Note: I am ending the story here. This final chapter is so ridiculously overdue, I sincerely apologize. It was hard to finish, but I felt it was owed, whether or not I felt inspired. Thanks for reading and following.

Gwen turned the fabric over in her fingers, her thoughts having taken her away from the task of assisting a few of the maids with their endless piles of mending. She smiled absently now and again at their chatter, which tended towards harmless castle gossip, but did not take part in the conversations, preferring to work quietly. A stray comment caught her attention as she worked the needle through the piece of muslin, and she paused, leaning towards the girl nearest her. "What was that about the prince just now?" she murmured.

"They say he's engaged," the girl replied, not bothering to lift her eyes from her work, for which Gwen was grateful. It was the sting of the needle that brought her back to her senses, causing her to realize she had stabbed herself, a novice's mistake she hadn't made in years. For a moment she brought her hand to her mouth, pressing it to her lips, partially to allay the brief pain but also to cover her dismay at the words she'd just heard.

They say he's engaged.

Gwen tried to make sense out of it. Only a few days had passed since Camelot's noble guests, the lord Bayard and his lady daughter, had left. Was it she—Elaina? She had seen Arthur and the lady exchange a few words at dinner; Arthur hadn't seemed particularly infatuated (though of course that didn't mean anything) and she knew they had gone out riding together, that was no secret, even Morgana had mentioned it to her, with a touch of malice, perhaps in hopes of some reaction. Gwen hadn't reacted—then—it had seemed a silly thing to be upset over. Arthur was a prince; princes passed their time with noblewomen. None of this had the power to upset her.

But if it were true, and he had not said anything to her, not even a word of warning, that was...

Well, it was unbearable.

Gwen bent her head over her work and concentrated on the stitches, making them far more perfect than they needed to be for common mending, perfect enough to please Morgana's discerning eye of months ago. But all her concentration couldn't erase the memory of the word: engaged.

She should have known this moment was coming. She should have prepared herself better. Hadn't she been living in a fool's dream this autumn, living on moments that didn't belong to her, making memories that weren't hers to hold on to?

Stupid, Gwen, she chastised herself, but with each stitch she drew through the fabric, the knot in her stomach tightened.

Over dinner one night, Uther commented casually, "I'm told you are much in the company of that serving girl."

"She's not a serving girl," Arthur answered, out of instinct rather than thought.

"You don't deny it, then?"

He put down his goblet. Here it was. He had wanted to tell his father about Guinevere for some time in any case, and she had asked him to wait, but there would be no more waiting. "No. I don't."

Uther took a sip from his own drink and regarded him with genial interest. "Don't you find that inappropriate, considering your intended bride?"

"Guinevere is not inappropriate."

"I speak not of the girl herself but of her station. She's hardly a prince's consort."

"I don't care about her station." Arthur was consciously trying to mirror his father's even tone and conversational manner, but Uther's prejudices always managed to kindle his anger. "I care only for her."

"You aren't trying to have me believe she means something to you?"

"She means everything to me."

This admission was met with silence for a few moments. Then his father said, "I can only assume that this...declaration of passion is due to your not yet having lain with the girl?"

The question, or perhaps observation, was so direct and without lechery that it was hard to take offense, yet Arthur was unable to think what kind of an answer to give. He avoided the other man's piercing gaze.

Uther leaned forward. "Let me be clear. Bed her if you must, but wed her you will not."

Arthur found his voice, though it came out strangled. "Even if we thought that an acceptable conclusion, how can you propose...What if a child was to result?"

Uther waved a hand in a dismissive fashion. "Unlikely, particularly if you managed to satisfy your curiosity with a single encounter...but beyond that, such things are commonplace enough. The only heir you need concern yourself with is the one from your wife, who—will—be—" he punctuated his words by meaningful pauses—"of noble birth."

"Father." Arthur prayed he could stay in possession of his temper long enough to get through to the king; making it more difficult was the growing realization that his sire's principles were foundationally unsound. It was deeply disturbing to see him in such a different light. "I have always believed you brought me up to be a man of honor."

"You chose dishonor when you chose to associate with a servant from the lower town."

"I do not accept that!" It was almost a shout. He reined himself back in. "You will not speak of Guinevere in that manner. She is the woman I love. And will marry," he added, unsure whether the supplement was purely defiance or a statement to himself that he needed to hear vocalized.

"Then you will lose your kingdom," Uther said, with eyes like flint. "If the Mercian alliance displeases you so much then find another, it matters little to me, though you are a fool not to see its tactical advantage; but marry the wench and you will not inherit."

"Enough." Arthur stood up, congratulating himself on having managed to sound calm again. "You must do as you will. So must I."

He went then to look for Guinevere, anticipating finding her in Morgana's chambers, but it was Merlin who answered, looking rather guilty.

"What are you doing here? Never mind. I don't care. Where is Guinevere?"

"At her father's old place I think. She's been going there at nights."

"Since when?" Arthur stared at him.

"Not long," Merlin dissembled.

Arthur paced in a circle out of frustration for a moment, then looked back at him. "Remember when I told you to be ready? That time has come." Leaving Merlin standing in the open doorway, Arthur hurried onwards to the lower town.

It was late, although not unreasonably so, and he was intensely relieved when he heard Guinevere's cautious answer to his quiet call outside the cottage door. She let him in out of the darkness, the light of the small hearthfire and a candle burning on the table making the room seem bright by comparison.

Looking around, he recalled the last time he had been here. It had been pouring rain and they had had their first kiss. Perhaps she was remembering it as well, because for a moment they both stood awkwardly before Gwen moved away and pretended to arrange a stack of bowls at the table.

"Why didn't you tell me you were back here?" He tried, but it was hard not to sound accusing.

"I haven't been neglecting my duties," she said, looking down. "Merlin has been looking after Morgana at nights and I just..."

"That's not what I mean, you know that's not what I mean." He came to her and tried to take her hands. She let him, but she still wouldn't look up. "I have to know—where you are. If I don't know where you are I worry."

She was silent for a moment and then said, "I would have thought you would be too busy to worry."

He wasn't sure what to say to that.

She glanced up at him very briefly. "Why did you come here tonight?"

"I needed to see you. I need to talk to you." Arthur ran his hands along her forearms. For some reason that was a mistake because she pulled away, putting a few feet of distance between them.

She said, "I'm not sure that is appropriate."

Her phrasing, so unfortunately similar to his father's way of describing her, and fresh in his mind, made him angry. "We have spent many hours alone, night-time hours among them, and if I've ever given you reason to feel shame—or regret—in those times..."

"No. I meant only—"

"Only what?"

"Considering your intended."

"My intended—curses, Guinevere, I am not now nor have I ever been engaged! I was allowing my father to believe in a fantasy that I realize now I should have disillusioned him from at the very beginning!"

He took a much-needed breath. She was looking at him with big, hurt eyes. He realized he might have to slow down. If up until this moment she really had believed he was intending to marry another, his planned proposal tonight would perhaps not be well met. And yet it was imperative they understand each other; time was not on his side.

"I came here to ask you something," he said, after a few moments. "But now...I feel that I should not."

Her brow creased. "Why?"

"Because now I worry you will give the wrong answer."

She was quiet for a moment, then she said with a hint of a smile about her lips,"If you don't want my answer to be wrong, you must ask the right question."

I am a warrior, Guinevere, I've neither the stomach nor the head for games and riddles...but there was sense in what she said, if he was being rational.

He was trying to be rational. It was difficult when all at once the future of your life was veering off in a very different direction from how you had always envisioned it.

Not bad, just different.

The right question...

The only question he could formulate. "I want to know if you would consider becoming my wife."

"Yes," Guinevere said.

The certainty of her voice gave him a jolt of emboldened hope, but he added quickly, "I ask you as myself. A man...nothing more."

"I don't see you as anything more than a man," she said, sounding confused.

For some reason he found this endearing, that she was forgetting about Camelot, about his entire heritage as a cherished son of Albion. Yet she couldn't be allowed to misapprehend the situation.

"My father is not amenable to the idea of us."

"You mean, to me."

"If he mislikes one he cannot have the other. You are part of me," Arthur said, and though it made him feel awkward to say it (too poetic, unsoldierly) it was true. He reached for her hand again and now she let him take it.

"I don't want to be the cause of trouble between you." Guinevere looked distressed.

"If there is any trouble, he has his own prejudices to blame."

"But if he does not accept us, how can we be together?"

"We must leave here."

"I couldn't ask that of you."

"It is I who asks you," he pointed out. "I believe my father will come round in time. Perhaps, not until there are children—"

"Children?" Her voice sounded strained.

"After we are properly wed, of course. And have a home of some kind."

"Naturally," she breathed.

"Unless you don't—"

"No. Yes. It is just...all of this seems very sudden."

"I thought you knew how I felt about you."

"Until tonight I believed you to be engaged."

"I would have told you if such a thing had been true. Remember, I wanted to tell my father about us before, but you advised against it."

"I didn't want you to have to give up anything for me," she said, slowly. "But—if you are determined to leave, I will go anywhere with you."

"Are you certain?" Though she'd already said yes he searched her gaze for any remnants of doubt.

"I am very sure," she said, with a little smile, and then he had to kiss her, so he did.

Morgana was sitting at her window when Merlin came to find her. He'd been granted tacit and unrestricted access to her rooms for some while now, whether by order of Arthur or by virtue of being Gaius' assistant he didn't know (or much care).

It was usually at nights that he came, that was when she wanted him, when his presence was more than tolerated. He knew she needed him for sleep. The arrangement was quite chaste in that respect; they would curl up together fully clothed and though it was occasionally difficult to have her sleeping sweetly against his chest when he was not in the least tired, he had to accept that was all he could have. It might be all he could ever have. He didn't know, he tried not to think too much about it.

Now he lingered by the door for a moment, watching her, though she seemed neither aware of his presence nor self-conscious if she was.

At last she looked at him obliquely, waiting for him to speak, but as usual he didn't quite know what to say.

"Arthur's leaving," he said, finally.

"Because of Gwen, I suppose."

He nodded, although that felt disloyal, somehow. Certainly it wasn't Gwen's fault that the situation was resolving itself in this manner. If Arthur was prepared to give up the kingdom for Guinevere and she was for her part prepared to live with the unknown future they could make together, then he had only respect for both of them.

"So what about you?"

He came closer. "I must go where he goes."

"I suppose you must," she said with faint sarcasm.

"Only he's charged me with—" How to phrase it in a way that wouldn't anger her. Keeping you safe? Looking after you?

"If there's anywhere than locked in these rooms I would less rather be," she said, meditatively, "it would be tagging along after that lovesick pair as they parade about the countryside trying to cobble together some kind of sad existence."

"Don't you think," he said, keeping his voice gentle, "they would be happy?"

"I suppose," she allowed, "as fools are."

"We could go our own way," he said. "You and I."

"I think we tried that already."

"I think only one of us actually tried."

She accorded him that with a tilt of her head. "I did warn you. I'm sure I did. I was never going to be that girl you could bring home to your mother."

"Well," he said, feeling a little weary. "This time you decide where we go."

"We," Morgana emphasized. "Is it...us...now?"

"It's been us for a while," he said boldly, leaning against the stone wall and folding his arms across his chest.

"Really."

"Since you decided you can't sleep without me."

She made a sound of irritation.

He raised his eyebrows and said nothing, waiting.

After some time she said: "I need to be able to breathe. I won't have you hanging about me all the time."

"As you wish it," he said, now consciously speaking more lightly. "I'll not look for you until the sun sets. I'll not so much as let my eye fall upon you in the daylight hours."

She gave a small unwilling smile. "But I'm serious," she said, and her voice, though candid, was wary.

"I know."

She didn't break her gaze from his. "I don't want to be burdened...with anything."

"I know that," he said again, careful of the trust she was giving to him in that moment, aware of the warning that he was not to have any expectations.

"So." The line of her neck seemed to soften a little, the shoulder that was angled toward him lowered. "Do we leave tonight?"

"The morning is soon enough. You need rest and I still have preparations."

"It's not late," she said. "Sit with me. My hands are cold."

"Come away from the window," he said, half-laughing at her. "At least by the fire if you don't want to sleep yet."

He held out a hand, and when she took it, he wrapped his warm fingers around her chilled ones and led her gently to the light of the crackling fire.