Summary
Gwaine, torn between duty and love, races against time to reconcile with Yaminah amidst personal doubts and a looming crisis in Camelot.
Chapter 56 When Gwaine Returned
Gwaine bolted through the castle's stone corridors, his footsteps echoing like a frantic heartbeat, moments after the meeting with Gwen and the inner circle concluded. The news hit like a battering ram: king abducted, queen gravely injured—a grim welcome for someone freshly returned from an eleven-day mission.
And Merlin—some sorcerer he turned out to be! Gwaine's affection for his friend was the only thing that kept his suspicions at bay, though his harsh accusations might have suggested otherwise. Still, the shame of his own actions burned hot; he'd crossed a line, weaponizing a shared secret about Merlin's father in a moment of anger. It wasn't lost on him that prior to his mission, he'd nearly come to blows with Arthur. Now, within an hour of his return, he provoked a brawl with another of his dearest friends.
He knew Gwen's wisdom rang true; he was bone-weary, his muscles screaming for rest despite the war between duty and desire. He fought to search for Arthur even as it clashed violently with his longing for Yaminah. Now, exhaustion was dwarfed by the burning desire to reconcile with her, to mend the bridges he'd torched.
But time was an enemy, for surely she would have departed by now. Still, he could not give up—had to look for her. Even with the routines of a seasoned wanderer—washing in streams, cleaning his teeth, keeping a change of clothes, habits that had earned Fredrick's gentle mockery—eleven days of hard riding had left him far from presentable for this reunion. But his appearance did not deter him. Hope spurred him on as fatigue sought to bring him to his knees. If he could only se—
"Whoa!" Gwaine exclaimed, colliding with reality as he barreled into a manservant. Steadying both himself and the startled man, his battle-honed reflexes kicked in, a surge of energy coursing through his veins. "Pardon me!" he apologized, his fatigue banished as he continued on, his senses now sharp and alert.
Racing through the castle with renewed vigor, Gwaine recalled the feeling of unease that had greeted him, Fredrick, and Mistress Jacinth as they dismounted in the citadel square. The news of an urgent gathering with the queen in the lesser hall had only confirmed their fears. During the assembly, he'd cloaked himself in the knight's discipline, forcing his mind to grasp the kingdom's plight—Arthur's absence a gaping wound in Camelot's heart—even as his heart tugged him elsewhere.
For at the same time, he ached for Yaminah. Eleven days he had ached for her: would she receive him now? Speak to him after what he'd done? The depth of the pain in her eyes… His inability to comfort her… The letter he'd left – did she read it, cherish his words, or watch it crumble to ash in the hearth, taking his explanations with it?
Gwaine's frantic pace quickened, urgency fueling each step. Most visiting dignitaries would have departed Camelot over a full week ago. Al-Sayyid Badawi's trial would have happened in his absence, but that too was days past. Had Yaminah already left for the Northern Plains, her business here in Camelot concluded? The thought sent a jolt of panic through him. He'd wasted precious time on that blasted mission, and now... now he might be too late and might never be able to make things right with her.
Emerging from the turret's winding stairs onto the third floor, Gwaine's eyes locked onto her chamber doors, a beacon of hope in the torch-lit corridor. Stepping briskly, he approached, his mind racing. For eleven days, he'd rehearsed this moment, words of explanation and apology tumbling through his thoughts. Yet now, faced with her door, all his carefully crafted phrases seemed to evaporate.
Should he knock? Call out? What if she refused to see him? He had to try. Hand raised, he took a steadying breath, his knuckles hovering for a heartbeat before tapping on the heavy oak.
"Yaminah?" he called softly. "It's Gwaine. I've returned." He steadied his breathing, calmed the nervous tension spiraling through him. The speech he'd prepared—about duty, about the torment of his choice—felt hollow now. What could he possibly say to mend this rift?
Silence greeted him, thick and tormenting. Gwaine's lips twitched, doubt gnawing at his confidence. Try again, you fool, he chided himself, his knuckles rapping the door with renewed determination.
"Yaminah?" he called. "Are you there?"
"She is not," came a deep voice, startling Gwaine as a figure emerged from the shadows of the corridor. A tall, imposing man, his gaze as hard as obsidian, swept over him, assessing and inscrutable.
Gwaine recognized him as one of the guards who had hovered nearby when he escorted Yaminah after his victory in the tourney. A flicker of hope ignited in his chest, the man's presence suggesting she was still in Camelot.
"Master Farouk," Gwaine recalled, returning his own measure of scrutiny with a respectful tilt of his head. Noticing the traditional black and white keffiyeh framing his bearded face, its stark pattern a mark of his station, Gwaine also remembered the perpetual scowl etched on the escort's face, a silent sentinel of disapproval. "The Al-Sayyidah – I must speak with her."
"Sir Gwaine," he greeted with a slight incline of his head, the richly embroidered tunic of deep blue and purple sash cinched at his waist in warrior fashion. Gwaine watched the man's stony demeanor for signs of contempt, any hint of judgment for his actions towards Yaminah and her father. But Farouk remained unreadable, as unyielding as granite and just as impenetrable. "I regret the Al-Sayyidah is not here."
"Not here..." The words echoed in Gwaine's mind, a death knell to his hopes. He pivoted away, fingers raking through his tangled hair, self-recrimination burning in his chest. Fool! Farouk's presence had kindled false hope; this man served Al-Sayyid Badawi, not his daughter. The realization crashed over him like a bucket of icy water: Yaminah had already departed, now leagues away and likely already in the Northern Plains. He'd squandered his chance, gone too long and returned too late to mend what he'd broken.
Gwaine's jaw tightened, muscles working as he fought to contain the tide of frustration ready to break free. Composing himself, he turned back to Farouk, each movement deliberate. "Forgive me," he managed, his voice a frayed tapestry of loss and self-pity. "How does she fare then… after...everything? The trial?"
Farouk's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, a fleeting shadow of disdain crossing his features. "She is the daughter of the mighty Al-Sayyid Badawi Zahir and has displayed remarkable courage for a one who has lost much." His shoulders then relaxed before he continued, though his tone left no doubt as to whom he blamed for her loss. "She is as well as can be expected, my lord. She grieves for her father and worries after his health."
Gwaine nodded, a lump of regret lodging in his throat. "I understand. I... I only wish to express my deep remorse to her." Every word uttered hurt, but he pressed on. "Might you relay a message when next you send word to her?"
Farouk seemed to consider his request, dark eyes searching, but then his expression soften. "Perhaps it is best you tell her yourself, Sir Gwaine. She's in the market securing provisions for the Al-Sayyid."
Gwaine's breath escaped in a rush. "The market, you say?" Relief and hope surged through him like a summer storm, charged and stimulating. Yaminah was still here, within reach! He gave Farouk a grateful look. "You have my deepest thanks."
He pivoted to leave, his body already in motion, when Farouk's hand clamped onto his arm like an iron vise. The man's eyes, cold and hard as marble, now blazed with intensity.
"You should know that the Al-Sayyidah has suffered another great loss. Tragic and dreadful."
The words "tragic and dreadful" echoed in Gwaine's mind. His body went rigid, Farouk's ominous words striking him with the force of a projectile. Another tragedy? What fresh pain had Yaminah endured alone? How much more had she lost while he was away?
Self-recrimination burned hotter, through every thought, every pore. He should have been here, should have refused to leave her side after arresting her father. Should have refused the mission… But could he truly have defied Arthur's orders?
Farouk's grip tightened, as if to be sure he had Gwaine's attention. "She travels to the Northern Plains in a few days," he continued, glaring. "Her father's legacy falls to her. It is her highest priority now."
"What?" Anguish lanced through Gwaine anew, bitter as gall, his mind grappling with questions he dared not ask Farouk. Time, having long ago deserted him as an ally when he took up the mantle of knighthood, continued to mock him with its scarcity. The chasm between him and Yaminah yawned wider, a gulf he must bridge in mere days. Yet even as this fleeting chance to mend their bond glimmered like gold amidst the rubble of his hopes, just being here for her now, in whatever way she needed – if she allowed – that had to be enough.
"Go to her, Sir Gwaine. But tread softly, my lord," Farouk warned. "Do not interfere with her altered destiny."
Farouk's gaze bore into him, dissecting every nuance of his expression, every unspoken word. After an eternity compressed into heartbeats, Farouk's grip loosened, his hand falling away.
With a curt nod of understanding, Gwaine turned away, each step propelled by desperation and optimism in equal measure. His heart thundered against the cruel march of time. Days would turn into mere hours, and he had to right his wrongs, to salvage what had blossomed with what time remained. Yet as he raced towards Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir, a simpler truth emerged: just to see her, to hold her once in his arms – that precious moment might be the balm to soothe the inevitable wound of separation coming all too soon.
Heedless of his disheveled state, Gwaine tore through the castle halls. He bounded down stairs, taking three, four at a time, his body a blur of motion as he wove between startled onlookers. The sound of his ragged breathing and pounding footsteps echoed off the stone walls. His sole focus: reaching the lanes and market beyond these castle walls.
Sweat and a light dusting of road dirt clung to his skin and chainmail, his equally dusty cloak billowing behind him. Though he and Fredrick had managed a proper bath and laundering in Longstead five days ago, and he'd kept to his usual habits at streams and rest stops since, the intense pace of their final day's ride had undone any semblance of cleanliness. His scent was likely akin to the back-end of a mule, but that mattered not. His thoughts, before Yaminah, had been a usual whirlwind of tavern songs, witty retorts, and ill-timed jests. Now his resolve narrowed to a singular purpose: finding her, his… beloved? The word echoed in his mind, both question and answer, driving him forward.
As he burst out of the castle doors and down the steps, the cacophony of the square assaulted his senses – a harsh contrast to the somber stone halls he'd left behind. Then the tower bells tolled – the fast, repeated beat causing his stomach to clench, the rhythm of a kingdom alert. Gwaine skidded to a halt in the heart of the citadel courtyard.
Arthur.
The usually orderly square erupted into chaos, a tempest of motion and sound.
"By the saints!" he swore, swiping at the rivulet of sweat coursing down his temple. Wiping his upper lip and gulping in air, Gwaine rested his hands on his hips, taking in the rapidly changing scene.
Servants scurried like startled mice, their usual quiet efficiency replaced by frantic energy and whispers of the royal announcement they knew would follow. Guards barked orders, their voices sharp against the backdrop of confusion. Nobles gathered in tight clusters, their worried murmurs a building crescendo of fear and speculation about what they think they knew.
The bells clang urgently, their discordant peal echoing the dissonance in Gwaine's heart. He moved forward, the cacophony seeming to pulse through his very bones. Exhaustion sapped at his strength, the initial surge of energy that spiked during his collision with the servant beginning to wane. His aching muscles, forsaken in his desperate race, started to remind him of their weariness. Leaden legs protested each step towards the inner portcullis, yet the promise of seeing Yaminah compelled him through them.
He glanced up at the empty balcony before he lost sight of it, the specter of betrayal a grave concern for the inner circle, his own rift with Merlin a fresh wound much closer to heart. The kingdom would soon roar in distress over the loss of their king, but Gwaine's thoughts were divided. Arthur's harsh words about Yaminah eleven days ago had provoked him to near violence—he would do it again to protect her honor—but the memory was diminished compared to the bitter words he cast at Merlin today.
Those deeds were done, apologies forthcoming from him, but later. With friends estranged and the guilt of choosing a woman over duty a burden for tomorrow, his heart pulled him inexorably towards Yaminah, precious time already lost.
Gwaine rushed down the main lane, the chaos there seeming to have followed him. Market-goers caught unawares by the alarm were milling about in bewilderment. Their chatter, once a pleasant hum of commerce, now rose to a fever pitch of speculation and alarm. The clatter of dropped wares punctuated the din as some merchants hastily packed their goods. The acrid smell of fear mingled with the usual market aromas of foods, spices, and livestock, souring the vibrant lanes he so relished. Right now, his ears rang with the discordance of panicked voices and clanging bells.
Children's laughter, so common in the lively streets, gave way to frightened cries. He darted through them, uncaring for the indignant shouts and glares he caused in his haste. Dogs barked, adding their voices to the growing noise. The air itself seemed charged, crackling with tension and uncertainty. The relentless tolling of the bells drove home the seriousness of the situation. Each peal a reminder that only he knew at this time: the king was gone, and with him, the kingdom's sense of security would soon follow, no reflection on Gwen's strong leadership he'd witnessed firsthand.
Gwaine's lungs burned, his breath ragged as he scanned the crowds. Lane after lane yielded no sign of her. Doubt crept in – could Master Farouk have been wrong? Had she left already and ventured somewhere else unknown to him. Fatigue clawed at him, pressuring to drag him under. Panic rose in his throat, choking him with the possibility of missing her entirely.
Then, like a beacon in a storm-tossed sea, he spotted her. Resplendent in a rich emerald cloak, Yaminah stood out amidst the chaos. Even as panic swelled around her, she maintained her regal bearing, still engaged in bartering with a nervous-looking cloth merchant. Mistress Ishka, the young Ahmed, and two other escorts roamed nearby, a protective circle around their lady.
Raven braids cascaded down her back, thick plaits catching the light like strings of garnet. Gwaine's breath hitched, the sight of her striking him anew, as powerful as the first night he'd laid eyes upon her—a thunderbolt to his heart. How many nights had he conjured her wild froth of jet and burgundy from memory behind clenched eyes. Or imagine her full, rose-tinted lips he'd yet to taste, invoked when glimpsing the soft petals of wildflowers along the trail?
Her exotic accent had haunted his dreams, the lilting cadence of his name tantalizing his every sense. He longed to trace the elegant line of her high cheekbones, to feel the whisper of her slender fingers against his skin—tactile sensations he'd only imagined in the lonely hours of his mission. If he could just touch her hair, run his fingers through those wild strands...
"Yaminah," he breathed, so pleasing a call against the madness surrounding them. Rooted in place, he could scarcely fathom this was real, that she was truly paces away after endless days bereft of her presence, her warmth, her very essence. His heart lurched, its frantic rhythm drowning out the chaos around him.
Terror and longing coursed through him as he forced his leaden limbs into motion. Weaving through the crowd, then past her watchful escorts, he was enveloped by her scent—sweet jasmine mingled with a fragrance uniquely hers. It steadied and intoxicated him simultaneously, each breath a treasure. "Al-Sayyidah…"
Yaminah froze, the clamor of alarm bells fading to a distant hum in Gwaine's mind. She turned, agonizingly slow. Hazel eyes, lined with just a thin trace of kohl, widen with disbelief as they met his. The world narrowed to this moment, this connection.
"Gwaine," she exhaled, his name a whisper that carried the pain of their separation.
"I'm sorry," he said gently, the words woefully inadequate in the face of their shared wounds.
Her hand flew, connecting with his cheek in a sharp crack that silenced the nearby crowd. His gaze dropped, accepting the blow as just penance. The sting was nothing compared to the maelstrom roiling in his heart.
When he looked up, he saw her facade cracking, her regal bearing crumbling under the onslaught of fresh, raw emotion. Tears carved deliberate, glistening paths down her cheeks, her face a canvas of hurt and yearning.
"Al-Sayyidah, let me—" Another strike, harder, his vision blurring. But he'd weather a tempest of blows if it meant gaining back her favor. His heart rent, his throat ached, her condemnation piercing deeper than any physical wound. "Yaminah," he whispered, his voice rough. "I'm so sorry. Is forgiveness possible?"
"No," she uttered quickly. Then, "Yes—I don't know…" Gwaine saw the conflict raging in her eyes, mirroring the storm in his own heart. Her trembling hands clutch the pendant around her neck—the same one he recognized from the night of the feast, which her graceful fingers had toyed with ever since.
For a heartbeat, they stood frozen, forgiveness locked in the icy barrier around her, slipping away from him. Panic rose in his throat, choking him. Was this it? Had he truly lost her, the fracture between them too wide to bridge? Gwaine wasn't sure if he was still breathing.
"Yaminah, please say something," he finally spoke, his words a hoarse plea. Irresistibly drawn to her, Gwaine found himself drawing her rigid form to him, searching her eyes for any glimmer of forgiveness. "Talk to me, I beg you."
Then, as if a dam had broken, her resistance crumbled as she collapsed into his embrace. "Oh, Gwaine, Gwaine," she cried, his name a prayer and a curse, her body yielding to a need greater than her anger. "You have returned. You—You're here..."
Relief flooded through him, so intense it was almost painful. His arms tightened around her, afraid that if he loosened his grip, she might disappear like a mirage. The feel of her body against his chest felt like a long-awaited homecoming, a sweet reward after a treacherous journey. It was as if every fiber of his being recognized this as where he truly belonged.
He cradled Yaminah closer, appreciating her perfect fit against him—a reality far more poignant than his most vivid dreams. Yet, bitterness scarred the sweetness of their embrace. Even as he savored this moment, Gwaine knew it was merely the first step on a painfully brief journey. The specter of his betrayal loomed as large as the shadow of some unknown family tragedy. And while the path to redemption stretched before him, arduous and necessary, it was confined to the precious few days they had left before Yaminah's departure for the distant Northern Plains.
Becoming aware of the curious eyes upon them in the public setting, Gwaine gently steered Yaminah away from the crowd down a narrow alley beside the royal blacksmith's workshop, her servants trailing at a respectful distance. It was then he noticed another change – the ominous tolling of the bells had shifted to a new pattern, the succession of tones that heralded a royal announcement.
This change in rhythm triggered another transformation of the town. Gwaine knew shops would begin to shutter around them, some merchants flowing into the lanes towards the castle square with the townsfolk, anticipating news of importance. The discordant bustle and the distant clangor of the bells struck him as a glaring backdrop to his and Yaminah's private drama unfolding in the shadow of a kingdom-wide crisis.
"Yaminah," he murmured softly, trying to soothe her wave after wave of anguished tears. Through her sobs, a torrent of words spilled forth, mostly incomprehensible to him. But he caught fragments—her father's term of endearment, her brother's name, and his own. Each mention punctuated a fresh surge of grief, the three men in her life apparently the cause of her pain.
"I'm here," Gwaine whispered, his chest tightening as he recognized his place among those who had hurt her. He curled his fists into her cloak at first, his own heart splintering at her distress. But he forced his grip to relax, instead caressing her gently as her wracking sobs only seemed to intensify.
"Yaminah, Yaminah," he repeated softly, her name a gentle comfort on his lips. Gwaine held her close, acutely aware of her ebony tresses brushing against his beard. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through them. Such an intimate gesture felt unearned, a privilege he had yet to gain.
Rocking her, Gwaine tried to offer what solace he could through his presence and his touch, setting aside his own need for forgiveness in the face of her agony. As her sobs began to quiet, her breathing steadied and her weeping ceased. Only then did he allow himself to voice his remorse.
"I'm so sorry," he rasped, each word weighted with regret. "For everything. For the pain I've caused you. I know I have no right to ask, but... can you ever forgive me? Yaminah, I…"
He trailed off, fearful that he'd already irreparably damaged what they had and no kind of apology from him mattered. In the heartbreaking silence that followed, her tearful mentions of Youssef's name and Farouk's parting words about her "altered destiny" and "father's legacy" came to mind.
"Has something happened to your brother... Is he-?" He couldn't finish the question, fear of the answer choking him. Swallowing hard, he continued, "Yaminah, what can I do? How can I make this right?" The words tumbled out, a desperate attempt to bridge the rift between them. Whatever this altered destiny entailed, he wanted to offer comfort even as he sought absolution for himself.
Gwaine felt Yaminah stir at his whispered concerns. She pulled back, just enough for him to see her face. Her eyes, now bare of any kohl, met his. The absence of the dark lining left her looking more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her, even more so than that fateful night of her father's arrest. He watched fresh tears track down her cheeks, each one a silent accusation to the pain he'd caused.
"I'm not certain you can," she choked out, backing out of his embrace, her hands once again grasping the gold and diamond pendant dangling between her breasts. "I opened my heart to you. As frightful as it was, I trusted you, Gwaine... and you—you trampled it, shattered what we were only beginning to build..."
Her words lanced through him sharper than any blade, twisting in his gut. Yet, even in the face of her anguish, Gwaine found himself inexorably drawn to her. Like a moth to a flame, he gravitated towards her warmth, her light—a force as natural and unstoppable as the tide. He tentatively reached out, unable to resist the pull of her presence.
Gazing down at her, he cradled her face, brushing aside those lingering tears with gentle sweeps of his calloused thumbs. Tears of his own burned—he cared not if they fell. "I know," he breathed, voice barely audible. "I'll carry this guilt forever. I clung to duty, even as my heart screamed the cost... What I did... Yaminah, it tore my very soul asunder."
Yaminah searched his eyes, and Gwaine held his breath, hoping she could see the depth of his remorse. But she turned her face from his cradling touch, her raw pain spearing his heart as she retreated a step.
"You were my champion…" she murmured, the words tinged with bitterness. Her body language shifted, her arms crossing like the bars of a gate, a shield shutting him out. Eyes that once held a special warmth towards him, were now wary and guarded. The feelings Gwaine had longed to inspire became an impenetrable fortress, every line of her body a defense against him. "I thought you—we…" Her hands flew to her mouth, keeping whatever she was about to say from being uttered. Gwaine felt his heart constrict at the pain and confusion in her voice, longing to hear the words she couldn't bring herself to say.
He swallowed hard, letting his hands fall helplessly to his sides. "I know. There are no words for how sorry I am, for the anguish I caused you." He edged closer, wrestling with the guilt, anger, and shame that churned within him.
"I never meant to break faith with you, Yaminah," he said, risking another step. "I was bound to serve Camelot, and that duty... it was harsh, but it was mine to bear. Yet in fulfilling it, I failed to see the duty I owed to you, whom I have come to cherish beyond all others. It was a bitter lesson in the cost of honor."
Tremors careening through him, Gwaine cautiously grazed her arm before moving to take her hand. When she didn't flinch or recoil, hope flickered. His thumb traced her knuckles, each touch a silent plea. "I know I've forfeited any right to your trust," he said, voice raw with emotion. "But if you'll allow it, I'll spend every moment learning to balance my oath as a knight with the devotion you deserve. However long it takes... I beg you, Yaminah, grant me this chance to prove myself worthy of your heart."
Gwaine tensed, barely breathing as endless moments passed awaiting her decree, keenly noting each minute shift in her body language. She tensed as his thumb stroked her knuckles, conflict in her eyes. Her gaze drifted from their joined hands to his face and back again, brow furrowing.
He glimpsed the tears clinging to her dark lashes before they fell, and as she slipped her hand from his grasp, Gwaine's heart plummeted. But in a gesture that stole his breath, she gracefully raised her palm, hesitantly cradling his cheek.
"I grant it to you, my champion," she said tenderly, her accent wrapping each word. "I understand duty. Oh, Gwaine."
A surge of joy coursed through him, dispelling the shadows of the past eleven days. Gwaine covered her hand with his own, turning his face into her touch as he closed his eyes in profound relief.
"Whatever this crisis is, when the urgency has passed, perhaps we can speak later," she added, smiling warmly at him. Her decision offered the blessing he scarcely deserved – an opportunity to reforge what his own actions had nearly destroyed between them.
"I would like that," he replied, a smile breaking across his face like dawn after a long night. It was as if a great weight had been lifted, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time since he'd left.
"I have missed you so," Yaminah whispered sweetly, the words caressing his very soul.
"And I you," he promised, his voice thick, heart swelling at her admission. "Not a moment passed without you in my thoughts or my heart." He gazed into her eyes, savoring this precious reconnection, her irresistibility tugging at him.
Unable to fight the impulses any longer, he pulled Yaminah into a deep embrace. She melted against him, her body fitting perfectly against his as if they were two pieces of a long-separated whole. His arms tightened around her, one hand splayed across her back while the other tentatively, finally, reached to touch her hair.
He marveled at the texture, simultaneously coarse and soft, so unlike anything he'd ever felt before. His fingers tangled in the wild strands, the sensation igniting a fire within him. Yaminah tilted her face up to his, her lips parted in invitation.
Their lips met in a passionate kiss, and Gwaine's world narrowed to the softness of her mouth, the warmth of her breath, the sweet taste of her. He lost himself in the kiss, in the feel of her body pressed against his, in the exotic texture of her hair between his fingers. Every sense was alive, attuned to her presence, desire coursing through him like wildfire.
This embrace felt right, so different from their first. Where that one had been born of desperation and grief, Yaminah's tears soaking through his chainmail as she'd clung to him, this one was filled with warmth, hope, and an explosion of passion.
Suddenly aware of his own state – sweaty and travel-worn despite his best efforts – Gwaine reluctantly pulled back. But the sight that greeted him nearly undid his resolve. Yaminah swayed slightly in his arms, her eyes hooded with desire as they fluttered open. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, teeth catching on her lower lip in a way that made Gwaine's breath catch.
He smiled, both pleased and a bit sheepish, as he steadied her. "I fear I've taken liberties, Al-Sayyidah," he said, his voice husky. "And I'm certain I'm not fit company after my journey."
Yaminah's answering smile was warm and a touch mischievous. "I find no fault with your... company, Sir Gwaine," she murmured, her accent caressing his name in a way that made his heart race.
Gathering his composure with effort, Gwaine reluctantly let his arms fall away from her. "May I…may I see you in an hour's time?" he asked, Farouk's words about their impending departure drifting to mind, adding urgency to his request. How much time did they truly have?
Before Yaminah could answer, Mistress Ishka approached with lowered eyes and a curtsey, though the older servant managed to cast a furtive glance his way before speaking rapidly to her mistress in Arabic.
Yaminah tensed, her gaze flicking between Gwaine and her servant. For a moment, it seemed she might refuse, but then she nodded to him. "Yes," she agreed softly, her eyes meeting his, an apology and a hint of something unreadable in their depths.
"Until then, Al-Sayyidah," he managed to get out, his smile broad and wide, anticipation already burning. "Fair day, Yaminah."
"Fair day, Gwaine," she replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite the lingering sadness in her eyes.
As Ishka gently pulled Yaminah away, he watched them go, blending into the flow of people heading towards the castle, unspoken words and hidden truths settling heavily on his shoulders. Gwaine raked his fingers through oil and grime-heavy hair, leaden feet nailed in place as the last glimpse of Yaminah's ebony hair disappeared from sight.
Their brief interaction left him with more questions than answers, the promise of their later meeting both a comfort and a source of mounting anxiety. Whatever she was grappling with, it was clear that she needed someone to help her navigate through it. Gwaine wanted to be that person, despite the complexities of their situation.
The measured, rhythmic toll for a royal announcement had ceased and fatigue once again warred with his stamina. Gwaine headed towards the knights' barracks, his body craving the comfort of a hot bath and clean clothes. As he walked, the weight of his chainmail seeming to increase with each step, he noticed the streets were far from empty. Many servants hurried about these semi-populated lanes, likely on errands for masters who had gone to hear the announcement. He could see the denser crowds of the midtown at a juncture, some heading towards the citadel and some going about their business.
Then something Yaminah said suddenly came to mind: "I understand duty." Nearing the castle, the crowd thickened long before the portcullis leading into the square. He could hear the faint echo of a voice – likely Gwen's or Geoffrey's – addressing the gathering as he wove his way slowly through the throng. Yet his thoughts remained fixed on Yaminah. Whatever she was grappling with – her family's mysteries, her own unspoken burdens – it now seemed clear that she was making one choice for both of them.
By accepting her duty to return home, perhaps she felt she was sparing him from having to choose between her and his knightly obligations. The realization both touched and pained him deeply, causing his steps to falter momentarily as he processed the implications. Gwaine wondered if she had already decided that they could not be together, despite their deep desire for one another. Did she truly need his help with anything, or was she already resigned to facing her challenges without him?
Too many questions plagued him as he squeezed into the courtyard. He paused to listen to Gwen on the balcony, her commanding voice carrying across the square, urging caution and tolerance, and calling all to her aid. The kingdom faced a crisis, yet as his mind drifted to Yaminah as it had ever since meeting her, Gwaine felt torn between his own crisis of duty and heart.