Cobwebs
No man should have to watch his lover's execution. Or was she not his lover if her love was a ruse? A trick? Desperately, he hoped it hadn't been that. Morgana could have been controlling her, keeping her family hostage in exchange for information. But the girl would have mentioned that, would have done anything to save her own skin before the end. He'd seen what a practised liar she was, the night they'd caught her with the raven. Had she always been Morgana's spy, slipping into Fort Stowell that night with the Saxons that attacked it? But he had seen the fear in her eyes, the relief, the gratitude, the adrenaline as she pounded a Saxon's head open with a plank. That was not faked. Her woe on learning her family's deaths could not have been feigned. Why had she have betrayed him for no reason save a bag of coins? Had she saved his life just to break his trust? Why would she chose to side with their murderer? She might blame Camelot for retreating from the garrison and abandoning her family to their deaths. Maybe that had spurred her to join Morgana, not knowing that she had led the Saxon attack? Impossible. Only witches could fling boulders of fire, and that witch's name had been on the bitter lips of every soldier in the army. Might she have been a sorceress herself? That way she would have been free from all danger in the battle, and could act as a terrified civilian. It explained the alliance, magic would have corrupted whatever person she was to begin with. Maybe she had spirited her family away from the danger. Then why was she so distraught? Had she enchanted him? Bewitched his memories? But he knew Eira was not a witch. The guards not been flung back and the gibbet had not been set on fire and her neck had cracked as it broke.
She didn't look at him as the loose was lain upon her neck. Coarse rope chafing the skin his fingers had stroked down two nights before. Had it all been an act? As she kissed him, caressed him, slept in his arms - had she itching to sneak away to Morgana? Eira: it meant snow in the old tongue. Ha! She was anything but pure. But nonetheless it was the perfect name for her.
He had thought how well it suited her, glowing in the darkness of the battle and in his bedchamber. Her hair, it was the whitest he'd ever seen, fine and pure as snow, flurrying down his back and mixed with his dark brown as she lay on him. Her fresh skin melting at his touch. Her whiteness. Her coldness.
There had been piece of her hair on his glove this morning. So fine, it was only visible when it flashed in the light. It was like a strand of cobweb, sticking to him, and when he tried to pluck it up with his gloves to cast it off, he couldn't see whether it had gone or was still stuck to his fingers.
'Gwaine?' Percival called, from the horse in front of him. 'Why're you slowing down?'
'Nothing,' Gwaine replied, 'might've been a bit of cobweb on my cloak. It's gone now.' He booted his horse into a gallop, overtaking Percival. Morgana would pay.