Episode tag to 4.09.

Gwen isn't stupid, people. This has to be fixed.

I wrote this really quickly, obviously. And I haven't written anything for ages, so be kind. (I will finish my other stories one day – I lost my flow, I'm not sure if I've got it back). I just wanted to get it down since the muse has been absent for a while.

As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear,

So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear.

Alfred Tennyson, Merlin and Vivien

xxxx

She stood at the border for a long time. It was the closest border to castle, the road to Caerleon. It was the obvious route for anyone leaving the city. If he wanted to find her, he'd look for her there. She stood there waiting to be found, but he did not come.

She passed the time by remembering the times she had waited for him: it had been years, she had spoken the truth, but it wasn't the years she remembered. What she remembered were the hours, usually spent in Camelot, looking out the window waiting for the first outriders to appear, to say Arthur was coming back from whatever battle or quest he'd been on. She'd stand there, willing them to return, or willing Arthur to know she was standing there looking for him. Sometimes it wasn't Camelot. She remembered sitting in that cave when Arthur had gone to overthrow Morgana. There hadn't even been any outriders to wait for then. She hadn't known if any of them would ever come back for her.

They always found each other. She'd found him in that cave. He'd found her in Hengist's castle. He'd found her in the Lamia's lair. That made her think of Elyan. She wondered if she would see him again. Or Leon, even, who they grew up with. She had forgiven Elyan a lot, hadn't she? And she had risked her life to help Leon. Maybe they would come to find her, to say Arthur could change his mind. They had come for her after Arthur's victory over Morgana. Or maybe Merlin would come to find her. Arthur loved Merlin more than any of the knights. He'd listen to him. But she didn't want any of them to come to find her. She wanted Arthur to come and find her.

Finally her stock of memories grew thin, the sun grew higher in the sky, and even she had to admit that Arthur was not coming to find her. She then began imagining what he would be doing today, their wedding day, their perfect day, back in the castle and then, finally, interrupted herself and spoke sternly to herself. She could sit here dreaming all day. But he would not come and find her. And nobody else was either. This wasn't a fight to be made up. This was the end. She wondered why it didn't hurt. She felt numb. She couldn't even feel the rock she was sitting on. She tapped it. Nothing. She couldn't feel anything at all. Nothing felt real. She picked up the cart, and pulled it onwards.

She did not feel fear. She could shoe horses and do metalwork and repair armour and small villages always needed someone who could do those things. Even larger villages, where there was already an experienced blacksmith, always needed an extra pair of hands in the forge. She could work all along this road, though getting further and further from him, until she found a place to stay. She liked the work, and if things had been different would long ago have tried to make it her life in Camelot. But she had stayed in the castle, because of him, to be close to him.

She didn't much care about the exile. The distance really meant nothing. All of her friends in Camelot were appalled by her, and her only home was with him and with her friends, and now he didn't want her anymore, that home had already gone. The strange thing was, she didn't even really want to stay. She didn't know who she was anymore, she wasn't the person she thought she was, she didn't like the person she really was. She couldn't understand herself. She hadn't wanted to be with Lancelot, any more than she wanted to breathe. She hadn't been able to not be there. It hadn't even been pleasant sensation, it wasn't a wish to be with him, like it was with Arthur, it had been a force. It had been literally impossible to resist. It had overtaken her. Even with Arthur...she hadn't loved Arthur any less in the last few days. But whatever her brain had said to her, her actions had been beyond her control. No. She couldn't think like that, it wasn't true. This was her fault, her weakness.

Gwen pulled onwards, and didn't cry. She had cried herself out. There was nothing else to cry for. He wasn't here to hear her tears, and even if he was they wouldn't wash away what she had done. There was a strange peace, now that the worst had happened, now she would never see the man she loved again, because of her own stupidity, she was almost calm. It wasn't like when she had faced execution. Then she had felt everything – fear, anger, betrayal, pain...probably all the things Arthur was feeling now, she thought, dully. But she didn't feel any of that at all now. Because this wasn't something that happened to her, this was something she had done. She had destroyed herself, and she had destroyed the man she loved, and she had destroyed their future. The worst had come to pass, and now there was nothing to fear.

After a few hours walking she saw a likely hamlet on the road. She had found a room she could pay for by shoeing the innkeeper's pony before she noticed the faint white mark on her wrist, as though from a painless burn.

After a day, she realised it was the wrist where the bracelet Lancelot gave her had rested, the bracelet she had discarded in a cell in Camelot's dungeon.

It was that night she remembered how clear her mind had been at the meeting with Arthur, after getting rid of the bracelet.

The next morning, it took all her concentration to remember when the fuzziness had descended on her, the strange pull to Lancelot, that she hadn't felt at first, she examined her feelings closely, and knew she was telling herself the truth. She hadn't desired him at all when he had first returned. She'd felt relieved, lifted of a burden of guilt, but not desire. Even when he came to her house, she hadn't felt it, had been alarmed by believing he did...then he had given her a bracelet. And then nothing had made sense, she couldn't stay away from Lancelot.

Lancelot, who had mysteriously emerged from beyond a Veil none had returned from before. Lancelot, who suddenly had a pull over her. Just before she was due to be married, to sit on the throne Morgana desired more than anything, the desire that had driven her mad.

It was a week before she found a wise woman, in a random roadside hamlet, knowledgeable in the Old Religion, to consult for advice about what had happened to her. By that point, the mark on her wrist had long since faded.

But when Gwen emerged from the old woman's cottage, she could feel again. But she did not feel fear. She felt anger. And it was white hot.