immediately, dreading he might change his mind in a moment. `I'm afraid there's just soup for dinner.´
`No, soup is fine. Soup is perfect. It's cold outside.´
`Yes.´
`Spring is not here yet, it seems.´
`No.´
`I'll go fetch the wood.´
`Yes, thank you. My lord.´
They smile at each other awkwardly, grabbed by the knowledge of their own nervousness, the eagerness in their voices and gestures, and they realize they are so very young and have never done this.
Later they sit to eat in a hesitant silence, not comfortable but not tense either. The clink of a spoon against the bottom of the bowl is strange music and they look up at each other and then down at their food again, unsure what should be said and who should said it. Arthur compliments the meal and Gwen blushes knowing it's a lie.
It's all over quickly and in agonizing eternity and Arthur offers to help clean up, trying to postpone the moment of going back to the castle, to his father, his life, all the expectations and responsibilities.
They say good-night by the door, Gwen's hand already on the handle to open it.
`Thanks for the lovely meal,´ he says in strangled voice.
Gwen shakes her head.
`It was just soup.´
`No, it was an excellent soup. And it is cold outside.´
`You said that already.´
`It is cold.´ He rushes and stumbles on the words. `So cold... one doesn't want to... go out there... just... stay... her-´
Before he says something even worse, before he even finishes the last silly word he makes a decision; Arthur silences himself by kissing her. He miscalculates and he kisses the corner of her mouth, maneuvers to a better angle by slipping his hands around Gwen's waist. She breathes in but it's not air she finds, it's Arthur's mouth on hers. There's an awkward moment where she doesn't react and Arthur grins, stupidly, at the absurd of the situation, at the warmth under his hands, at the strange happiness even in this moment of mouth, even in this split of second when he thinks she is not going to kiss him back.
But she does.
IX&
You haven't slept like this in months, safely, soundly, but lightly, lucid in the way your fingers dart over her naked stomach and once your skin has made sure of the warmth of her skin you can go back to sleep, the need to be assured she's there. The images of the night playing under your eyelids – the softness of her neck as you buried your face under her chin, the way your fingers faltered out of your control as you unlaced her vest, the shy, reassuring squeeze she gave your hand as you entered her, a lost scrap of moonlight drawing on her shoulder, your mouth over it, the continous brush of the inside of her thighs around your hips, the fire in the kitchen fading but not going out just yet, its cracking punctuating the conversation of your breathing, sighs, the names half-whispered, lingering.
Sometimes you wake up enough to talk to her, stretching the length of the night until you can see no end in sight, nothing outside it, just this room, this bed, Gwen.
`I could stay here forever,´ you confess, blue and orange light on your bodies, anticipating the crows of birds and roosters.
She laughs without a sound – you feel it when her back arches pressed to you chest, the way you can feel each of her vertebrae on your skin – and takes your hand and places over her breast, her palm against the back of yours.
`You complained this bed was too narrow,´ she says.
The hair on the back of her neck is curled with sweat, you kiss it, you reach and kiss the beginning of a shoulder, the memory of hours ago, wanting to retrace the path of your mouth to make sure it was real.
`It is too narrow. That's why I like it.´
She brushes her foot against your shin as reply.
After a while – minutes, days, whole lifetimes, maybe just one second or two, braking daylight is a mirage where you are, you can almost see the warmth of your bodies entwined colouring the cold of the air – she speaks again:
`But you know we can't stay like this forever.´
The shadow of something (a sense of duty, but for the first time not like a burden but a like a privilege) passes over your eyes. You hold her tighter for a moment, in protest.
`I know,´ you whisper.
She has won.
`What are you going to do know?´
You not Us. It's not a choice and yet she implies it's yours. She is still modest, unassuming. Like there could be any way to reverse what happened last night. Maybe she's so used to being let down by you. You take her hand and lift it to a bit of light that comes from the window. You examine it, the way it looks when her fingers are entwined with yours, if it fits, searching for a sign.
`I've realized something,´ you say.
`What?´
`I was waiting for all these things to come to me. I thought that when I was king I would change how some things work and all I had to do was wait until I was king. And then there will come the moment for all this.´
`And now?´
She turns her face to you a bit. You are struck by the familiar, humble beauty of her. Something that habit had made invisible. You were so used to her that at some point you stopped seeing her. Now it's time to relearn her.
`Now I know I was wrong,´ you speak in low tones, as if not to disturb the morning, or this perfect moment of bodies curled in one another, but also because it's your secret for now, even for the briefest time is you and Gwen and then there's the rest of the world, and you want to keep it that way a little longer. Like you are alone with her. But you tell her: `If I'm to be the king I want to be, I have to start now. Not wait until my father is dead and I am crowned. If I want to be with you I cannot wait until it's convenient. I need to fight for it. Even if it causes some people pain.´
The words, these words, you don't understand them completely as you say them, Gwen somehow bewitching you to say them but no- they are yours, so entirely yours. Maybe the truest words you've ever uttered. Except for-
`I want to be with you. I love you. Will you stay by my side and fight whatever comes our way?´
She looks at you for a moment, expression impossible to read and there's so much you have to learn about her yet and you can't wait for it – for everything – to start. She doesn't answer but she takes your hand and puts your fingers against her mouth and kisses, softly and intently, each fingertip. Yes, there will fight, you think, but in the meantime you'd like to stay here a little longer, alone in a frozen world with her, and maybe wake up later with her and light the fire of her house again and sit on her wooden stools and watch as she cooks breakfast and maybe learn from it, a little, so that one day you might cook for her too; you think all these and find no words to tell her just yet so you turn her face towards you and kiss her.
And she kisses you.
And the light from the windows changes slowly but inexorably like love.
And sounds of birds, and roosters crowing, outside.