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.

XXXVIII.

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;

"Enough!" Uther shouts as he glares down at his dripping children. Morgana's long braid is coated with honey—more than enough to make Gwen wince at the long night ahead of her—while Arthur's head and shoulders are covered with stew from the pot Morgana dumped on him in retaliation.

"But, Father, she-"

"Sire, he-"

"I said, enough! Neither of you is allowed back into this banquet hall until you learn manners. If you're going to behave like children, you will be treated like children and take your meals in the nursery."

Uther overrules the series of protests and adds to their punishment by telling them they will spend the next month, sunup to sundown, receiving a series of lectures on court etiquette from Geoffrey of Monmouth.

In the three years Gwen has known them, Arthur and Morgana have never agreed on anything, but they agree on this: Geoffrey of Monmouth is the most boring old windbag in Camelot. There is a short debate on whether it is Gaius, the Court Physician, instead, but after a three-hour tirade on how to hold one's goblet, the matter is definitively settled.

"A whole month," Morgana groans to Gwen after the first day. "My ears will fall off, and my brain will leak out from the holes they leave. You have to come with me."

Gwen knows it is useless to argue. Morgana refuses to suffer alone. So while Arthur doodles images of fat, bearded men dying increasingly violent deaths and Morgana hides a book under the table to read whenever the librarian isn't looking, Guinevere learns the proper way to eat at feasts she will only attend as a server. She is taught the proper terms of address for people she is quite certain will never come to Camelot, caliphs and shahs and high priestesses of religions now outlawed. There are two days spent on tournament customs—the only time Gwen knows Arthur is listening—and one on the proper protocol for leaving and entering a room.

Then comes bowing. Arthur and Morgana are forced to practice every variation of angle required from Camelot's prince and the ward of the king to every visiting dignitary they could possibly meet. Gwen almost doesn't blame them for the way they start adding dirty gestures behind the old man's back.

But it is not until he tells Arthur to kiss Morgana's hand that Geoffrey meets outright rebellion.

"I'd rather kiss a troll."

"I won't let him touch me! The pigs are cleaner."

They are both pink-cheeked and fidgeting. On occasions like these, Gwen sometimes wonders if all Arthur and Morgana's quarreling is an attempt to deny a sort of attraction between them. She is amused for the first time in days, until Geoffrey ruins everything by huffing, "All right, I shall kiss the Lady Morgana's hand, and Your Highness may practice with the serving girl."

Gwen feels the heat flushing her own cheeks, as she waits for the round of objections to this new plan. It doesn't come. Morgana, it's true, goes from red to greenish-white in a matter of seconds, but her lips clamp determinedly together. Evidently, she has decided a boring old man is less objectionable than an irritating young one.

Gwen looks to Arthur and finds him already watching her. She has seen that look on his face before—on the training field, before he fights a new opponent. He is taking her measure.

Her back stiffens. She pulls her shoulders straight and her chin high. She will not be embarrassed or discomfited by this obnoxious, arrogant prince. She bobs a small curtsey, as though it is beneath her dignity to bow her head to such as he. "My lord," she says and holds out her hand.

Arthur's mouth quirks into an amused grin. "My lady," he intones solemnly. He takes her hand in his—the library is hot and musty, and both their hands are slick with perspiration; it's quite disgusting, actually, Gwen thinks—and bows as low over it as if she were a queen. She is trying to decide whether Arthur is mocking her or Geoffrey or court manners in general when his lips brush gently across the back of her hand.

She yanks her hand away, wipes her sweaty palm along the side of her skirt, and tries to ignore the way her heart thuds painfully against her ribs.

"Very good," says Geoffrey. "Tomorrow, we start dancing."

–

The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair.

Gwen buries her father under a tree, near their favorite meadow of wildflowers. The fact that she is able to bury him at all is something of a miracle; the bodies of those executed for crimes against the state usually being left to rot as a warning to others. But Gwen spoke to Merlin, and Merlin to Arthur, and, in a surprisingly short time, she had her father's body back, along with gravediggers in the persons of two of the prince's squires.

She doesn't announce the burial to her friends and neighbors, unsure whether their pity or their terrified refusals will be harder to bear. She sends a letter to Elyan's last-known address, but has little hope that it will reach him.

So she buries him alone, with only the sound of the shovels and the far-off calls of birds to distract Gwen from the paralyzing realization that her father is going under that dirt never to return. The numbed oblivion of the first few days is gone, fear and confusion replaced by this aching, unbearable loss. Never more will she see Dad's broad smile, or laugh at his bad jokes, or cry against his strong chest. She will not wake in the morning to the sound of iron against iron from the forge next door, or fall asleep to the even rhythm of his snores.

When the grave is filled and the men have left, Gwen lets the last of her barriers down. She falls to the ground, fingers digging in the new-tilled earth, and sobs until there are no tears left inside her. Maybe there never will be again. Never could anything hurt like this...

It is dusk before she turns back to Camelot. Before entering the lower town, Gwen wipes all traces of tears from her eyes and raises her chin proudly. She looks straight ahead, unwilling to hear the gossip, see the well-meaning friends.

A light burns within her window. Panic seizes her, as she relives Torin's grip on her mouth, his whispered threats in her ear. She quickly berates herself; Torin is dead, and no intruder would be likely to leave a candle burning where anyone can see. Another thought strikes her. Perhaps her brother has come home after all!

Gwen rushes home and flings open the door. "Ely-" The name dies on her lips, as she sees Merlin setting a bowl of stew on the table.

"You should have told me you were burying him today, Gwen." Merlin's voice is half-sad, half-reproachful. "I would have come with you."

"I know." The momentary rush of life has fled. Gwen slowly slips off her shawl and puts it away. "I wanted to do this alone."

That's a lie. She wanted to be with her brother. She hadn't wanted to bury her father at all. But it's the only answer she has for Merlin.

"Sit and eat, Gwen. You look exhausted."

Gwen obeys him. She cannot think of a reason not to. Merlin fusses for a while, filling her goblet with wine, bringing her bread, stoking the fire. Then he sits across from her and surprises Gwen by telling her about the day he met her dad. It's a funny story, involving mace practice with Arthur and a dented helmet that wouldn't come off.

Before Merlin finishes, there is a knock on the door, and Gwen's next-door neighbor walks in with a freshly-baked cake and a story of her own to share, how Tom chopped all their firewood that winter five years back when her man broke his arm. The stablemaster arrives with a bag of apples and tales of the horse only Tom could ever get to stand still enough to shoe. Gaius brings a duck he swears he and Merlin would never eat, a comforting hug, and a whisper in her ear about how much her father loved her.

The visitors, the presents and the stories keep coming until Gwen's home and heart are full near to bursting. Tears in her eyes, a smile on her face, Gwen is listening to her father's best friend recount childhood adventures when there is another knock at the door. Merlin has taken over greeting late arrivals, and Gwen doesn't even turn around until John's voice trails off.

That's when she sees Arthur Pendragon looking nervous and uncomfortable in her doorway. Gwen rises and curtseys, which awakens everyone else in the room enough to do likewise.

"Sire," is all Gwen says. She cannot think of anything else to say. Why is he here at all? At her house, the home of the man he arrested, the man his father executed.

"Guinevere, pardon the intrusion. I was looking for Merlin, but I seem to have interrupted a party. Forgive me."

A low murmur has replaced the stunned silence of the crowd, punctuated by loud attempts to shush it. Her friends and neighbors are wondering why the Crown Prince of Camelot is speaking so kindly to a humble maidservant. Guinevere is wondering that herself.

"It is not a party, Sire. It is a wake, to remember my father." Saying it is the first time Gwen realizes that is exactly what it is. She suspects Merlin's hand in the whole arrangement. Perhaps even in Prince Arthur's unprecedented appearance.

"Your father was a good man, Guinevere. A hard worker, a loving father, a kind friend. Anyone who had the privilege of knowing him must feel his loss." Arthur's speech-which sounds a little too rehearsed, a little too eloquent from everything Gwen knows of the prince—stops just short of admitting Uther was wrong to have Tom killed. But the crowd in Gwen's tiny house has no trouble reading that into what he does say.

A toast is raised in honour of the prince; he is invited to stay for another in honour of Tom. He does. People begin to talk freely again. They tell more stories, shed more tears. But Gwen is thinking about Merlin, about Arthur, about what they have done and why they have done it.

Finally, it flits through Gwen's mind how she told Merlin people would always think her father guilty, because he tried to run. Merlin played down her fears, and this is how he attempted to put them to rest, with a public show of support from Prince Arthur himself. Gwen wishes there weren't so many people around. She would fling her arms around Merlin and thank him the way he deserves. In her whole life, she has never had a friend so dear.

But Arthur...why would he ever agree to this? She knows he feels guilty over her father's death, but he has already apologized to her for it. Privately. Where no one could see him doubting his father, the king. Whatever their differences, Arthur loves his father no less than Gwen loves (loved, oh, that wretched past tense, which does not fit, because her love has not gone anywhere) hers. Arthur is not trying to publicly stand against his father by being here, however it may appear.

So why is he here?

Hard and long as she considers the question, Gwen can find no answer that satisfies her. She watches Arthur as he listens to story after story of good Tom the blacksmith. He smiles and laughs, and, twice, Gwen could swear there are tears in his eyes. He is more gracious than she has ever seen him, or even believed it possible for him to be.

After about an hour, Arthur slips out to have a quiet word with Merlin. Merlin returns; Arthur does not.

Without thought, Gwen runs out the door. She mumbles something about needing air, but all she really needs is one answer from the man in the red cape, striding towards the castle.

"My lord, my lord, wait!" she surprises herself by commanding.

Equally surprising, Arthur does. He stops at the corner and turns around. "Guinevere? Is everything all right?"

"Yes. No." She is out of breath from her ridiculous chase. It is lucky all her neighbors are in her house and unable to see the fool she's making of herself. "Why...why did you come?" She forgets the my lord, forgets the Sire.

By the light of the guard tower's torches, she sees Arthur frown. "I told Merlin you wouldn't want me there, but he insisted it would..." He trails off, surveying her uncertainly.

"It would what?"

"That it would mean something to you, to have me there. He said a lot of rubbish frankly, but that's Merlin, and I reckoned he knew you better than I, but if you were hurt or offended-"

"I wasn't." Gwen interrupts the prince, which is surely some sort of crime, but neither seems to mind. "I was...am grateful to you for coming, Sire. Thank you."

Arthur winces as though it's painful being thanked by her, or maybe just being thanked for this. "Well...Merlin said you needed support from the people who care about you, and..." He clears his throat.

He cares. The reason Arthur came is as simple and complex as that—he cares. Gwen feels a confusing whirl of sensations that she is too overwhelmed by grief and exhaustion to think about.

"Thank you, Sire." For coming. For caring.

"Don't, don't thank me," Arthur says in a rush. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Guinevere." Then he does something oddest of all. He leans down and kisses her on the line where her brow meets her hair. His touch lingers a moment, a blessing, a benediction. As soon as he pulls back, Arthur nearly runs to the castle.

Gwen walks slowly home, thinking how strange and comforting is is that he should kiss her exactly as her father did.

–

The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state...

Three days. That's how long Arthur Pendragon has been staying in her house. It feels ever so much longer.

Gwen is exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally drained. She has cooked and cleaned for him, mended his clothes, and polished his boots. She has slept two nights—barely—on the floor and one in-between sheets she, for some reason, could not forget he had slept upon. Sleep-deprived and irritable, it is no wonder she lost her temper and yelled at the future king of Camelot.

Twice.

In seventy-two hours, Arthur has made her want to wring his neck, laugh until her sides split, protect him, beat him, hold him tight and give him all the hugs she's sure he missed growing up. He's still such a boy, really, an arrogant, obnoxious, lovable, darling boy.

And someone wants to kill him. Not just someone, one of the most feared assassins in the five kingdoms. Gwen is terrified. Nervous, too, and she doesn't believe it's all about the hidden killer.

Her arm burns where Arthur grabbed her last night, though his touch was gentle. His eyes, so blue, so innocent and vulnerable, as he told her...what? What exactly was he trying to tell her before Merlin burst in?

Gwen does not know and is afraid to find out. She prepares and serves Arthur's breakfast in near total silence. Arthur, too, is strangely subdued, perhaps readying himself for the tourney, or for facing his would-be murderer. Once, their eyes meet and quickly slide away.

She doesn't want him to leave this way. She wants him to know that whatever he's said, or she's said, whatever he's done, or she's done, she is on his side. Gwen longs and wishes and prays for the day when Arthur takes his place on the throne. Whether by a tournament lance or an assassin's danger, he cannot, must not, die. But her tongue—so swift in voicing thoughts she should better keep to herself—fails her now.

Opening her mouth to tell Arthur these things, she finds herself muttering about bringing in laundry instead. Gwen rushes outside and yanks clothes off the line. "Idiot."

She gives the next dress a particularly hard tug. Her eyes light on the long, white cloth next to it. It is nothing at all, a makeshift bandage for a sprained ankle, but when she looks at it, she remembers flowing ribbons of bright-coloured silk tied onto arms, helmets, and the ends of lance poles. She twists the cloth around her fingers and returns to the house.

They continue their awkward dance around each other. Wanting to hand him the cloth, Gwen passes Arthur his cloak instead. He looks at her finally as he's tying the cord.

"One more match. Tournament will be over," he says, though whether to reassure her or himself Gwen is not sure.

She smiles back anyway. "You can go back to being Prince Arthur." He nods, smiles, and it's now or never. She looks to the cloth in her hand. "Um, I thought you might wear it. For luck."

It is nothing. He could ride with satin gloves or lace handkerchiefs, given by ladies and princesses from every corner of this great Isle. A dingy, servant's token...what is she thinking?

He reaches for it. Their fingers brush. The skin of her hand is singing.

"Thank you," he says. And means it.

Not having the slightest idea what to say, Gwen smiles. And nods. She pulls her hand away, feels stupid for not doing so sooner, feels stupid for just standing here saying nothing while Arthur looks at her and looks at her and...

Kisses her. Maybe she should have seen it coming, but she didn't, she didn't, and now it is here and she doesn't know what to do except...let him. Her eyes flutter shut. The world slows. There is sunlight streaming through her window, warming her cheek, as he is warming her lips. Exactly the same, actually, so gentle, barely a movement, and yet felt all the way past her skin into her bones and sinew and heart.

When he pulls away, she follows him, lips longing to hold onto this implausible taste of sunshine. Arthur looks as surprised by the kiss as she is, which is odd, since he's the one who began it. But, then, maybe he hadn't known it would feel like that, either.

Guinevere waits for him to say something, but when he does, it is only, "I must go." He strides out of her house without a backward glance.

For a moment, she feels deserted, abandoned. She closes her eyes and puts into memory every heartbeat of that kiss. Sunbeams warming dewdrops. The gentle hearth-fire of home.

(He will ask, "Do you remember the first time I kissed you?"

She will smile.)