Summary
As love draws Gwaine and Yaminah together, their separate worlds pull apart.
Chapter 73 When the Pendant Shattered
Gwaine stood sentinel by a tapestried wall in Yaminah's expansive quarters, tracking the servants as they gathered supplies for evening preparations, his muscles coiled from two days of constant vigilance. While the household dismissed his presence as readily as the chamber's furnishings, he found his tension unwinding as he watched Yaminah direct her people with newfound poise—her magic manifesting now only by the gold in her eyes.
The aromas of their last regular meal blended with whispers of tomorrow's sacred rituals—servants inventoried spice jars and measured aromatic oils, others tended the simmering supper that would sustain them before the Sabbath began. The constant stream of Arabic flowing around him felt like waves breaking against stone, leaving him adrift in a sea of foreign rhythms and customs. Servants swept past him—their glances skimming away whenever he tried to catch them—his presence an interruption to their holy preparations. Yaminah moved among them with confidence, meeting his watchful gaze occasionally, and only briefly, before returning to her duties.
He inhaled slowly—the hundredth time—unresolved conflicts still at odds within. Merlin's chambers might have contained her magical outbursts, but they couldn't confine her spirit. All those crystals and arcane relics had pushed against her power like chains. He hadn't liked her returning so soon without proper guidance, but she'd refused to stay where foreign magic suffocated her newfound power and kept her from the hallowed commitments that bound her people together.
And he'd refused to leave her side. "I made my choice when that pendant shattered. I won't leave you again."
That pledge had sealed his vow, though Ishka's glares still seared like desert sun on steel. He didn't care. Two days of helpless vigil haunted him—diamond fragments frozen in air, Yaminah surfacing briefly between waves of raw magic, her form twisting as her screams burned through his memory. No amount of battlefield maneuvers had prepared him to counter this storm, no shield could deflect this tide of power.
Memories of other sickbeds where he'd stood helpless gnawed at his chest. His past losses had taught him the torturous pace of waiting—Yaminah's struggle with magic mirrored those moments. And just as he had before, he could only clasp her hands and hope.
Magic. When paired with her name, the word meant more than mere ability—which he'd come to accept. It would reshape her entire existence, challenging the intricate customs and traditions that shaped her. Ishka's earlier warnings about arrangements and obligations rang in his ears, reminding him how little he truly knew of their people's shared, faithful path.
Shifting his stance, Gwaine's hand found the hilt of his sword. Somewhere in Camelot, Arthur needed him too. His king, his friend, possibly in mortal danger. The choice should have split him in two, propelled him to join the search parties. Yet when he closed his eyes, all he saw was Yaminah's face as her magic broke free, heard her desperate plea in his mind: "Make it stop!"
A sharp clatter drew his eye as a brass bowl spun off a table, struck by nothing but air. The servants froze, but Yaminah's commanding presence and steady voice kept her people calm. His own step forward halted as Ishka's hard glance reminded him of his place here: observer, not participant. The message in her demeanor rang clear as temple bells—some boundaries weren't meant to be crossed. Gwaine met Ishka's contempt with his own before turning to Yaminah.
"Al Shokr li-llah," she said, her expression clearly conveying both gratitude and humility. The Arabic flowing from her lips remained foreign to him, but Yaminah's commands carried authority that settled her household. Several servants nodded with restrained acceptance—their unease fading more quickly now than when they'd first witnessed gold eclipse the hazel of her eyes. The preparation resumed—her hands firm on the table's edge. Only Gwaine noticed how her shoulders softened once attention had shifted away.
Throughout the day, like now, the sound of quiet chanting filled the chambers—prayers, he assumed, recognizing the word "Allah" woven through their melodic Arabic. But memories of past losses ambushed him during these times, ones he'd buried beneath years of indifference: fevered entreaties kneeling beside his older sister's sickbed, desperate pleas for his father's safe return from war, supplications that went unanswered as his mother faded away. Each death had stripped away his faith until only one truth remained: his devotions meant nothing to God, so God meant nothing to him.
Here lay the true battle, he now realized, fighting the urge to prowl as if sizing up an enemy. Not against her magic or his duty, but against centuries of traditions that he could never fully share with her. That his love, no matter how deep, branded him as the unbeliever who'd turned his back on everything she held dear, to a God he'd long since abandoned.
Ahmed, a young guardsman Gwaine had come to know during this vigil, emerged carrying a steaming bowl of fragrant broth. Navigating the household's intricate patterns—movements Gwaine still struggled to comprehend after hours of observation—Ahmed's lean frame displayed the same elegance that made him lethal with a crossbow. But unlike the others who treated Gwaine as if he were invisible, the Egyptian's stare fixed directly on him. Under these circumstances, he might have welcomed the respite, but something in Ahmed's look—a distressing blend of sympathy and enlightenment—made him tense.
"Sir Gwaine." Ahmed kept his voice low, mindful of the holy chanting around them. "You've not eaten since before midday. Please. You must replenish your strength, my lord." He extended his offering.
"I'm fine," Gwaine refused, but Ahmed's unwavering smile gave him pause and he accepted the bowl. "Thank you." Unfamiliar spices wafted up—earthen and rich beneath the sharp tang of citrus. As he lifted it, chunks of tender meat and vegetables swirled in the golden liquid, releasing new aromatic whispers.
Scooping the spoon into his mouth, Gwaine studied Ahmed, acutely aware of the young Egyptian's own discerning eyes sweeping over him. Ahmed stood a few inches shorter, straight dark hair framing an angular face. His traditional Alexandrian clothing—white tunic falling to his knees, colorful sash housing an ornate-sheathed with a curved dagger—paired with loose trousers that settled above leather sandals.
"You do not believe in God, in our sacred rituals and beliefs," Ahmed commented, genuine curiosity lighting his features—regardless that each word landed like an arrow finding its mark.
Gwaine's hand tightened instinctively on the bowl, its warmth anchoring him against an unwelcomed discussion and a painful past. He lowered his hands, assessing the young man before him. Despite the light dusting of facial hair that shadowed Ahmed's jaw and upper lip, suggesting no more than twenty summers, could he detect the battlelines being drawn within Gwaine's mind?
"I believe in myself, my sword, and those I trust with my life," Gwaine replied, his statement nearly lost in a sudden burst of melodic chanting from the far side of the chamber. He softened his tone before continuing. "But I respect the customs of others. Who am I to judge?"
A thoughtful hum escaped Ahmed as he weighed Gwaine's words. "Many men share your path, living for the cares of this earthly life, believing only in self, and gain, and pleasure. The honor of men, the nobility of their actions and purity of their intentions, is indeed crucial for the betterment of this world. It, too, is a light that guides us in the darkness of our earthly trials."
As Ahmed spoke, Gwaine's gaze found Yaminah seated at a low table across the chamber, her fingers gliding over prayer beads while she supervised nearby women at her feet. She glanced up, her smile warming him before returning to her task. When Gwaine finally turned back to Ahmed—catching only fragments about Christ being the true Light—that the guardsman unflinching stare held such certainty that Gwaine fought the impulse to look away.
"But sacred honor," Ahmed continued, his expression warm with conviction, "the kind that transcends the fleeting breath of mortal life, is found in the submission of one's soul to a higher purpose." His features softened into a gentle smile. "It is in recognizing that our time here is but a whisper, a fragile thread in the grand tapestry of existence. The honor that matters most is not the praise of men, but the approval of our Creator. For when the veil of this mortal life is lifted, and we stand bare before our Lord, it is the purity of our faith and the sincerity of our devotion that will be our true victory, our eternal triumph."
Gwaine lowered his spoon into the half-finished bowl, the young man's wisdom and profound truths gripping his chest like an unseen hand. "I..." Words failed him, old whispers summoning him to listen. He swallowed, his thoughts retreating to childhood—hazy images of his family gathered at worship, his mother's gentle voice guiding them through Christian rituals.
As a young boy, he'd harbored doubts, questioning a God who seemed impossibly distant. His sister's death had weakened that fragile connection; his father's had nearly severed it. When his mother finally passed, his faith had crumbled to dust, scattered by grief's merciless winds. He studied the broth's swirling surface, avoiding Ahmed's perceptive regard.
In the years after, he'd drifted between taverns and kingdoms, participating in whatever celebrations crossed his path—Christian or pagan, it hardly mattered. He found temporary comfort in camaraderie, in drink, in women's arms. But in quiet moments between revelries, in the silence before dawn, emptiness would find him—a hollow space earthly pleasures hadn't quite filled.
It wasn't until he'd met Yaminah that Gwaine confronted the emptiness he'd spent years denying. In her presence, his wanderer's soul found meaning, a connection more profound than ale-soaked revelries or battlefield victories had ever provided. Ahmed's certainties now pried at long-sealed doors in his mind. What existence extended beyond sword-edge and belonging? Had he, as a grief-stricken boy, abandoned too quickly the possibility of divine purpose—something that might outlast duty to king, brotherhood, and his heart's deepest desire?
Ahmed glanced toward the inner chamber where servants began settling plates and cushions for their evening meal, enticing aromas drifting from covered dishes. "Fii amanillah, Sir Gwaine," he said softly. "May God guide you to Al-Tariq, The Way, when you are ready to recognize your need of Him."
He returned to help with the final preparations, leaving Gwaine humbled by his testimony and stunned by the Christian term's familiar echo. The Way—words from his childhood faith now wielded by this young man—his unswerving faith and sincere beliefs splintering Gwaine's long-maintained shield of certainty. He scrubbed his jaw, the back of his neck, before lifting his spoon of cooling broth, seeking comfort in the familiar act of eating.
Across the chamber, Yaminah arranged ceremonial foods on a silver platter, her gestures fluid yet deliberate. A braid with a gold band fell across her brow as she leaned forward, tucking it back absently without pausing her task. Watching her, questions emerged from corners of his mind he'd long avoided: If sword-arm failed and youth abandoned him, what remained? And what of the loyalty he valued in his brothers-in-arms—how could he build his life upon the faith of men who, like him, were bound by the same mortal limits and flaws?
The possibility that his understanding of the world might be incomplete unsettled him deeply. Yaminah, Percival, and multitudes seemed to anchor their faith through life's tempests. Their belief in God, a life eternal, and meaning that outlasted this mortal existence—of a divine purpose that had comforted his sister and parents until their final breaths—raged against his fortress of denial. For an instant, Gwaine felt unmoored, his convictions dissolving like morning mist.
A knock at the door dispersed his thoughts, forced him to breath. Farouk crossed to open it, revealing Percival's imposing frame in the threshold. Gwaine caught his friend's gaze over the gathered servants, noting the tightness around his weary features, exposing frustration and exhaustion.
Setting aside the bowl of unfinished soup, Gwaine navigated the busy chamber as a familiar bitterness rose in his throat – thoughts of his last conversation in Percival's office surfacing unbidden. His brother-in-arms had refused to replace him in the arrest of Al-Sayyid Badawi almost a fortnight ago, had stood firm when Gwaine begged to be relieved of the duty. "You chose to pursue her ignoring my warnings," Percival had said then, his voice hard with disapproval. "Now face the consequences of that choice."
The recollection still ate at Gwaine's gut. Even before the pendant shattered, before magic entered the equation, Percival had seen the dangers in Gwaine's attraction to the daughter of a suspected traitor. But Gwaine had ignored it all, drawn to her with an inevitability that defied reason, facing consequences both he and Yaminah should have foreseen.
"You received my request?" Gwaine asked, stepping into the hallway where torch shadows danced across the walls. He closed the chamber door behind him, traces of incense still curling beneath the frame.
"Seven days," Percival replied, his chainmail whispering with each breath.
"Will it be a problem?"
"…Not for me—" His next words were measured, like chapel stone. "You, perhaps."
Gwaine's teeth cinched, eyes narrowing at Percival's tone—the one his commander reserved for delicate matters. The inference penetrated deeper coming from him, who'd risen from common birth to First Knight on merit alone. Did he truly believe Gwaine unworthy of a noblewoman's attention? That his love for Yaminah somehow diminished him before his fellow knights—especially now that her father stood condemned as a traitor?
"What's that supposed to mean?" Gwaine asked.
"Rumors are spreading." Percival leaned in as a servant hurried past. "She has magic, Gwaine."
"So do a lot of people," he snapped, cold fury threading his whispered remark. "So does the king."
"A woman of faith now wielding sorcery." Percival's statement echoed traces of Al-Sayyid Badawi's rhetoric—words that had put the lord in chains. "How it might corrupt what you admire in her?"
"You dare to judge her?" Gwaine took a step closer, weeks of accumulated strain turning his voice to gravel. "You don't know her."
"Do you?" Percival's challenge cut sharp and clean. "How much time have you really spent with her? Gwaine, be reasonable." His armor clinked with his shifting weight, each sound amplified by the narrow corridor.
Gwaine turned to face his friend fully, regarding the man who'd fought beside him during countless conflicts. The past weeks he'd lashed out at them all—Arthur, Merlin, now Percival. He should have anticipated this—the prayers, the wooden crosses, the small Bible tucked in his shirt. Of course he shared Badawi's condemnations about sorcery even while serving alongside Merlin. But "reasonable"? How much time before you knew you'd sacrifice everything for someone? …The questions smoldered in his throat as clarity returned… This wasn't his battle today. Not with Arthur missing.
"The king?" Gwaine asked, keeping his back to the chamber door, his clipped reply and rigid posture speaking more than concern for Arthur.
"No sign. No leads. Nothing." Percival shook his head, his admission revealing the weight of two days' fruitless searching. "The patrols found tracks heading north, but the trail goes cold at the Swenlin River. After four days, it could have been anyone's…." With the report delivered, unspoken grievances stretched in the silence. Then, softer: "Gwaine… About Lord Badawi. I should have—"
"Forget it. "Gwaine's eyes found the dragon tapestry across the hall, focusing on the threads that formed Camelot's crest. He didn't need Percival's apology. There was only one thing he wanted right now, and it certainly wasn't a confession. When he turned back to his silent friend, his anger ebbed away, leaving only raw exhaustion in its wake. "We both serve the crown. You did what duty demanded."
"As did you." Percival's features fell with remorseful awareness – Gwaine following orders to arrest Yaminah's father, only to be sent away from her immediately after. "We could use you out there, brother."
The familial expression hollowed him out more than any rebuke. His king and friend was missing, yet here he stood, unable to leave Yaminah's side. Two duties warred within him—one to his sworn brotherhood, another to the woman who'd become as vital as breathing.
"I can't leave her, Percival." Exhaustion and resolve bled through his words. "Not now. Not like this."
"This path you're choosing…"
"Is mine to take, brother." Gwaine paced two sharp steps, anger winding into motion that begged for release. "Force the choice, Percival. Just do it—"
"Gwaine—?"
"As my commander, deny my request or push me to choose between duty and—"
"And love...?" Acquiescing with a sigh, Percival's voice gentled. "I've extended your leave—against my better judgment." His large hand settled on Gwaine's shoulder as it had many times before. "I just hope you know what you're doing."
Gwaine exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging with relief before guilt straightened them again. He knew he didn't deserve such indulgences when Arthur remained missing. But Yaminah's untamed magic sealed his course—she needed him now more than ever.
"Never been one for careful choices," Gwaine replied, meeting his friend's concerned gaze with a shadow of his usual swagger. "Why start now?"
"That's what worries me. But I know better than to argue." He squeezed Gwaine's shoulder before his hand fell away, and stepped back. "I'll have a soldier report any news of Arthur to you."
"Right then. Percy—" Gwaine called as his friend turned to leave. "Thank you."
As Percival's footsteps faded into the evening stillness, Gwaine leaned his head against the wooden door, regret seeping in. He hadn't meant to contend with Percival—his friend remained loyal, despite their disagreements. Fatigue was no excuse for turning his blade-edge tongue on the people who mattered most.
Straightening, he turned and pressed his palm against the chamber door's weathered oak. Behind this barrier lay another world—one of ancient customs and sacred rhythms that were far from his grasp. Every gesture, every whispered word pushed against his presence, marking him unworthy.
He reached for the door handle, but it opened from the inside, flooding the corridor with warm light and the scent of exotic spices and incense. Yaminah stood there, her solemn expression making his heart sink. She stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind her.
"Gwaine… Habibi, I thank you for all you have done. I know this has been difficult for you."
"I'll do it a thousand times over," he replied, yearning to reach for her, but unsure if his embrace would violate a custom.
"Even now, your concern touches me." Yaminah lifted her hand toward him, then pulled back when her eyes swirled in liquid gold. His breath caught at their shared hesitation—his fear of breaching her customs, her fear of magic she couldn't fully control. "Our rituals, the preparations for the Sabbath—they're sanctified. Your presence here, however well-intentioned..." She drew a deep breath. "I cannot ask you to stand guard over these ceremonies."
"You don't have to ask. I'm choosing." He stepped closer, drawn by the scent of jasmine in her hair, by the sight of the faint tremor in her hands. "Habibti," he said, the Arabic endearment falling from his lips before he could stop himself, "I'm staying." For all this knight of Camelot could offer was his sword and his devotion.
"Gwaine." His name held such gentleness and affection, but he heard all the sorrow beneath it, each assertion that followed striking deeper than the last. "How little you comprehend our sacraments. These next days are not just about prayer and preparation. They are the path to purification, our journey toward worthiness before God, our time of divine communion. Everyone here has spent the week preparing their hearts, their spirits. My servants—those who do not share our faith—know to keep their distance during these consecrated hours."
"And what of your magic?" His fingertips brushed her arm, fleeting as shadow at twilight. "Who will watch over you if—"
"If I lose control?" Her smile held both pride and pain. "Perhaps that's part of my trial. To learn control with faith, not..." Her eyes transformed—they both looked at her hands, threads of white light dancing between her fingers. "Not through whatever this is. Nevertheless, I grow stronger by the hour."
"So I'm to stand idle while you risk yourself for tradition?" he asked, frustration roughening his question as she lowered her hands into fists. He couldn't stop the words: "Walk away when you need me most?"
"Need you?" Defiance burned alongside fierce independence in her bearing. "Is that what you think? That I'm some helpless maiden requiring rescue from her own nature?" She straightened, refusing to bow to its cost. "I am Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir, anointed by God, appointed Al-Jalila. My people look to me for strength, for guidance… I will lead them. I will learn to master this power."
"Yaminah…" he uttered, humbled by the chasm between his presumption and her reality. While he'd seen only the woman who needed protection, she carried the fate of a thousand souls.
"Please." Her kohl-lined stare held the steel of command. "Go. Rest. Search for King Arthur. But whatever you choose, do your duty as I must do mine."
Gwaine stood rooted. She'd spoken with the authority he'd heard her use with her household, shattering his foolish hope of staying. In the torchlight, he saw the proud tilt of her chin, her rigid stance and unyielding shoulders, the way she fought to keep her hands steady.
"I've never known anyone as strong as you," he said, sincerity softening his defeat, his chest tightening with a familiar ache. "Or as stubborn."
"Two days," she whispered, a promise and a plea—his Yaminah again. "Just give me these two days, habibi."
Habibi, a reassuring—no, comforting—word, but he couldn't forget those moments in Merlin's chambers when she'd been vulnerable, afraid, refusing to break. Now all she wanted was his tolerance, not his protection.
"Two days," he echoed. "But I'll be close. If anything happens—"
"I know." She smiled then, yet it trembled at the edges, revealing her own grief. "Ma'a as-salama, Gwaine. Go with peace."
Before she could step back, impulse moved him forward. He cupped her face with infinite care, and as her magic sparked at his touch, he pressed his lips to hers—softly, reverently, tasting salt, sweetness, and something new—like honey warmed by desert sun. "Yaminah," he breathed against her mouth, her name holding all the certainty his heart had sought.
"Gwaine," she sighed in return, the sound undoing him completely. For a heartbeat, she leaned into him, then she drew away, leaving only the ghost of her warmth against his lips.
The door closed between them with a soft finality. Gwaine's fingers traced the grain of the wood, remembering diamond shards. His choice then hadn't just been about staying—it had been about accepting everything she was, everything she might become. Let others warn of dangers, of differences too vast to bridge. He would remain at her side during each trial, each transformation, even if that meant separation during sacred obligations.
His boots scraped against stone as he made his way to the knights' quarters, each step heavier than the last as two days of vigilance finally claimed their due. Tomorrow and the following day, he would put this time toward research and learning. Ishka's declaration about his ignorance of their culture had struck true. The castle must have texts about the Coptic Christians of Egypt somewhere in its library – writings he'd never thought to seek out before. Now such knowledge seemed essential.
Because love wasn't about changing someone to fit your world—it was about expanding your domain to embrace theirs. And he had chosen Yaminah, with all her complexities of magic and faith and duty. Whatever barriers lay between them, his path was clear. For now, his path led to his bed and the first real sleep he'd had since her pendant shattered, but tomorrow it would lead him to the library, to wisdom, to her.
Al Shokr li-llah - Thanks be to God