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The maiden kissed him on his left cheek, and said, "Keep true to me, and never let any one else kiss thee on this cheek. I will wait here under the lime-tree until thou returnest.
The road to the town passed through the village where the maiden was living, and it came to pass that once when the maiden was driving out her herd, her bridegroom travelled by. He was sitting proudly on his horse, and never looked round, but when she saw him she recognized her beloved, and it was just as if a sharp knife had pierced her heart. "Alas!" said she, "I believed him true to me, but he has forgotten me."
Gwen is dreaming again. She doesn't know this of course. Dreams tend to fade once you're awake, and hers are no different, though their echoes linger a bit longer than they should. If she could remember, she might realize they aren't really dreams at all. But she doesn't so they'll stay hidden, for the time being at least.
In her dream she is seven years old and could rule the world if she were only taller. Being short places her at a great disadvantage, as it's nearly impossible to slay dragons when you can barely see over the dinner table. She stretches in secret, lifts her hands to the sky and grabs at the clouds because she's sure she can make it happen. Her mother says everyone's magic is different and Gwen is certain hers will appear soon.
This is where he finds her, reaching for clouds. And he laughs, ridicules, because this is what little boys do.
"You'll never reach them." He stabs a wooden sword into the ground. The handle is painted gold with a loopy letter she's unable to read. "Not unless you learn to fly."
His hair is golden, floppy, his eyes too blue for someone so mean. "How do you know I can't fly?" She pushes back her cloak as she speaks and it flaps behind her, like wings. The boy sees this and for a moment she has him. His eyes are saucers and she's sure he's taken her for a witch.
"People can't fly," he says and picks up the fancy toy. He's waving it in the air, swiping at trees drooping overhead. "If they did I'd knock them down."
"Why?"
"What?"
She moves closer and he takes a step back. Gwen realizes the boy is a little afraid of her, which makes her like him more. "Why would you knock them down? What business is it of yours?"
"I'm a prince."
"Prince of what?"
"Everything."
"There's no such thing."
"You're wrong." He turns around and lifts his sword towards the castle, the ivory tower that casts a long, long shadow. "I live there, in that tower." He turns again, the sword balanced on his shoulder. "I see everything."
His shirt is embroidered with a small golden dragon, the same as the knights that patrol her father's land.
"Everything?"
"Yes."
She closes the cloak over her chest.
"Even me?"
--
Gwen isn't sure why she's agreed to Merlin's scheme. It's likely something in the way he asks her, head bowed with that shadow of a grin on his lips. It used to give her butterflies that grin. Now she sees it for what it is, a devious little ploy designed to lure others into his dastardly do-gooding. And so she says yes, though the beneficiary this time is Arthur.
He looks at her cottage as though he's discovered a smudge on his armor and Gwen is suddenly self conscious about her home. It's infuriating. She's always done what she can with the meager wage she's paid. She's tempted to point it out, that she'd be happy to entertain with wine and silks if the king would see fit to pay for such luxuries. But she holds her tongue. When Arthur's around she's learned not to say much of anything.
"My Lord."
"Guinevere." Arthur forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "It's good of you to let me stay in your home."
--
Arthur is dreaming and if you told him he'd say you were mad. Men like him don't dream and if they do, it's long forgotten by the time the sun rises. But he is dreaming, or what he'd assume was a dream if he remembered. But he won't. Not this time at least, maybe not ever. But he'll always keep dreaming.
He is seven years old and she doesn't know he's watching. Gwen waves a stick in the air and shouts something about rounding up her knights. This is silly. Girls do not have knights and surely not peasant girls because they're much too poor. His father has told him they're feeble minded as well; though he's decided this one is different because she doesn't seem slow at all.
She does something, a daring turn that knocks her off-balance, makes her tumble to the ground in a heap of skirts. The frayed ends are clearly visible and he wonders why no one's fixed them. She laughs and rolls onto her right side, arm outstretched and face buried in bright green clover.
"Gwen?"
There is a woman wearing a red cloak. Wild dark curls cover her cheeks like gnarled branches. The grass shivers and bends to create a flattened path as she approaches. Gwen scrambles to her feet, nearly leaping with excitement. She disappears inside the woman's arms.
"Were you storming the kingdom my love?"
Gwen laughs beneath the cloak. The air has grown warmer and is now filled with the scent of amber. If Arthur were a bit wiser for his age, he might say it was magic, slinking into the air like smoke. But he's too distracted by what's in front of him, the mother and her child, their whispered affection and gentle way she strokes Gwen's hair.
He thinks his mother might have done the same.
--
Gwen's quarters are so small Arthur feels like an overgrown ogre invading a small village. There's one room to the entire thing, sectioned off by flimsy wood panels that do nothing to conceal what lies beyond. He'd assumed someone of Gwen's station would at least have a proper mattress. Being Morgana's maid should fetch some privileges, decent bedding being one of them. Though in truth, he has no idea how much she's paid. He's never thought to ask.
Arthur punches the potato sack she's fashioned into a pillow, attempting to mold it into some semblance of head support. The smell of grass and the stew they had for dinner still lingers in the air. He fears he won't sleep at all.
He hears her breathing, shifting, mumbling beneath her breath and it occurs to him that his presence could be a distraction. It's been a long time since she's shared a house with someone, not since her father was—well, since he died.
"Good night…Guinevere." It's a poor attempt at comfort. Not that she needs any, his in particular. She has…well Morgana. And Merlin, though…well, no not Merlin. That wouldn't be appropriate, her being alone and—
"Good night my lord."
--
Gwen is dreaming again and there's water all around her. The sun glimmers through it, beckoning her to the surface. But she hides away, holding her breath for as long as she dares. She is stronger than the sun. It should need her, not the other way around.
She laughs and water fills her nose. Gwen claws at it, pushes it behind her until she breaks free, gulping lungfuls of air while the sun gloats, victorious.
"You could have drowned."
It's the boy again. Arthur.
"I don't think so." Gwen treads water, her curls twisted into inky black ropes.
"Why not?"
She lifts her legs, lies back and floats along the surface. The sky is so bright it blinds her.
"You would have saved me."
--
He snores.
She's never considered the possibility before, that Prince Arthur, future King of Camelot, would make sounds like a braying ass long into the night. She can't sleep of course, and spends the evening counting his hiccupping sighs, marveling at their regularity (two hiccups, deep sigh and then two more) and wondering how Merlin copes without screaming.
The next morning she's exhausted, though he of course is perfectly rested. She'll never look at him the same again. He's no longer the prince that could have her beheaded with a crook of his finger; instead he's become Arthur Who Snores. When he bids her good day her "Sire," is muffled behind a laugh.
Arthur gives her a questioning look, lips quirked into a hesitant smile like he's ready to join her, laugh alongside if he deems it appropriate. But Gwen can't bring herself to explain. Instead she bows, calls him "my Lord," and asks if there's anything else he needs.
The look is gone, arrogant apathy in its place.
"I trust you'll have prepared the evening meal when I return."
--
In Arthur's dream he has disappeared. They both have, inside the forest and between the trees. The darkness is thick, he could pierce it with his sword. Gwen grabs his hand so tight it aches.
She's afraid. It's the first time he's ever seen it.
"We're nearly there."
Arthur knows this forest. He can close his eyes and still find the way. He doesn't trip over raised tree roots and easily skirts ditches that trick marauders into believing they're on solid ground.
"There it is." He points to a fan of light in the distance. Red sparks tangle with green, and disappear inside an explosion of blue and gold. Arthur knows its magic, but he isn't sure what kind. "I think they're sorcerers," he declares, showing off what little knowledge he has. Only a prince would be entrusted with such important information.
Gwen sits on the ground and gathers her knees to her chest. "They're not supposed to do that, are they?" She looks smaller, her body a tightly wound ball, not nearly as fearsome as he's always found her. Arthur sits as the lights dim into faint glittering circles, remnants of whatever mystical beast they've conjured.
She reaches for his hand again.
--
Arthur's never been this embarrassed before. Maybe once, when he was young and was caught rummaging through his father's bed chambers, but even then he was chastised lightly, shuffled off with a pat on the head. But for the most part he's acted according to his station, with decorum befitting a future king.
But according to Gwen, he has it all wrong. Treating her like a servant implies he'll never see her as a person. Camelot is people, not positions, titles or birthrights. That's what he's reduced her too, something no more or less important than the pail of water she'd fetched the night before.
His offer to cook is an impulse and an ill advised one at that. He wouldn't know where to start. When Merlin arrives the chicken's innards are taunting him, laughing at his steadily growing panic.
It's too small a lie to worry over. She'll have a nice meal in any case and see he's not the spoiled braggart she believes. Maybe she'll even enjoy his company.
--
Gwen is a princess and Arthur is her prince.
She hasn't agreed to this however, and is emphatically protesting the sudden elevation of her station. She wants to be a knight. She's meant to slay dragons and save the world. She feels she's been quite clear on this point and grabs Arthur's sword to prove her valor.
Arthur snatches it back too quickly for her to stop him. Unfortunately for Gwen, he's grown taller in six months time and can now tower over her, loom if he so chooses. He declares her a girl and a delusional one at that.
"You cannot be a knight." His voice is booming, larger than his seven years. "I forbid it," he says, the golden haired royal, prince of the tall stone tower, king of all and everything.
"Fine." Gwen's reluctant to say this, but she's fashioned a different sort of victory. "But I must be the only princess, just me."
Arthur wrinkles his nose and is silent for a long moment. Gwen's seen this look before. She's thrown him, slid outside the box he's put her in. When he speaks, his voice is softer, much less princely than before.
"Who else would be my princess?"
She's pleased by his question, more than she even realizes. In fact, it's moved her so much that she leans in to kiss him, though she's always recoiled at the thought of placing her mouth on Arthur Pendragon's. (Boys are such dirty creatures.) His lips are soft and warm. He puckers briefly before moving away.
"Why, did you do that?" Arthur moves as if to wipe it away. Gwen grabs his hand to stop him.
"Because now I am your first," she says. Her voice is booming, royal. "And you will never have another."
--
It doesn't happen until he touches her. Before that he is the thing she has to handle, a favor she'd grown to resent. But their dinner conversation is amiable, playful at times. Someone could mistake them for friends. And then she sees the plates and realizes it's all a lie, and a badly executed one at that. He thinks she's stupid, simple, her pea sized peasant brain too dense to notice royal flatware.
Gwen is humiliated. She wonders why she tried at all. Arthur grabs her, a hard grip that softens into gentle coaxing. This is when the air shifts, warms with awareness that lifts gooseflesh on her arms. He is a man and she is a woman. Her quarters are much too small for comfort.
The door crashes open and Merlin stumbles inside, panicked. Arthur releases her arm as if she's burned him.
"Arthur. There's an assassin in Camelot. He's here to kill you."
--
This is Arthur's nightmare.
The smoke is thick, billowing into the air. He looks out his window from that tall, tall tower and can't see anything, nothing at all. Not even her.
He runs, escapes through the kitchen and hides behind a stable until he's sure the guards have passed. His fear is heavy, it weighs on his arms and legs, but he runs anyway, faster than he ever has before. The door to her quarters is open. She's standing there, watching, waiting for him. Arthur calls to her, "Guinevere," her given name because he's so frightened. She beckons him closer. He's nearly there when someone grabs him.
"You."
He's being shoved, pulled, dragged towards Gwen by that woman, her mother, with the wild hair and dark eyes. She slams the door shut and the sound is final, ominous.
"This is your friend? The boy you play with?" Gwen starts to speak but her mother makes a silencing motion with her hand. She turns to him, the gnarled curls sliding forward, over her cheeks and neck.
"Uther's son," It sounds like an insult, the worse type of curse. She grabs the scuff of his neck and pulls him to the window. Arthur stumbles, nearly falls and Gwen cries out in protest.
"Mother?"
She turns to Gwen and he can see her eyes now. They're glowing with gold light, liquid because of her tears. She releases him, looking back and forth between them. Her lips tighten and once again, it feels final, ominous.
"I love you." She crouches down and touches Gwen's hair, the curls so much like her own. "That much I hope you keep."
Gwen blinks and looks at Arthur, as though he can explain her mother's words. There are voices, people shouting that the "witch is here," and "they all will burn."
"Come." She reaches for Arthur's hand. Now she has them both in her grasp, her eyes filled with more golden light. "To keep you safe," she whispers and it reverberates throughout the room. She starts to speak, chant words he can't understand in a language that feels forbidden. Gwen is crying. She stares at her mother with panicked eyes and Arthur tries to touch her but his arms won't move. He's frozen in place while the room grows dimmer, receding. Soon there's nothing, just darkness and the heavy weight of loss.
He's lost something (everything) but can't remember what.
(Forget.)
--
The handkerchief is still warm from her hand. He wasn't expecting such a token or the hesitancy of her offer, like she's apologizing for thinking of him, for caring whether he wins today.
Arthur's "thank you," feels inadequate, a weak substitute for what can't be put into words. Or maybe it can, he just doesn't know them. How does he explain that she's unraveled him with a bit of cloth?
He leans forward and presses his lips to hers. The kiss is gentle and feels vaguely familiar, not like a mistake at all.
--
Gwen can't breathe.
No that's not it, she's holding her breath underwater and winning, she's victorious and his lips are so, so warm.
("Were you storming the kingdom my love?")
Not anymore. Not now, but he'll save her (prince of the tall stone tower) because she's his first; his only and she'll slay dragons one day.
("Who else would be my princess?")
Gwen surfaces slowly when Arthur pulls away. The air is thick and languid, her eyes heavy as though she's been sleeping.
Not just sleeping, dreaming.
("How do you know I can't fly?")
Arthur's confusion mirrors hers. They lock eyes, silently questioning but neither has the courage to speak. He looks away and expels a long, deep, breath.
"I must go."
--
Gwen is dreaming, but this time she'll remember.
It is just before nightfall. The sky is the color of overripe plums and the air is filled with the faint snap of closing shutters. The grass is cool beneath her bare feet. She lies back to watch the moon rub its bleary eyes and wake, fat and full as the sun sets on the horizon.
The wind shifts. The air smells like amber. The grass bends to create a path. Footfalls, soft and muffled ("I love you") match the pace of her racing heart. Someone touches her hair and Gwen wakes, gasping, crying, and reaching for her mother's hands.
("That much I hope you keep.")
--
Once upon a time the world was burning.
Princes made castles from hard packed snow and princesses dressed in threadbare linen. Dragons were slain with wooden swords, witches sprouted wings made of woolen cloaks, and all that could have been ended with a whisper.
All that's yet to come, began with a kiss.