Whispered Like Prayers

It is very early morning, barely dawn. The servants are awake, readying the castle for the day ahead. Gwen wakes to the sound of Arthur’s deep and steady breathing and feels very much the same.

Not like a Queen at all.

Arthur’s quarters are brighter than she’s accustomed to and his bed sheets are softer, neatly hand stitched with his initials. They were likely made for him, sewn by the best seamstress in the kingdom. The woman probably stayed up nights, worried over each prick of the needle. Gwen touches a seam and wonders if she’ll ever take such things for granted.

"Guinevere?"

Arthur’s voice is thick with sleep. Gwen’s suddenly conscious of the fact that she’s still naked, they both are. She should have found a dressing gown while he was sleeping. Now she’ll be forced to wrap herself in sheets to reach the other side of the room.

"Good morning." She shifts on the bed and winces at the dull ache between her thighs. Arthur rolls onto his side and the mattress dips beneath his weight. The movement dislodges the sheet, nearly baring her breasts. Gwen pulls it higher, wedges it beneath her arms.

"You’re up early." Arthur frowns at the sunlight shining through the window. "I wanted to prepare the morning meal while you were sleeping."

By "prepare" he means ordering about the line of cooks waiting in the kitchens. She’d spent mornings there herself, washing dishes and sorting through leftovers, untouched plates of fruit and meat she’d denounced as wasteful to her father.

"I’m not really hungry."

Arthur’s smile fades. He studies her though that mussed fringe of hair and looks all of twelve years old. She’s tempted to brush it back, smooth it into place. As though this would right things again, bring order to the chaos inside her. See there? I am a bit capable after all.

"Guinevere." Arthur says her name in that away, the one that makes her feel like more than she really is. "Tell me what’s wrong."

Gwen’s certain she’ll stammer aimlessly over her words if she attempts some sort of response. How do you tell the king you miss mopping floors and cleaning linens?

No that’s wrong, she doesn’t miss those things. They’re just familiar. And this is frightening.

"I’m not sure—," she pauses, fighting against the stammer. "Arthur, we haven’t really spoken of—" She swallows, avoiding his eyes. "I don’t know how to do this."

"Do what?" Arthur rises to a sitting position, which of course, pulls the bed sheet lower on his body, baring even more skin. "Say good morning?" This makes her smile, which is obviously his goal. He touches her lower back with splayed fingers and whispers, "there you are,", as though he’d lost her; as though she’d disappeared right in front of him.

"Now, tell me what’s troubling you." Their hips are touching, their arms pressed together. It takes her a moment to gather her thoughts again.

"It’s nothing."

"I know you’re accustomed to handling things on your own Gwen." There’s an edge to his voice. It’s the same when she rejects attempts to coddle her. "But you’re my wife. That means your problems are mine. They’re Camelot’s."

"There, that." Gwen shifts, putting distance between them. "You always say things like that, pronounce them actually, and it feels ridiculous. I’m sorry, but it does." There’s a flash of something, anger, maybe embarrassment in his eyes. She wants to take it back now. "Arthur—"

"You think I’m naïve." He nods, like she’s confirmed some suspicion. "You think I’m blind to the fact that I’ve married a servant."

"No," Gwen says, though her heart is pounding, screaming that she’s a liar. "I think you love me." There, that much is true.

"I know who you are." Arthur closes the distance she’s created. "It will be difficult at first, but in time—"

"In time, I’ll what? Become someone else?"

"No. No, of course not, why do you think—" He pauses, reaches for her hand. "What I meant is that you’ll adjust. We both will. You may find this difficult to believe, but being king—" He clears his throat, measuring his words carefully. "It is a heavy burden. One I’m often unsure of."

It’s a halting admission, one that has never come easy for him. Fear is for the weak, and Arthur Pendragon is not, will never be, that.

"You were born to lead, Arthur."

It’s meant as reassurance, but only widens the chasm between them. She can’t imagine what it’s like to know you’ll shape the world one day. He can’t imagine what it’s like to know you won’t.

Arthur looks away, lips pressed into a hard thin line. She can feel his impatience. This isn’t some beast he can slay and be done with it. This isn’t some kingdom to conquer.

"I know you’re afraid," Arthur says finally. "But I could have no one else."

And that’s it in the end. Love and its sharp edges, jump or drown, but either way it has you. Now watch Camelot bow to the whims of your selfish little hearts.

Gwen gives into the urge to smooth his hair, and revels in the fission of pleasure it creates. This will be her safe place. When it’s all too much, she will conjure this day like a shield.

"I don’t want to disappoint you."

Arthur lies back against the pillow and pulls her down, settles her against his chest. His skin is warm. His arms envelop her, shield her from the morning chill and she feels hidden, safe for the first time that morning. He touches her shoulder. She looks down to see that he’s tracing a scar, raised and pale against her skin.

"What’s this one?"

"I was four years old." Gwen lifts her elbow to study the old mark. "I fell against the table, dancing I think."

Arthur strokes it again. "I’d like to have seen that, Little Guinevere spinning about the room."

They would do this in secret, moments stolen when no one was looking. Arthur would choose something, like a vase in her quarters or the embroidery on her dress, and ask questions, probe for details of her life before him.

"This one?" Gwen points to a jagged scar on his shoulder, secretly relieved he’s changed the subject. The knot in her stomach has eased, though it’s unlikely to disappear completely.

"Oh." Arthur rolls his eyes and runs a hand over the scar. "That was Merlin’s doing. It took him weeks to properly saddle a horse. I was lucky to be alive most days."

"I don’t suppose you could have shown him?" Gwen says, teasing. "Or, I don’t know, saddled the horse yourself?"

"You always take his side, don’t you?" The hand on her waist has drifted higher, to rest beneath her breast. Arthur splays his fingers and traces lazy circles with his thumb. "Should I be concerned?"

"Perhaps you should," she says, eyes fixed on his hand. His thumb has crept higher, towards her nipple, which stiffens in anticipation. "Arthur—"

"What about this one?" He nods towards her leg, a small dark mark on her upper thigh. "It looks serious."

Gwen squints at the scar and struggles to remember its source as he fondles her, gently tugs at her nipple. Last night she was nervous, fumbling through pain and arousal. But her discomfort has faded, buried beneath the steady pressure building between her legs. She shouldn’t enjoy this so much. Surely it should feel more like a duty.

"Oh that’s…" She bites her lip again, her back arching instinctively towards his hand. "I fell…on the palace steps. Or was pushed, rather."

"Someone pushed you?" Arthur stills. "It wasn’t me, was it?" His voice is heavy, weighted with years of oblivious arrogance he’s yet to account for. Gwen shakes her head quickly.

"No, a knight’s son, they left some time ago." She pauses, frowning. "I don’t remember his name."

"Good for him." Arthur touches her leg, taps a finger against the scar. "I’d have him flogged for it, tossed in the dungeon for good measure." He pauses. "Maybe have him flogged again."

"Not beheaded?"

Arthur laughs and then coaxes his expression into one of mock concern. "Gwen, I’ll not have a bloodthirsty queen. We must work on this temper of yours before it’s completely out of hand."

She laughs and what’s left of the tension, the unease that settled over the morning dissipates, nearly fades completely. She loves him so much in that moment her throat aches. "I’ll do my best to contain it."

Arthur nods his approval and the hand on her thigh slides lower, to her knee. He cups her shin, gently nudges her legs apart. The sheet is pulled taunt and then slides away, baring her to the harsh sunlight that’s flooded the room. Arthur’s eyes roam over her, lingering on her breasts and stomach. She balls her hands into fists.

"Does it still hurt?" His fingers are tentative, probing between her legs. Gwen has the urge to rub against them, thrust into his open palm.

"Only a little." Her voice is thin and breathless, but (she hopes) not as frantic as she feels. "Not much…anymore."

Arthur’s eyes move lower and he furrows his brow, deep in concentration. His fingers stiffen; hesitate a moment before he slips one inside her, slowly, inch by inch until it’s sheathed completely. Gwen gasps and keens against his hand.

"How does it feel?" He retreats as he asks this, pulls the finger out just as slowly. A dozen responses race through Gwen’s mind, but then he plunges deep again and all she can mange is "burning."

"So it hurts then." Arthur shifts and removes his hand. She grabs his wrist with an emphatic headshake.

"No. No, I’m sorry, it’s just—" She’s chewing her lower lip now, nearly hard enough to break the skin. "I can’t describe it Arthur, I’m not sure how."

Arthur relents, his arm relaxing beneath her grip. But he’s still skeptical; she can see it in his eyes. "It feels…" Her face warms. "Like heat…damp..." She looks at her legs splayed haphazardly on the bed. "And...impatient."

Gwen starts when Arthur leans forward, head bowed over her stomach. She feels his breath, the wet chill of his tongue against her skin. His hand is between her legs again.

"I want you to enjoy it." The words are muffled, spoken between flicks of his tongue. "I want you to…" He slides a finger inside and she lifts her hips to welcome him. Arthur’s voice is choked, trembling. "I want you."

Gwen jerks when he kisses her there, where his fingers were just moments before. His tongue is warm now, heated from her skin and there’s a moment when she feels like she’s being stroked from the inside, burning again. She closes her eyes and revels in the faint pull of his mouth, his teeth ghosting against her skin, his tongue, thrusting deep inside. She forgets herself, forgets everything but this. She’s thrusting, panting, begging him not to stop because she’s nearly there…somewhere….there. Dear god, it feels like dying.

"Wait." Gwen grabs his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and tumbling over, giving in. Arthur mumbles against her and sucks hard, which makes the decision for her. Gwen shudders and stiffens, her muscles clenched tight. She collapses gasping, eyes blurred with unshed tears. She wipes them away when Arthur begins a slow trek up her body, lips slightly swollen from his efforts.

"You enjoyed that." It isn’t a question this time and his tone is thick with pride.

"I…" She furrows her brow. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Arthur’s smirk falters and he flushes a deep shade of red. "Gwen, you shouldn’t—I mean there are things you wouldn’t…"

"I’m sorry my lord," Gwen interjects. The formality is intentional. It stiffens his spine, distracts him from her ill timed question. Not that she isn’t curious; there would have been some manner of consorting expected on his part over the years. "It was inappropriate."

"Guinevere." Arthur settles between her legs. She can feel him the length of him against her thigh. "You can say anything to me." He pries a damp curl from her cheek. "Even things that make me uncomfortable." He meets her eyes. "Or that I’d rather not admit."

Gwen touches his side, moves her hand to his back. She traces a raised scar beneath his shoulder blade. The skin is rigid against her fingertips, rough and rippled from infection. If not for Balinor it would have killed him.

"What’s this one," she asks, as though she could forget.

"That one is yours."

Gwen kisses his shoulder and splays her hand flat against the scar. His heartbeat is strong and steady against her palm. "I’ve none for you," she whispers and thinks, this can’t be all I have to give.

Arthur touches her cheek, now wet with tears. He stops her from wiping them away.

"I’ll take these then," he says, answering her unspoken question.

This is all I’ll ever need.