The rain started just as they lay down to sleep. The day had been long and dreary, overshadowed by the promise of a summer storm, and Morgana’s mood was as listless as the slow-gathering clouds. Guinevere couldn’t shake the new feeling of unease that took hold of her around her friend, and she chided herself for paying too much mind to Angelica’s words. Yet, more and more it seemed Morgana was receding deep within herself, and sometimes there flashed in her eyes a strange, knowing look, as though someone else looked through them.

As Gwen tried to get comfortable on the small bed, she wandered how much longer it would be before the child was born. And what then? She recalled the eagerness with which she had anticipated Morgana’s visit, her breathless hope as she stood by the dawning sea. She had longed for change, but she could have never foreseen this, not this chaotic overturning, this up-ending of everything, not the casting of her own future deep into doubt.

Not the way Arthur Pendragon’s eyes unclothed her heart so it stood pounding and naked with yearning, nor the way his touch seared her dreams so that she awoke moist and burning between her thighs.

“Do you want to know how this happened?” Morgana says softly.

Gwen turned her head, “Only if you wish to tell me.”

Their beds were only a few feet apart, yet Morgana’s voice seemed to float from far away. “It was all a dream. And yet not a dream,” her words were trance-like, seemingly forgetful of Gwen’s presence, “I couldn’t see their faces, but they chanted, words in a language I understood but could not speak. She was there, watching. There was fire all around me, fire on the shores of Avalon. I wanted the fire, wanted it to eat my flesh so I could be free. I have never wanted anything so much. And then…then the fire was inside me, it was a faceless face, a mouthless tongue…”

There are those who would see the Dark Fire worshipped.

Gwen felt her mouth dry with fear. The first roar of thunder was followed by a quicksilver lightning, and she saw Morgana lying pale and still as though entombed, save for the disembodied words from her lips.

 “I embraced the fire, Gwen. I drew it deep inside me until its flames could lick the smallest edges of my smallest veins, and it spoke to me. Wordless words. Fingerless touch…I knew it and it knew me, and when at last I lay spent, laved and tossed with waves of flame, then I felt it take root in me. And I promised it my body’s protection..” her voice grew softer still, “a sleepless dream. It was Merlin who found me, though I had no memory of walking to the woods.  I burned all over with a kiss of fire. There was blood on my chemise, on my thighs…. and I knew. I knew it was no dream.”

A dark and unholy magic.

“Everyday he grows stronger, I can feel it.  The fire hungers in his heart. I was afraid at first, but now…now I understand.”

“Understand?”

“My time has finally come, Gwen, to step out of Uther’s shadow. My son will show me.”

Long after Morgana’s silence indicated sleep, Gwen laid wide-awake, stones of fear settled heavy in her gut and across her throat. The storm blew full force, crackles of lightning and roars of thunder interspersing the steady thick rainfall. Had Angelica been right after all? Was Morgana’s child nothing but an evil perversion of magic, destined to darken the eyes of Avalon? She had heard stories of changelings and spirit children, born of unions between magical beings who clothed themselves in flesh to visit and love women in their dreams.  What was the nature of Morgana’s eyeless, mouthless, flame-clad lover?

Guinevere shrank from answering her own question.

Another clap of thunder ripped the skies, and she gave up on sleep entirely. Throwing off the covers, she slipped out of the room, closing the door lightly behind her. The edges of her soft chemise whispered across the floor as she lit the candles one by one, until the small living room came alive with quivering light. She was raising a flame to the last candle, when the skin on her neck tingled coldly, as though unfriendly eyes touched her.

They were being watched. The shadowy fear that had brooded in her mind took various shapes, that of Melwas’ men, or Uther’s guards, or minions of a force she dared not think about.

A burst of thunder made her jump, and the candlesticks clattered to the ground. A loose-shuttered window burst open with the wind, streaming wild lashes of water, extinguishing the candles in a single cold breath.  Guinevere rushed forward against the wind, grasping at the shutters, but the rain blinded her and her foot slipped backwards on the wet floor. Groping for balance against the table, her eyes saw her, beyond the open window, lit unmistakeably in a lightning flash, eyes fire-gold as her hair, watching.

Gwen’s voice struggled in her throat, choked with terror. The front door burst open and a dark hooded figure rushed inside. She blindly grasped the nearest candlestick, determined to wield it though her arms shook and her heart raced on fearful feet. But the figure made straight for the window, shuttering it closed firmly. In the sudden silence Gwen felt herself poised to scream at last, but the stranger faced her, and pushed his hood off.

It was Arthur.

This time Gwen could not think, she merely flung herself into his arms, feeling tears of relief slip from her eyes.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” his strong arm tightened around her, and the rain-soaked, warm cloves scent of him was suddenly as necessary as air. She rested her head on his broad chest, feeling the steady rise of his breath, the solid muscled heat of him. Guinevere wished she could stay in his arms forever.

 “Guinevere… you’re trembling. Did I frighten you?” Arthur’s voice was low with concern.

His hand stroked her hair, rubbing gentle circles on her back, and she felt her rigid fear melting slowly. She didn’t even care that she was only clad in a damp chemise, pressed against the body of a man she had no business even thinking of. All that mattered was that he was here, that he had braved the storm to do so, and that he held her now as though he would never let her slip from his embrace.

Arthur brushed soft kisses on her rain-dusted curls, allowing instinct to guide him as he felt her body slowly cease its trembling. Her skin was warm through the light chemise, her curves moulded to his frame.  He had thus far been overawed by her effortless beauty, her quiet courage, but at that moment she seemed so fragile and shaken that he felt a fierce urge to keep her wrapped in his arms forever, protected from every harm.

“It’s alright,” his murmuring voice was softer even than the kisses on her hair, “You’re safe now.”

The rain lightened, but thunder and lightning still persisted intermittently, and an unseasonable chill crept under the door of the small cottage. Guinevere was glad of the small fire Arthur had started, and she huddled closer to the precious warmth while he relit a few candles and ensured the security of the remaining windows. She pulled her shawl close around her shoulders, mindful of her half-damp chemise. Arthur lay his cloak out by the fire and she glanced at his noticeably damp shirt.

“There are…umm…there are more blankets in that chest if you wish to dry out your shirt a while,” she blurted, and then felt flushed and foolish.

“Thank you….uhh, yes thank you,” for a moment he seemed as flustered as she felt, and she kept her eyes trained scrupulously on the fire as he opened the chest. She waited a few moments until she thought it safe, and glanced about just in time to see him drape a blanket over his torso. Face burning, she turned quickly away, her mind’s eye treacherously savouring the brief image of his splendid muscular back.

Arthur sat down beside her on the floor, leaning back against the table to stretch out his long legs. For a few moments they sat in companionable silence, watching the quiet crackle of flames.

His presence was more comforting than the fire, washing over her in warm waves, quietly dispelling her fears. Guinevere shivered slightly, remembering the flat-jewel eyes of the gold-hair woman, and a sudden last rumble of thunder made her jump.

Arthur’s hand covered hers, his large, sword-callused palm easily enclosing her slender fingers, “It’s just the thunder,” he smiled.

She curled her fingers under his, “It wasn’t just the thunder that frightened me.” Briefly she told him of the woman, of her own sense of being watched and followed. She even disclosed some of Angelica’s warning, although she said nothing of Morgana’s confession to her earlier.

Arthur frowned, “It isn’t safe here then, for either of you. Who was this woman who gave you the herbs, who warned you?’

She cast down her eyes, “I’m afraid I can’t say. It’s too dangerous for her.”

“I see,” and she hated the faint look of hurt in his eyes.

“Has Morgana said anything to you about…well, about what happened?”

Guinevere sighed and raised her eyes, and their syrup-dark depths were unwavering as the night of the feast, when she had defied kings to offer him the token of Avalon.

“That secret is not mine to disclose, though I might wish to.”

“So many secrets,” he gave a short, almost bitter laugh, “ I haven’t known truth from illusion since the moment I set foot in Eirinn.”

“Men of power define truth by the sword and the spear,” she retorted, her own temper rising, “Anything they cannot cut down, or subdue, they deem an illusion, a threat. And still you wonder why we must keep secrets?”       

His eyes met hers, and Gwen swallowed at their dark vivid blue gaze. When had he got so close ? She could practically smell the warm spicy musk of him.

“You’re right,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers, “I know I have much to learn…. But I want, I hope, that I can learn how to gain your trust.”

Oh how his words tugged at her heart, unravelling the carefully gathered seams of her self-possession.

“I do trust you, Arthur,” her eyes and voice softly implored him, “More than…than I ever thought I could.”

His full lips curved in a half-smile, and his fingers brushed the damp tendrils of hair from her face, stroking down the curve of her throat. Gwen was sure he could feel her pulse beat wild as a captive bird.  Arthur held his blanket loosely in place with his other hand, and her cheeks grew hot at the sight of his exposed skin, the ridged muscles of his stomach and the hard lines of his chest.

“Tell me Guinevere,” her name fell slow like honey from his mouth, “Who keeps your secrets?”

“No one,” she whispered, caught hopelessly in his gaze.

Arthur’s thumb traced her lower lip, lightly, savouring, “The other night, what happened between us…did my actions insult you?

“The world is plagued with cruelty Arthur. There are far worse insults than a kiss given and received,” she replied quietly, shocked at her own boldness.

He tilted his head slightly, as though taking the measure of her words, and he was so golden and real and beautiful in the firelight that Gwen could hardly breathe. “And whose truth do you speak now? Yours, or the one which you think I should hear?”

Catching both of them guard, Guinevere kissed him, suddenly and passionately, choosing the simple truth of flesh over the labyrinth of words.  His surprise vanished quickly and his arms came around her, pulling her against him so her breasts crushed to his chest. Arthur ran one hand up her slender back, entangling his fingers in her streaming dark curls and holding her head in place as he deepened the kiss, running his tongue over her lips before parting them to taste her mouth hungrily. Gwen drew his tongue into her mouth, suddenly insatiable for the taste of him which alone could anchor her somewhere real and sweet, somewhere she longed to be.

Gwen ran her fingertips down his arms, savouring their muscled outline, feeling him shiver.  He eased her onto her back, breaking the kiss for a brief second only to devour her lips again, like a drowning man desperate for air.  She fisted her hands in his hair when his teeth caught her lower lip, suckling softly, making her whimper with shameless need.

“Arthur…,” his name fell helpless from her lips as he trailed hot kisses across her jaw and down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin.  His hand ghosted over her breast, barely brushing the taut nipple before resting under the swell.

“Your heart is racing…” he murmured.

“No secret then,” she whispered, breathless, as his head dipped towards her again.

But he paused bare inches from her mouth, “Ah, so it races thus for anyone.” Though his voice was light, Gwen felt his grip tighten at her waist, his free hand gently pinning hers above her head.

“Now you veer closer to insult…,” she managed before his lips covered hers again, greedily as though he could never have enough. She was so tired of fear, of coiling loneliness, and she wanted to bathe in Arthur’s touch like in a warm river, letting the very pores of her skin drink him in.

She raised one leg slightly to drape over his, her chemise falling away to her thigh. When his hand finally cupped her breast, brushing the sweet-aching nipple, Gwen couldn’t bite back the moan from her lips, and when he briefly lowered his hips against hers she felt for the first time the hard length of him, and the blatant evidence of his arousal sent a violent shudder all through her. Her insides melted, and Gwen sensed instinctively she would soon be wet enough to be ready for him if they kept at this.

Arthur’s mouth trailed to her neck again, his tongue tracing wet fire from her collarbone all the way to her earlobe.

Oh gods, very soon. What am I doing?

He raised his head to gaze down at her; her dark hair rivulet-loose, desire pooled in her eyes, lips parted, toffee skin glowing, the outline of her breasts and hips maddening him with their soft swelling curves. Arthur wanted her so badly it hurt. He wanted to see her panting and unravelling beneath his touch, all her secrets spilled against him.  He wanted to drown in her and never resurface.

With a monumental effort he tore his mouth from her intoxicating skin, drawing himself up to support his weight.

“Forgive me,” he said shakily, catching his breath, “I have overstayed my welcome.”

Guinevere felt her senses reluctantly coalesce, “No, there is nothing to forgive,” she tried to smile as they sat up, drawing up the loose shoulder of her chemise “Given and received, remember?”

“I got carried away, my apologies.”  

“As did I,” she responded, suddenly cold without his arms around her.

How I wish you could keep carrying me away, Arthur. Beyond myself and us all that stands between us.

He stood up abruptly, gathering his shirt and cloak “I should go.”

The watchful unease gnawed at her again. What eyes were waiting, hidden in the storm?

“Arthur could you…,” she bit her lip, “Could you stay until…until the storm passes. Please?”

He stilled, his back to her, and Guinevere thought he was casting for an excuse. Perhaps he no longer wished to stay, since he couldn’t bed her. Shame threatened to well up in her eyes.

“Only if you promise to fling yourself at me every time there’s thunder,” and the playful teasing in his voice tugged at her heart all the more. How marvellously surprising he was! By turns courageous, arrogant, tender, and charming.

Gwen smiled, “I give you my solemn word.”

His grinned cockily, “For the sake of my sanity however, I would ask that you uhm…drape some cloth over that chemise.”

Her cheeks grew hot again, her body thrilling to the touch of his eyes. Letting him affect her this way was dangerous, she knew it.  And yet…did she have a choice?

They resumed their seats by the fire after Guinevere fetched her dressing gown. After a time she felt her eyelids grow heavy at last, and lying down on the soft rugs she closed her eyes, lulled by Arthur’s presence once more. Sleep came tentatively at first, and her eyes fluttered open several times, alerted by the slow-fading thunder.

But each time he was there, his princely profile outlined in the soft firelight, simply waiting, as she had asked. Guinevere couldn’t recall when she succumbed to sleep at last, but a deep and delicious slumber took her.

Arthur waited until her breathing grew soft and regular, her eyelids smoothed of worry.  Gently he lifted her, and her head fell against his shoulder even as it had the night he had pulled her from the rampaging soldiers.

She remembered being carried, the effortless strength of his arms as he laid her down on the bed, brushing hair from her face. She remembered a kiss by the pale violet of early dawnlight.

Then he was gone, melted into her dreams.