When Camelot receives visitors he wakes before dawn to sneak into the lower town and tap at her door, for her ears only.
She greets his shadowed face with a sleepy smile, though he suspects she'd been near to waking for her duties anyway.
"Come on," he says with a grin, tugging at her hand. "I've something to show you."
She glances behind her where Tom sleeps, grabbing her cloak and extinguishing a few candles before letting him whisk her out the door and into the misty morning.
They take the long way round the stables to avoid detection and step light-footed over sleeping stable hands, boots thoroughly muddied from the dewy meadow.
"Over here," Arthur whispers, taking her hand once more and leading her to a stall near the end of the row.
He has to lift her in order to see, and she barely contains a gasp.
"He's beautiful," she says reverently, extending a tentative hand and glancing over her shoulder until Arthur nods in encouragement.
The horse snorts, turning its head, then sighs as Gwen's small hand tenderly brushes along its cheek.
Warmth unfurls within him as Arthur watches her stroke the creature and he feels the push again—some boyish yearning to impress her, to keep that quiet, joyous light in her eyes—but he's not certain how.
What he knows is that it's not the fourteen-course feasts, the week-long tournaments, or the splendor of visiting kings that does it.
It's when the moon feels closer, pressing in on them with cold light; it's the fresh pot of ink he lays before her during their lessons; and the noble tread of a tiny bird's feet on fresh snow. They are small things he never noticed, and now he catches himself looking for them as he looks for that light to return to her eyes.
"Who does he belong to?" she whispers, turning so she can see Arthur's face. Her body leans softly against his.
He likes the feel of it a lot.
"Lord Harold, I believe." He reaches over her shoulder to stroke the horse's muzzle, distracted by the contrast of her small brown hand next to his larger pale one. "His name is Apollo."
"Ah," she smiles. "I've heard of it; it's very fitting." And then she giggles.
"What?"
"It's nothing, sire," she says, leaving him entirely unconvinced.
"Tell me." He squeezes her middle, eliciting a little yelp that makes them both freeze in fear that they might have disturbed the fragile hush.
After several moments of silence stretch, broken only by a loud snore, they relax.
"Well?" he prods, lowering his voice to a whisper once more.
"It's silly."
"I delight in silly things."
"No you don't," she snorts.
"With you, I do," he retorts.
"I was just thinking…" She lowers her eyes. "If you were a horse, you might be called Apollo."
"Not Arthur?"
"No, Arthur is much too ordinary. That is, you're not ordinary," she begins to backtrack. "But horses always have grand names, don't they?"
She traces the pads of her fingers along Apollo's muzzle, smiling as the horse flicks its ears. "They're quiet creatures, but their beauty and strength are there for all to see. People put their hopes and aspirations into naming a horse."
He considers her words, admiring the softness of her eyes and the grace with which she speaks and articulates her thoughts; this small, industrious and infinitely optimistic woman whom most would consider less learned and noble than he. To him, it is a treasonous thought.
He has never met someone so pure of spirit as Guinevere.
"What would your name be?" he wonders aloud.
It should have been a silly game, but nonetheless he imagines she would be just as sweet, just as beautiful and dignified as the magnificent beast they had come to visit.
"I don't know," she tilts her head. "Worthy, at least, I hope," she gives a small huff of laughter.
"Oh, much more than that, I think. Your name might be Courage, or Wisdom, or Beauty, or… Well, none of those are quite enough, are they?"
Her expression lances his heart with no small grief as it dawns on him how common she thinks herself.
His lips part, further words of admiration he'd dared not speak lingering on his tongue. But as he holds her gaze he can feel the doubt waning from her.
Impulsively, he dips his head; catches her wide eyes and parted lips just before he touches his mouth to hers. He has only a moment to consider how soft and yielding her lips feel beneath his before their shape changes and she presses them back.
Somebody sighs. It might have been him, but he can't tell because he's parting his lips and they still, panting against each other. He's not sure if he imagines the velvety caress of her tongue tracing his bottom lip but then—
A rooster crows in the distance, shattering the thickness between them. The stable boy slumped against a wooden beam stirs, and Arthur takes Gwen's wrist gently to guide her away.
Sunlight wavers on the horizon, chasing away the cold of night. They slip around the back of the stables, ducking behind a cart filled with hay until they are sure the coast is clear.
"Surely you're allowed to visit your own stables whenever you like?" she asks him, still breathless as they wait, and picks a stray piece of straw from his otherwise immaculate cloak.
"Well, perhaps," he reasons, then raises his eyebrows with a grin. "But where's the adventure in that?"
"I take it back," she whispers. "Your name is Mischief."