Title: Count the Ways
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Gwen/Arthur
Rating:
PG
Spoilers: Entire series.
Summary: Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.

Disclaimer: Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's Sonnets from the Portuguese, each from the corresponding number.

Authur's Notes: Wow, I forgot to finish putting these up here, sorry. Wish I could say the story was finished. It's not. But I do have the first four, so I'll finish putting them up on ff-dot-net, and maybe it will inspire me to write some more of them.

II.

"Nay" is worse
From God than from all others, O my friend!

It takes her several minutes to work up the courage to knock on Arthur's door. She has known for months—known since Vivian—that this day would come. She has even told him. "One day, you will find your real princess."

In her head, Guinevere has known. But her heart has been treacherous, finding hope in Arthur's searing glances, yearning toward his touch, longing for his kiss…

It is all at an end now. She must make Arthur see that. She must make her own heart believe it.

Still, it takes her ten minutes to knock on his door.

"Guinevere!" Surprise and pleasure and awkwardness all lace Arthur's tone. Her foolish heart beats faster at the way he says her name.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't just turn up like this."

Arthur's face falls immediately, and she hates that. She hates him for wearing his heart on his sleeve, and she hates herself for continually refusing that noble heart. "It's all right, Guinevere. You know you are always welcome. Come in."

He retreats into his chambers without waiting to see if she follows. Gwen wonders if that is to put her at ease or to retain a respectable distance—a distance that must, and will, only widen in the years to come.

Having made it this far, she does not hesitate to say why she is here. "Everyone's talking about your marriage to Elena."

Arthur crosses his arms as he stands in the light of the sun. She sees his lips work, trying to find words to say, and realizes she doesn't want to hear them. She must give the speech she has prepared and escape before her heart unravels like frayed cloth at Arthur's feet.

"I know you said that it isn't what you wanted, but I also know that you can't always have what you want. I know that very well." All her resolutions to be strong are failing her. She can hear the tremor in her own voice. She refuses to cry. She will not cry. Not over this. This was inevitable.

"Is what I want really that insane?"

"Yes, Arthur. From anyone's perspective, apart from yours and mine—" Gwen's voice nearly breaks. Yours and mine. As though Arthur Pendragon's name has any business being paired with hers, a mere serving girl. They should never be spoken with the same breath, never enter the same thought. "it's completely insane."

Arthur turns toward her for the first time as he says, "Then I'm happy being insane."

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. How can he say—how can he feel such things for her? It is madness; it must be. Yet it has lasted all this time…

"I'm sure it's better than being miserable."

At his defeated words, she must speak. Arthur is not born to a life of misery. If she thought she was condemning him to that, she could never let him go, not for anyone or anything. "I don't think she will make you miserable. She has a good heart."

"As do you." Gwen reads the rest of Arthur's sentence in his tear-filled eyes: And you hold mine.

Guinevere takes a breath and forces herself to do the hardest thing of her life—relinquish all claim on that heart. "We both know it can't be."

"If I do it—" She hears Arthur's agreement and surrender in those few words. They hurt more than she thought they would. "If I marry her, what will you do?"

"I will watch you grow into the king that Camelot deserves. It is as it should be."

Arthur lifts his chin and looks away. Gwen sees him struggling for control and wonders if now is the moment to leave.

"It is anything but that," Arthur finally replies.

She hesitates and knows she shouldn't. "Sire?"

"If things were as they should be, then you would be a princess, my equal in station…as you are in every other way."

"We cannot change how we were born. I can no more be royalty, than you could be a blacksmith. The fates decided that long ago."

"Then they made a mistake." Arthur's voice is sharp and strong again. His blue eyes blaze with conviction. In two steps, the distance between them is erased. He cradles her face in his hands, his warm, gentle touch burning through her skin. "How can I hope to be a good king without you?"

If he kisses her now, her resistance will crumble entirely. She takes his hands in her own and kisses the knuckles, so white and fine against her dark, work-roughened fingers. "We have each our duty in this life, milord. Ours do not lie together."

Gwen turns and walks quickly toward the door, praying he will not reach for her again. She feels the utter pointlessness of trying not to love this man and will not allow him to see her weakness.

"Guinevere—"

She stops with one hand on the door, but does not turn around. It is difficult enough to hear the longing in his voice; she cannot see it on his face.

"I never loved another."

The echo of his words after the Vivian debacle reach straight into her gut and sear like one of her father's hot irons. She flees, choking on her tears, and thinks somewhere in the heavens, God is laughing at her pain.