"Princess, please take care, that is quite a large crossbow," Sir Leon cautions, watching Mithian heft the aforementioned weapon from a rack. "Oh," he exclaims softly, as she holds it to her shoulder, leveling it expertly.
"Sir Leon, you needn't worry so," she dismisses him lightly. "I am quite adept with a crossbow, isn't that right, Father?"
"I'm afraid so, Sir Leon," Rodor confirms. "She insisted on learning alongside her brothers, and my late wife only encouraged her."
"I do recall the princess did quite enjoy the hunt on her first visit here," Leon says, smiling slightly, then frowning, remembering the circumstances for her first visit. Gwen was banished. Mithian was going to marry Arthur.
I remember being ashamed of the relief I felt when she did not marry Arthur.
"Yes, well, that was a rather… interesting visit in many ways," Mithian adds, lowering the crossbow. "Though, on reflection, I do believe things worked out the way they were supposed to. Queen Guinevere is really a wonderful woman and an excellent queen, and now that I know her, I will admit I can see why Arthur was unable to let her go." She sighs, thinking of the love she sees in Arthur's eyes when he looks at Gwen. I'm still waiting for someone to gaze upon me with such a look.
"She is one of the best things to happen to our kingdom," Leon states proudly. "We grew up together, Queen Guinevere and I, in a way," he says.
"Oh? How is that possible? Isn't she the daughter of a blacksmith?" Rodor asks, puzzled.
"Yes, well, her mother was my mother's maidservant until she took ill and died. As a child, I would often play with Gwen and her brother Elyan. Mother encouraged it. She wanted me to be considerate of commoners, and felt that if I was acquainted with, and cared for, even a few, it would help me be mindful of others once I grew up. To remember that we are all people, regardless of status."
"Did it?" Mithian asks.
Leon quirks his head at her. "What do you think, my lady?"
"I think it most definitely did. You are very loyal to your queen, and your two closest friends are knights who were common-born."
She knows all this about me?
"Yes, well, your mother was always very forward-thinking," Rodor states. Leon can't tell if he approves or not.
"Would you pass me that bolt?" Mithian suddenly asks, changing the subject. She gives her father a sideways look, and Leon decides she is definitely being tactful.
"Princess?" Leon asks.
"I want to shoot this thing. Bolt, please," she repeats, holding out her hand.
Leon takes a bolt from a quiver and passes it to her. When she takes it from him, their fingers brush. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.
She ducks her head to hide the flush that has risen in her cheeks at the feel of his sword-roughened fingers against her skin and loads the crossbow.
"You should be wearing gloves, my lady," Leon says softly, his breath and senses gradually returning to him.
"One shot will not do me any harm, Sir Leon," she answers. "But, thank you for your concern."
"Shoulders straight, Mithian, feet…"
"Father…"
"Sorry. Sometimes, I forget you are now better at this than I am," he chuckles, and Leon realizes King Rodor is proud that his daughter knows her weaponry.
Mithian levels the crossbow and aims at a target a fair distance away. Leon watches, holding his breath even as he sees her draw one in, exhale slowly, squeezing the trigger and releasing the bolt.
She remains as still as a statue, waiting as the bolt finds its mark, just slightly to the left of the bullseye.
Leon claps, smiling. "Excellent shot, my lady!" he praises, genuinely impressed. Of course, she did hit that doe, though we never found it. Probably a good thing, too, since the doe turned out to be Gwen. Merlin has spent hours telling them everything he's done over the years, a bit reluctantly, and they were all quite horrified to learn they had been unknowingly hunting their dear friend and future queen.
"Thank you, Sir Leon," she smiles, passing him the weapon. "Care to make a small wager?"
"Oh, I'm not sure you want to do that," he says, grinning at her, his hand running across the smooth wood, warm from her hands.
"Nervous, Sir Knight?" she teases.
"Mithian, do not tease our host," Rodor says, but deep down, he's hoping Leon accepts her challenge. And loses.
"What sort of wager?" Leon asks, reaching for another bolt.
"Victor's choice," she shrugs.
"So… if I win, I get to choose what I want, and if you win, you get to choose what you want?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at her.
She nods. "Except for money. It is too ordinary a prize, and something of which neither of us need more," she says airily.
Leon locks eyes with her for just a moment, a brief, tingling moment that seems to stretch twice as long as he loses himself in her large, brown eyes.
"Indeed, my lady," he finally says. He steps over, hoists the crossbow to his shoulder, takes aim, and fires.
It is just slightly to the right of the bullseye. Slightly more right than Mithian's is left. Leon lowers the crossbow, the weapon dangling from his long arms as Rodor applauds his daughter. Leon drops his head in defeat, but he is smiling.
"It seems you are the better shot, Princess," he says, lifting his head to smile at her. "Name your prize." He replaces the crossbow on its rack.
"A dance at the feast tonight," she immediately answers.
"It would be my honor," Leon agrees, bowing to her.
I don't know that I would have been brave enough to ask her for a kiss had I won. Not with her father standing right here, anyway.
xXx
Lunch was… awkward. Vivian could not understand why she wasn't allowed to sit beside Arthur. Loudly demanded to know why "that maid" was seated at the table beside her Arthur.
Guinevere took it all in stride, feeling nothing but pity for the girl. Arthur was at a bit of a loss, but thankfully, engaged in conversation with Rodor and Godwin for most of lunch.
Then, when Godwin paid Guinevere a compliment, Arthur, in response, took his wife's hand and stroked it lightly with his thumb. Vivian squeaked in wordless protest, and Gwaine stood, walking towards the vacant seat beside her while Olaf attempted to quiet his daughter.
Then, Gwen leaned back in her seat, resting her hand on her swollen belly, and Vivian noticed her pregnancy. She also noticed the ring on Gwen's finger.
"My love! What—?"
"Shh, hush now," Gwaine purred softly in Vivian's ear, taking her hand in his. "Don't let it trouble you. You are here to enjoy yourself, remember?" She slowly stilled, turning her gaze toward Gwaine.
He caught Olaf's eye, seated at Vivian's other side, and saw a glimmer of gratitude that surprised him a little. But of course, I'm helping her, I think, so he probably is grateful.
Gwaine noticed that several pairs of eyes were turned in his direction, including the round blue irises belonging to Princess Vivian, distracted once again from her obsession.
"Please, continue. Don't mind us at all," Gwaine had dismissed them, still holding Vivian's hand. He smiled inwardly when he saw the sweet smile his queen had bestowed upon him as he lifted Vivian's small hand to his lips.
Now, Gwaine is standing in the corridor outside Vivian's room, a small bunch of flowers in his hand and several questions on his mind.
Why, exactly, am I doing this? Do I like this girl, or is she just a challenge? Am I merely doing this because I know Arthur, Gwen, and even Olaf will be grateful?
Since when have I been interested in gratitude?
Do I like Princess Vivian?
Yes, I do. I cannot fathom why. She's a petulant brat. But, that's hardly her fault, is it? She's enchanted. And even if she wasn't, I have a feeling Olaf indulged her every whim and kept her all but locked away in a tall tower.
It's not entirely surprising he's allowing me to pay such close attention to his precious daughter. He wants her to snap out of whatever she's enchanted with.
Ugh. I can't even imagine being so completely fixated on someone for seven years. Particularly someone so far away.
Actually, I can imagine being fixated on someone for seven years and even longer. It's normally called "love." Unfortunately, Vivian hasn't been given the opportunity to know what real love is.
Do I want to be the one to show her? I know what the consequences of my actions will be. Am I prepared to accept these consequences?
I only met her this morning, but there's… something about her. Yes, part of it is the challenge. The chase. I'm good at the chase. If there's one thing I know about myself, it's I need a woman who will keep me on my toes. I think Vivian would most certainly do that.
Yes, she's beautiful. Yes, my thoughts have drifted to her more often than I would readily admit. Yes, I like the feel of her small, soft hand in mine, the sweet smell of her skin.
Gwaine lifts the bunch of flowers to his nose. He got them from Gwen; she has several potted plants that bear flowers for her in the winter months. He suspects Merlin has something to do with them perennially blooming, but doesn't ask. All he knows is his queen loves flowers, so the king ensures she has flowers year-round.
Gwen said these were sweet pea flowers, and even recalled them to be Vivian's preference when she waited on her. They smell sweet, like Vivian.
He smells them again, closing his eyes. Yes, I remember that scent when I kissed her hand.
Yes. I am doing this because I want to do this. She may be enchanted with magic, but I think she has enchanted me as well. No magic necessary.
He steps forward and knocks on her door.
"Who's there? Arthur?" Vivian's expectant voice sounds from within the room.
"It's Gwaine, my lady. Your knight." What? "Your knight?" That doesn't even make sense.
The door opens a moment later, and he is greeted by a frustrated-looking Vivian. "You're not Arthur— oh…"
Gwaine steps forward just enough to prevent her from closing the door and offers the flowers, sufficiently shocking her into silence.
"For you, my lady. I believe they are favorites of yours," Gwaine says, his voice soft.
Vivian reaches for them, hesitates, then drops her hand. "I cannot accept those. Unless they are from Prince Arthur," she says, stubbornly optimistic.
"They are from me, my lady. Sweet peas for the sweet," he says, stepping forward again. Vivian steps back.
"You… you should not be in my room," she says.
"So, yell for help," he answers nonchalantly, plucking a pink flower from the small bunch and tucking it into her hair, just above her left ear.
She manages a small squeak, nothing more. Then, her hand slowly comes up and closes around the stems, her dainty fingers brushing his as she takes them.
"Thank you… Sir Gwaine," she says softly, blinking at him.
Gwaine smiles at her, thinking that perhaps, in these moments when she looks up at him in this way, she is herself. Even if fleetingly so.
"Where… did you get flowers… in the middle of winter?" she asks, her voice hesitant, as if she is struggling to form the words.
She probably is, since they're not about Arthur.
"The queen has flowers planted in containers within the castle, and has allowed me to pick some for you," he explains, lightly touching the end of her nose with his fingertip.
"The… queen?" she asks, her face scrunching into a confused scowl.
"Yes, my sweet pea, the queen. She is kind and wise and worries about you," he continues. "She wishes you happiness… as do I."
"But… my Arthur…" she falters, the enchantment taking hold again. "My love… he was… showering affection on that serving girl. I know who she is. She was my maid the last time we were here, as you well know."
Actually, I wasn't here, but I'll play along. "Yes, she was. Now, she is the queen. Don't be upset," he says, closing his hand softly over hers, still clutching the flowers. "It will all make sense soon enough." I hope.
"My lady?" Rose's voice interrupts them. She sees Gwaine and immediately blushes. Most of the serving girls do, though Gwaine has not touched a single one.
"You're late," Vivian snaps immediately. "I hope you've got people coming with bath water. I should like my hair to be dry before the feast tonight."
"Yes, my lady," Rose answers. Pages start filing in with a bathtub and buckets of water.
"Enjoy your bath, my lady," Gwaine says smoothly. "And be kind to your maidservant; she is only trying to please you."
"I…" Vivian starts and stops, not sure what to say anymore. Then, Gwaine leans down and kisses her forehead once, softly, sending her into complete confusion.
"Until the feast, Sweet Pea," he murmurs, turns, and heads for the door.
"Sir… Gwaine?"
Gwaine stops and looks back at her.
"Th-thank you," Vivian whispers.
"You are most welcome, my lady," he answers, winks, and leaves.
"You. Rose, is it? Here, crush some of these into my bathwater. Not all, you silly… I mean, not all of them. I do want to keep some whole to enjoy. Fetch me something to put them in. Um, please." Vivian's voice, wavering between barking orders and inexplicably switching to a more polite tone, follows Gwaine out the door.
xXx
"Oh, thank you," Princess Elena says to a little girl offering a small bunch of dried herbs in the marketplace. She takes the bundle and smells it. "Chamomile," she declares with a smile. She digs a coin from a purse on her belt and presses it into the girl's palm.
"Thank you, my lady," the girl says, her eyes widening at the coin. "Oh! My lady…"
"For you and your family," Elena declares, patting the girl's cheek. She stands and loops her hand into the crook of Percival's elbow again. "Now, where can I find some nice silks? I could do with a few new frocks."
"That way, my lady," the little girl says, pointing.
"Thank you again, my dear," Elena says, smiling at her.
"Elena, what are you going to do with a bunch of chamomile?" King Godwin asks once they are out of earshot.
"Doesn't matter," she shrugs, "did you see how happy that child was?"
Godwin sighs, accustomed to, yet slightly puzzled by, his daughter's philanthropic ways.
"If I may, Lord Merlin might be able to make use of it if you are unable to do so, my lady," Percival says.
"Elena," Elena corrects him for what feels like the thousandth time.
"Sorry. Elena," he says. "Or if Merlin doesn't need it, surely Gaius would be able to use it."
"Thank you, Percival. I'm happy it can go to good use," Elena says. "Oh! These are lovely, don't you think?" she asks, running her hand over the fine silks they've just reached.
Percival knows absolutely nothing about women's fashion. He doesn't know silk from burlap, but can see that the particular length of material Princess Elena is holding up will look beautiful on her. It is a soft green, like new leaves, and as she holds it up to her face and surveys herself in the mirror, her peachy skin glows.
"Yes, my lady. It's very nice," Percival says.
"Top-quality," Godwin appraises, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. "Helena will craft you a fine gown from this silk, my dear."
Elena sees to her purchase, allowing her father to pay only when he insists.
"Where to next?" Percival asks.
"Blacksmith," Godwin says.
"Baker," Elena insists.
"How about we see the blacksmith and finish with the baker?" Percival recommends, absentmindedly placing his hand over Elena's on his elbow.
Elena looks at his hand and he remembers himself, quickly removing it. "Pardon me, my lady," he mutters, flushing pink with embarrassment.
"No harm done," Elena says softly. Godwin hadn't seen, not that he would have minded.
Princess Elena ponders Percival's bare arms as they walk. She is wrapped in a long cloak edged with fur. Godwin is wearing a thick, quilted coat and leather gloves. Percival is dressed as though it is midsummer.
Godwin enters the blacksmith's shop. Elena isn't interested, so she stays in the back of the shop with Percival, waiting while her father peruses the smith's wares.
"Why do you not have sleeves?" she asks suddenly, unconsciously flexing her fingers into the surprisingly warm skin of his arm. "Are you not cold?" Not that I object to seeing them, mind…
"Um, they are always too tight," Percival explains quietly, a little embarrassed. "I know the tailors here in Camelot could craft me a shirt to my measurements, but I've grown so accustomed to not wearing them that now, they bother me if I do. And no, I do not get cold. In fact, I rather like this time of year because I am not sweltering." He pauses a moment, unsure if he should mention it. You are not ashamed of who you are, Percival. You like this woman, but if she cannot accept you for who you are, then you have your answer before you've let yourself become completely smitten. "I was born a commoner, my lady."
"Ah, you are one of the 'commoner knights' of which I've heard," Elena says. There is no judgment or disdain in her voice. She is merely stating a fact. "So, you likely never had the luxury of a tailor."
"Yes, my lady. Elena," he corrects himself. "I am sorry if that disappoints you."
She looks up at him, her expression indicating she suspects he's gone quite insane. "Why on earth would that disappoint me?"
Oh. She's not interested. "Um…"
"Percival, Arthur and I may not have been suited for marriage, but he and I are more alike than you may realize. I don't care about the circumstances of your birth or who you used to be." She smiles up at him. "I care about who you are now. And I think it's bloody impressive that you've proven yourself worthy of becoming a Knight of Camelot, even though your being one went against Uther's rules."
"Thank you," he says softly. Wait, did a princess just say "bloody"?
"Uther's ideas were antiquated and narrow-minded," she mutters, frowning. Her face softens again as she looks up at this gentle giant whose arm she just cannot seem to release. "I like you, Sir Percival. I am not disappointed in your company or you in any way."
Now completely smitten. "I like you, too, Princess," he answers, almost whispering.
"Elena, what do you think of this?" Godwin steps over, interrupting them, oblivious of Percival's pink ears and Elena's slightly dilated pupils.
"It's a dagger," she declares.
"It's for you. If you insist upon galavanting around Gawant without a guard, I would like for you to have some protection."
"My lady, you really shouldn't…" Percival starts, but stops when he realizes that it's not his place to comment.
Elena sighs and removes her hand from Percival's arm to take the dagger from her father. "It's nice. A little heavy," she declares, hefting it in her hand.
"My lord, if I may?" Percival says, holding his hand out.
"Of course," Godwin says.
"Yes, this is too heavy," Percival declares. He walks over to the smith, has a brief discussion, and returns with a dagger that is not only lighter, but more decorative. Something a princess would not mind carrying. "Try this one, my lady," he offers her the dagger, handle-first.
"Goodness, it looks like a butter knife in your hands," she laughs, taking the dagger. "This feels better," she says. "Of course, I have no idea what I'm talking about," she laughs again.
"Perhaps Sir Percival can show you how to use it?" Godwin suggests.
Percival and Elena exchange a surprised look. Is he playing matchmaker? they both seem to think.
"I would be honored. If my lady agrees," Percival answers.
"On one condition," Elena says, smirking.
"Yes?"
"You stop calling me 'my lady' and start calling me 'Elena' like I have asked?" She grins broadly at him, and he cannot help but return her impish grin.
xXx
"Guinevere, you should be resting." Several heads turn, and King Arthur finds himself the target of numerous pairs of surprised eyes accompanied by hasty bows and curtseys.
King Arthur does not often visit the kitchens.
"Arthur, I am quite well. Really," Gwen protests as he makes his way towards her.
"It's nearly four, darling. You should have been in our chambers an hour ago," he says sternly.
She sighs and acquiesces, knowing his concern for her is borne from the deeper issue of his fear over her entire pregnancy, particularly the upcoming childbirth. Gaius has repeatedly reassured Arthur that Gwen will not suffer the same fate as his mother, but fears this deep are difficult to shake.
Arthur now knows the truth about his conception and birth. Gaius told him shortly after they learned Gwen was with child. But, it did not change the fact his greatest fear is Gwen dying in childbirth, leaving him without her. In truth, his recurring nightmares are a testament to this fear. He remembers the soul-searing pain, horror, and emptiness he experienced during the months they were separated before their wedding. Arthur never wants to live through such an experience again. Ever.
So, her loving husband leads her from the kitchens, even as she continues calling instructions over her shoulder. He escorts her to their rooms. He bends down and gently removes her slippers from her (admittedly slightly swollen) feet and guides her to the bed.
She expects him to tuck her in and head back out to the training field or council chambers. Or perhaps sit at the desk here in their quarters, quietly going over parchments. This time, however, he shucks his boots and vest and joins her, spooning behind her, his long arm circling her stomach.
"You have no engagements, my lord?" Guinevere asks sleepily. I guess I am tired.
"Only this one," he murmurs, burrowing his face into her curls to kiss her neck. "Are you comfortable?"
"Mm-hmm. The pillow helps," she says, eyes closed now, patting the pillow she has wedged under her belly.
"Good." He cuddles against her, marveling once again at how their bodies fit so perfectly together.
When Guinevere wakes, it is to the delicious sensation of her husband's lips on her neck. He's diligently placing soft, wet kisses on her skin, drawing her from slumber into wakefulness.
"Arthur," she says, trying to sound reproachful, but his name comes out more like a moan.
"Mmm," he responds, lifting up to kiss a trail to her collarbone. She turns, lying on her back to accommodate him. He raises up further, now capturing her lips in a deep kiss.
"We have to get ready for the feast," she protests weakly, pulling her lips from his. Undeterred, he simply moves his lips back to her neck, working his way down to her collarbone once again, but this time not stopping there, moving down to the tops of her breasts.
"Your plan seems to be working," Arthur mutters against her skin, his sneaky fingers working their way beneath her to pull at the few laces holding her dress together. Gwen abandoned corseted dresses months ago, choosing instead to wear flowing, empire-waisted gowns that accommodate her condition.
"Hmm?" she wonders hazily, her sleepy brain distracted by other things.
"I saw Percival and Elena returning to the palace a short time ago," he reports, sliding her dress from her shoulders. "They appeared quite…" he pauses, kissing the newly-exposed skin of her stomach as he ponders the correct adjective, "…cozy. Perhaps smitten."
"Mmm," Gwen smiles, lifting her hips to allow Arthur to completely remove her gown. She opens her eyes to discover Arthur is already naked. "Arthur, did you…?"
"Of course I did. I'm terribly optimistic, you see," he says, grinning stupidly before dropping his head for a kiss. "Oh, and Merlin tells me Leon and Mithian have been doing little other than making eyes at each other all afternoon. And something about a wager Leon lost… apparently he has to dance with her at the feast." He kisses her shoulder.
"Oh, what a hardship for him," Gwen giggles. "How did Vivian receive the flowers Gwaine brought her?"
Arthur frowns momentarily. "She did accept them. And, from what I understand, she was struggling to be kinder to her maidservant after he left." He kisses Gwen again, longer, his hand softly stroking her breast. "He might be making progress with her. Poor chap has his work cut out for him, though."
"I have confidence in him," she says, her own hands wandering a little as well. "It's time he settled down, anyway."
"Indeed, my lady. And far be it for any of us to disagree with our queen," Arthur says with a smirk, kissing down to her breasts again.
"Exactly. Mmm," she moans as Arthur's lips close over a sensitive nipple.
"I never should have doubted the wisdom of your plan," he adds, moving across to attend her other breast.
"No more talking, Husband," Gwen whispers, delving her fingers into his hair.
