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The first time Merlin tells him the story of Elena and Arthur’s almost-marriage, Merlin paints a picture of a kind, but clumsy blonde-haired girl. A loveable ditzy kind of lady, who refuses to be the future Queen of Camelot, for something as fleeting as love. In the few minutes he thinks of her, he thinks of her as he thinks of most other noblewomen; spoiled and naive little girls, who sigh over red roses and dream of prince charming. The story finishes with Merlin talking about Arthur and Gwen’s destined romance or some such, and so Gwaine dismisses her from his mind by drinking heavily from his tankard.
The next time he thinks of Lady Elena, it’s because all of Camelot is in a buzz over her visit. Servants are bustling from room to room, scrubbing the floors and airing out the curtains. He grumbles to the girl assigned to his room that the Lady Elena is unlikely to visit his chambers so why should they bother? She gives him a scandalized look and continues with her cleaning. He doesn’t know why she is visiting now. She narrowly escaped being hand-fasted to Arthur, why risk coming back?
Merlin explains that her father and King Uther are old, close friends and Arthur hopes that inviting them to visit Camelot might bring Uther out of the “illness” the king has sunk into. No matter the reason for the visit, Arthur is looking forward to seeing her, Gwaine can tell. After practice he speaks of her with the fondness of a friend. Gwaine holds Gwen in the highest esteem, but she’s clearly been blinded by love to moon after the likes of Arthur and if this Elena is Arthur’s friend, she must not have the common sense the Gods gave to field mice and hares.
The first time he sees her, she gracefully descends from her horse. Her dress is yellow and tied with lace in the front. Her blonde hair is held back with a pin, cascading gracefully down her back. She looks like all the other noblewomen Gwaine has seen in his life and he doesn’t know why Arthur smiles so broadly when he nearly hops down the stairs to greet her. Merlin is grinning broadly too, giving a small wave that Elena answers with a small, graceful nod. When Arthur leads her up the stairs, knights standing on every step like an honour guard he gives her a short bow like all the others do. Afterwards he heads to the practice field with Leon and he does not think of her.
During the welcoming feast she sits next to Arthur, the seat of honour. The king is too ill to attend and Elena’s father has chosen to dine with his old friend in the king’s chambers. She is sitting with her back straight, her head held high, taking delicate bites off her plate. Arthur speaks with her. His whole manner is fond and relaxed, an exception to how Gwaine has seen him hold himself with nearly all the other nobles in Camelot. She answers, her voice demure, laughing softly, every inch of her appropriate.
Her dress is a gossamer blue, her hair done up with elegant twists and an expensive looking hairpin. Her smile is polite, but distant, befitting a woman of her station. She is calm and poised, blue eyes unafraid to hold his own. When she dances, she does so gracefully and elegant but without the flirty smiles or the blushing giggling of the other young girls. She holds herself straight at all times, a pinnacle of cool pride.
“Are you enjoying your visit to Camelot, mylady?”
“It seems to me much changed. If you will excuse me.”
The first time he actually speaks to her beyond mere pleasantries, he is hunting on his own in the forest surrounding Camelot. He likes Camelot, likes being close to Merlin, his closest friend. He likes having a warm room and the guarantee of food in his belly. He cannot drink as freely as he used to, get so drunk that his head nearly drowns in ale, but the camaraderie of all the knights going for a few pints in the tavern after practice more than make up for that. Despite that, it is hard going from a life of solitude to a life filled with so many people. Every once in a while he enjoys the quiet.
He hears her horse long before he sees her. When he is sure the horse he hears is closing in on him, he holds his own still and then, without any warning, she races past him. His horse is startled, but not spooked and all Gwaine sees is the blonde hair flying behind her and the flash of her yellow dress. Before he thinks about it, truly considers it, he nudges his horse into a gallop behind her. He nearly doesn’t catch up to her, but his horse was bred for speed and hers was obviously bred as a sturdy, calm horse for the gently born ladies.
He catches up to her and she laughs when he does so, urging her horse to go faster. They race neck on neck until they get to the river and with a sudden burst of speed her horse flies into the calm waters, splashing everywhere as she pulls on the reigns, stopping the mare. His own horse slows down before the edge of the riverbank. She smiles at him broadly, breathless, her chest heaving. The edge of her dress is wet, there are wet blotches higher up the skirt too, her hair has escaped the pin and her smile is broad and radiant, like the sun.
She laughs again, unabashedly loud and with her head thrown back and Gwaine stares at the line of her throat. “I can’t recall the last time I had a race like that.” She is still breathless and with a smile nudges her horse forward, out of the broad stream and back to the shore, to Gwaine.
He smiles in return. “I have to say I can’t recall the last time I was bested like that, mylady.”
She halts her horse next to his and dismounts. “By a woman, you mean?”
He pauses for a moment, watches her kick of her shoes and calmly walk into the mud of the riverbank, gathering up her skirt until the seam of her dress is safe and he can clearly see her calves. His mouth goes dry and he has to swallow. He dismounts.
“By anyone, I mean.” He says. “You are an extraordinary rider.” He pats the side of her horse. “I doubt anyone else could have gotten such a speed out of this one.”
She turns to look at him from where she has waded further into the river and splashed water on the back of her neck with her cupped hand. The sun is behind her, highlighting her hair. She laughs again. “I suppose so.” She wades back to him, drops her skirt when she is safe back on dry ground. She pats the flank of her horse, her hand near his. “She’s not build for speed, but she does her best for me. I can’t wait until I can ride a real race horse.”
He smiles and motions to his own horse, the beast already grazing at the small clumps of grass at the edge of the path. “If you’d like, you can ride my horse back to Camelot and I’ll follow you with yours.”
She looks at his horse and smiles broadly, he watches her profile as the smile grows. “Truly?” She looks back at him. “Not afraid that I’ll hurt my tender self?”
He laughs. “My lady, I’ll leave you to be the judge of what you can and cannot handle.”
She smiles and there’s a pink blush on her cheeks that wasn’t there before. He can’t stop himself from following it all the way down to her collarbones and the neckline of her dress. They are standing close together. He is not much taller than her, only an inch or so.
“Thank you.” She ducks, picks up her cast aside shoes and tucks them between her horse’s saddle and the saddle blanket in a move that looks familiar and easy. Turning towards his horse, she climbs up easily with bare feet and muddy toes while he catches another glimpse of her calves.
She smiles again, broadly, wildly and then urges his horse forward. He watches her go, the stream of her hair, the flash of her yellow dress and her laughter ringing in his ears.
She’s not the noblewoman he expected.
The End