"Arthur?"

A soft, smoky voice reaches Arthur Pendragon's ears and he looks up from his smartphone. This tiny person is going to be my massage therapist? He pockets his phone, stands, and walks up to her.

"Hi, I'm Gwen," she says, offering her hand.

He takes it and clasps it briefly. Her hand is very soft, but her grip is reassuringly firm. Maybe she's stronger than she looks. "Hello," he says.

"This way, please." She leads him down a corridor, past three doors, and steps beside the fourth, indicating he should enter.

He walks into the room. The lighting is low. There is a chair and a small side table with a piece of pottery on it. In the center of the small room is a flat, upholstered table made up with sheets and a blanket. There is another table at the far end of the room holding a few bottles and a small stereo.

He tries not to cringe at the soothing New Age music playing. Chirping birds, babbling brooks, and pan flutes. Ugh.

"So, your physical therapist... Merlin Emrys... recommended you see me for some massage therapy," Gwen begins, looking at some pages on a clipboard.

"Um, yeah," Arthur answers, looking down at her. She's cute. Nice eyes. Good skin. No, great skin. Full lips, always a plus. His eyes drift to her neck where a few loose curls brush against her skin. "I was in a car accident last month, and there are still some kinks needing to be worked out."

"Yes, I see," she replies, not looking up from the clipboard. "Whiplash, dislocated shoulder, sprained knee." She looks up at him. "How's the car?"

"What?" He blinks at her, surprised. Her soft brown eyes are smiling at him. "You're teasing me," he realizes, exhaling a little laugh. "The car is toast."

"Well, let's see if there's still hope for you then," she says. She looks down again and starts rifling through her papers. "Am I doing just those areas, or are you getting a full body...?" she asks. Arthur's not sure if she's talking to him or herself.

"Just those spots," he says. "For now. Maybe I'll treat myself to the works one day."

"All right. Have you had a professional massage before?"

"No," he answers.

"In that case, I'll be gentle," she says, smiling impishly as she moves toward the door. "So, undress down to your comfort level, and we'll start with you face-up on the table. I'll knock before I enter." She leaves the room, closing the door.

Gwen takes the clipboard back to the front desk, then waits outside. Bloody hell, he is gorgeous. Seriously. I don't know whether to thank Merlin for the recommendation or kill him.

Get it together, Gwen. Focus. He's just another client.

She hears the quiet sounds of Arthur climbing on the table and (hopefully) sliding under the blankets, so she waits about 15 more seconds, then knocks.

"Ready," his voice bids her enter.

"Comfortable?" she asks, closing the door. "Too warm; too cold?"

"I'm good," he answers, lifting his knees so she can adjust the bolster beneath them. "Better now."

"Good," she answers, stepping around to the end of the table, standing behind his head.

"Um, Gwen?" Arthur asks, opening his eyes and looking up at her.

"Hmm?"

"The music... it's, um..."

"It's crap, isn't it?" she asks, smiling. "This one in particular is awful. All those water sounds..."

He laughs, and she stops the CD.

"You can put on literally anything other than that New Age rubbish," Arthur says, listening to her fiddle with the stereo.

"Ah," she declares, finding the correct disc. "Henryk Górecki, Symphony No. 3."

"Symphony of Sorrowful Songs," Arthur unthinkingly says.

"You know it?" she asks, impressed.

"My mother was a professor of music," he answers. "I know an almost embarrassing amount about classical music via osmosis."

Gwen makes a mental note of his use of the word "was" in reference to his mother, but doesn't comment on it. "Classical music is underrated," she says, reaching for a bottle of oil.

"Mmm-hmm," he agrees, closing his eyes again as the music, barely audible, begins to reach his ears.

Gwen rubs her hands together, spreading the oil and warming it between her hands as she sits on the upholstered stool behind Arthur's head.

Arthur's eyes open when her hands first make contact with his skin, then drift closed again. Her touch is firm and soothing; her hands, warm and soft. She is a lot stronger than she looks. "Oh..." The groan escapes his lips before he realizes he's made the sound.

She makes nothing of it, having heard all manner of grunts and groans from her clients. Yes, but most of your clients don't look like he does, a small voice sounds in her head. She ignores it.

"Have you been a massage therapist very long?" Arthur asks after a time, not opening his eyes.

Some of her clients talk, some don't. She has no preference, always letting the client make that call. "Four years," she says.

"Mmm," he answers, but she's not sure if he's groaning again or acknowledging her answer. "You're... ow... very good. That was a good 'ow', keep going."

"Okay. And, thank you," she says. "I thought you said you'd never had a professional massage?"

"I haven't."

"Then, how do you know if I'm any good?" she asks, smiling. She sets one hand on his shoulder as she reaches back with the other hand for more oil.

"Ha," he exhales a short laugh. "Good point. I simply meant I was enjoying... I mean, I can feel you're doing some good," he says. Smooth, Arthur.

"Ah. You should be able to feel a slight difference, but it's going to take a few times. You're still pretty stiff," she says, her slender, strong hands working the larger muscles of his shoulder. "Knotted up," she clarifies.

"Merlin did suggest... ohhh... five or six appointments," he says.

"Sounds about right," she says. Her sensitive fingers dig into his skin, slowly, slowly, pressing upwards into a tight knot hiding beside his shoulder blade, using his body weight and gravity to aid her.

"Bloody hell..." he exhales.

"Yes, that's a good one," she agrees.

"I can feel it all the way down my arm."

"I'm not surprised," she says, easing off, then returning.

He grows quiet while she continues working his shoulder, moving from his shoulder blade to the arm joint. Her hands feel so bloody good.

"You have very strong hands," Arthur speaks again as she finishes massaging that particular area. She moves down the length of the table, taking her bottle of oil with as she uncovers his leg.

"Certainly hope so," she comments lightly, rubbing oil into his knee.

"Sorry, that was dumb, wasn't it?" he asks.

"Not tremendously so, but... a little bit," she says, chuckling. "Not the dumbest thing I've heard by a long ways though." She presses a spot on the side of his leg and he hisses a little. "Found it," she declares.

"Yeah," he croaks. Wincing slightly, he gathers his wits. "What was?"

"What was what?" she asks.

"What was the dumbest thing you've heard?"

"From a client or in general? Because I'd be hard-pressed to name just one thing if we're talking big-picture stupid," she says.

Arthur's laugh ends with a small "ouch". "All right, from a client."

"Had one ask me if I was over 18," she says.

"You do look young," he replies.

"By 'young' you mean 'short'."

"No. Well... no. Your face has a youthful appearance to – ow – it."

"Not helping..." Gwen sings, but she is smiling.

"I meant it as a compliment," Arthur protests. Hang on, why do I feel the need to compliment her? And, why do I need to make sure she understands it's a compliment?

"I know. Thank you," she says. "I've always looked younger than my age."

"You'll love that when you're 40," he offers.

"Maybe," she shrugs. "You look your age."

"Great," he says, not sounding thrilled.

"All I meant was you're 27 and you look like you are in your mid-to-late 20s," she explains. "I meant it as a compliment," she adds, smiling. She finds herself glancing at his left hand where it rests on his stomach. No ring. Why are you looking?

"Ah. I suppose that's a good thing," he allows. She covers his leg with the blanket again, and he opens his eyes, frowning as he realizes his session is over. Her face comes into view and his smile returns.

"It is. I still get asked to show ID all the time. It's a pain," she says. "Take your time getting up. There's a bottle of water for you on the table, and I'll meet you in front to schedule your next appointment."

All business again. "Okay," he says.

She touches his arm once, then leaves.

He schedules an appointment for the same time each week for the next six.

She gives him a few business cards. "One for you and some to give away," she explains.

He looks down at the top card. Guinevere Thomas is the name shown. She has an amazing name. "See you next week, Guinevere," he says. He smiles, tucks the cards into his pocket, and heads out the door.

Gwen stares at the doors even after he's out of sight, his voice speaking her full name resonating in her head. She shakes her head, trying to clear it. He's just a client.