Eirinn

One year later

***

The letter came, as her letters always had, at the edge of dawn, in the hand of a nameless, wordless messenger.  Guinevere tucked it away in the rosewood box where she kept the rest. The bundle of carefully folded parchment was all that remained to her of Morgana, save memory.

“Milady?”

Bernadette had accompanied her back to Eirinn, citing a desire to see the world beyond Camelot. She gestured to the bridal garters on the dresser and Guinevere nodded.

Gwen herself had embroidered the raw-silk bands, and their fastenings were delicate ruby roses between small golden leaves. The jewel flowers winked against her warm-honey skin, a secret intimacy meant only for her future husband’s eyes.

Arthur

Pleasant warmth fluttered in her lower belly when she thought of his sword-roughened hands undoing the ruby clips.

The year apart had been difficult but necessary.  For all their mutual passion, courtly custom begged observation: the marriage contract drawn up, its terms agreed upon by both kingdoms, the betrothal announced to allied kingdoms, along with invitations. But most important, defeating Morgana and Morgause and the Brotherhood had cost both Eirinn and Camelot dearly, and much recovery work was needed before either one could host a Royal wedding.

Two other handmaids helped her into the wedding gown, and Guinevere remembered when the galleys from Camelot had arrived four days ago, their ruby-gold banners streaming in the sea-wind. Formal welcomes had been exchanged with both courts watching, but when Arthur’s lips brushed her hand while his eyes smiled knowingly at her, she was hard-pressed to refrain from a display of enthusiasm that would have surely shocked the gathered courtiers.

They had finally snatched a moment alone after the welcome feast that night.

“I missed you,” she breathed after a long, hungry kiss, wrapped in his arms and fingers playing with the hair at his nape.

His mouth captured hers again, ravishing the soft insides with his tongue, nibbling softly at her lower lip while his arms pulled her urgently against him. She ran her hands over the planes of his chest, bunching up his tunic, sucking in the delicious spicy musk of his scent.

“Guinevere,” he murmured against her neck “I want you,” his teeth nipped her earlobe, making her gasp.

She felt him stiff and urgent against her thigh, and her body surged to respond.

Arthur groaned , “This will be the longest four days in the history of the five kingdoms.”

A tug on her corset jerked Guinevere back to the present.

“Is that too tight, milady?”

 “Hmm? Oh, yes, I mean no. They’re perfect.”

The seamstress, a hearty old woman with a freckled face, nudged her, “Dreaming of your husband to be, milady?”

Gwen flushed, “Is it that obvious?”

She laughed, “ Half the maids in the kingdom are dreaming of the young King.”

“He is very handsome,” Gwen agreed.  He’s more than handsome. He’s beautiful enough to stop my breath. And when he touches me…She flushed again.

“There you are, milady,” she finished fastening up the bodice and Gwen surveyed herself for the first time.

Her gown was all seafoam green and gold, touched with dreamy lace at the bodice and sleeves, and dusted with seed pearls. More pearls glimmered in her hair; liquid rivulets twisted in the thick braid, and dotted her sea-gold train like drops of moonlight. Her skin glowed from a bath of fragrant herbs, her lips were touched with carmine, and a lush sheen enriched her curls.

She remembered a bedtime story her mother loved. And the god of the sea draped her in robes of ocean waves, with moonlight in her hair..

Arthur had accompanied her to her parents' cairn two nights ago, they had laid fresh flowers atop the stones and listened to the sea.

Gwen was slipping into her shoes when a knock sounded, and she looked up to see Merlin. He paused, long fingers resting on the frame, and a soft smile touched his face.

"You look lovely, Gwen."

She embraced him happily, "Thank you, for everything. Without you there wouldn't be a wedding."

The young man shrugged in his simple way, "I was only doing my duty to Arthur and to Camelot. Who knows? If it wasn't for the Cusp my powers wouldn't have been strong enough to save him."

"You did more than just your duty," she corrected, "You risked everything to protect Arthur. And he knows that." 

Merlin shuffled his feet; being appointed court sorcerer and royal advisor hadn’t diminished the deep humility cultivated over years of hiding his magic.

Her handmaids took their leave and Merlin glanced at her searchingly, “Are you sure this is a good idea? Do you trust her not to try anything?”

Gwen sighed, “Not entirely. That’s why I asked you to accompany me. But I must do this, for myself.”

Merlin nodded and gave her his arm. As they walked Gwen glanced up at her friend: he seemed happy, but Morgana’s betrayal had wounded them all, and perhaps Merlin in a different, deeper way than anyone. He never said much, but there was a new graveness in his features, although she suspected his new responsibilities were as much to blame too.

The climb up the tower stairs was longer than she remembered, and Merlin had to help gather her train so it wouldn’t drag on the stairs.  When they reached the door he touched her elbow, “Remember, I’ll be right here.  If anything happens-,”

She nodded, and then stepped through the door. Peadar’s guards had long since abandoned the tower, since the cliffs and savage tides beneath the eastern wing made the it inaccessible to intruders. Only nesting pigeons occupied the crumbling battlements, and the stone was scarred by wind and rain and open sky.

A hooded figure knelt by a crenellation, two plump pigeons pecking eagerly at the outstretched palm. At the sound of her footsteps the figure rose and cast back the hood.

Morgana’s face was bone-pale, and her eyes had a hungry, haunted look. The beautiful raven silk hair was long and wild and matted over her shoulders, and the woman who’d once arrayed herself in silks and velvets rich with jewel-light now wore dusty grey robes stained with travel and use. Wherever she and her son had fled to the night of the Cusp, among the smoke and whirlwind Mordred had summoned with fading breath, it had been a harsh refuge.

“I didn’t think you would come, Gwen.”

“Then why send a letter?”, she paused, “Why are you here, Morgana?”

“I wanted to wish you well on your wedding day, of course.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Gwen retorted, an anger she didn’t know she felt sharpened her words, “By murdering my betrothed perhaps?”

Morgana ignored that, “And I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“I thought you said goodbye when you joined with Morgause to hurt the people who loved you,” Gwen felt bitter tears in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to cry, or feel anger, not this day.

Morgana glanced at the sky, and a breeze whipped her hair like a tattered sail, “I’m going far away Gwen, beyond the Northern passes where the Shadow priestesses still dwell.  Somewhere where my son can heal, and I can grow strong again,” she turned to face her, “When I return I fear you won’t know me.”

“I cannot wish you a safe journey when I know you still mean to harm those I love,” Gwen said coldly.

The grey-clad woman nodded, “Nor would I expect you to. But I did wish…” she paused, “I did want to give you something, a wedding gift.”

She opened her palm and a crystal glittered there like ice, its facets reflecting the light in a pale blue glow. “It’s a Seeing crystal, from the ancient Druid order of Neahtid.  In the hands of a Seer it can show you anything you want, the past, the future, the next moment.”

Gwen looked up from the ice blue stone, “Anything?”

Morgana’s eyes glittered with crystal-light “I can show you your mother, and you can smell her warmth and feel her embrace the way mere memory won’t permit. Or you can look to the future, see who your firstborn will resemble.”

“Why would you give me such a gift?”

 “Because,” Morgana looked her full in the face, “it is all I have. It’s all I’ve ever had.”

Suddenly Gwen wasn’t angry, but a hollow sadness ached inside her. This then was Morgana’s life, the constant despairing knowledge of a Seer, wrapped in waking dreams, consumed with a desperate desire for what might have been, lost in the thousand facets of a crystal. 

She pitied her.

“No,” Gwen said softly, “I thank you, but I cannot accept, nor do I want, such a gift.”

For a moment Morgana looked young and hurt, the vulnerable headstrong woman Gwen had once loved. “The past is buried, never to return. And I have all I need for the future: hope, and love.”

The grey woman was pale and silent, and then she clasped the crystal and tucked it in her billowing sleeve. 

“ I will say my goodbye then.”

“I have something for you,” and Gwen handed her the box, carved and fragrant rosewood, with an amethyst clasp.

“You may discard or sell the box, as you wish. It’s the contents I gift you.”

Morgana took it with a puzzled look and lifted the lid. Her voice was so soft the sea-wind almost snatched it. “My letters.”

All save one.  “From the time we were twelve and first convinced our nursemaids to help us write the other. It’s no Seer’s gift. But some day when you’ve forgotten, I hope it reminds you of who you truly are.”

When she said nothing, Gwen picked up her skirts and turned to leave.

“Gwen, wait.”

She turned.

 “You look beautiful.”

Morgana lips twitched in something close to a smile. And then she was gone.

****

The great hall was a wash of glittering color. Lords and ladies, knights and wives, stood assembled in a splendid array of silk and velvets, jeweled doublets and satin mantles flashing the colors of spring. The knights of Camelot were gathered below the dais in a swathe of crimson, looking up to where the unfurled banners of Camelot and Eirinn hung solemnly before the sacred fire.

The warmth and rich colors dazzled Guinevere's senses so she felt as though she floated. Fresh lilac and honeysuckle was everywhere, filling the air with their waxy sweet perfume. Later, Guinevere could barely remember walking between the gathered courtiers.
 She saw Sir Tristan with his wife, the lady Isolde, standing by King Peadar. A lean blond man with kind eyes, he bowed graciously as she passed. The king had appointed Tristan as Regent in Guinevere's stead, a choice she approved of warmly. Tristan had displayed unstinting courage in fighting Melwas' troops, and his loyalty to Eirinn was unquestionable.

She saw Gaius, who'd braved the sea-voyage despite the lingering affects of his injuries. Hands folded before his blue-grey robes, the old physician smiled kindly. Merlin beamed beside him.

Lastly, she lifted her eyes to the dais. Arthur was decked in his ceremonial armour, and the breastplate blazed with light as he extended his hand. He seemed half a god, all brilliant metal and golden hair, and she remembered how she'd faced him in this very hall three years ago with a token of Avalon held defiantly before her. Now, as then, his storm-blue eyes went through her, and when his hand lingered on hers she almost swayed against him for a kiss. The look on his face made her heart ache with joy.

She would remember that look until she breathed her last.

***

The celebrations continued until the moon rose to resplendent view. Torches flared in the courtyard, bathing the revellers in warm light. Gwen danced until her feet screamed in protest, then she took off her shoes and danced some more, mindless of the new silk stockings.

She danced with Merlin and half the Knights, all of who clambered over displays of chivalry for their new Queen. She even managed a slow, stately waltz with Gaius.

Arthur had changed out of his armour into a dark coat over a blue tunic, and after the fifth dance he shed the coat while Gwen’s handmaidens divested her of the train. Bawdy jests followed, with cries of “Save some fun for us!” from the Knights and her ladies in waiting. It was customary for such companions to accompany the bride and groom respectively to the wedding chamber, stripping as much of their clothes as possible and making lusty japes.

“I intend for all the fun to be ours,” Arthur murmured in her hair, and she felt a slow fire spreading through her veins. She thought of all the women’s tales she’d had to sit through these past months, tales of terrified maids and overeager husbands on their wedding nights.  Gwen would smile to herself, imagining the ladies’ faces if she told them she’d made love to her future husband once already, under the stars with the grass on her back and his hands straining at her thighs.

“What are you smiling about?” Arthur sounded amused as they moved across the floor.

Her eyes danced, “You.”

And when he kissed her another loud cheer went up among the tables, punctuated by tankards banging on wood and lusty applause.

Finally it was time for the Maiden’s Waltz, danced only by the bride and other unmarried women in her retinue. It began fast and lively then ebbed into graceful, liquid motions as the maids moved among each other like slow gliding swans; the change in pace symbolized the gradual progression from sprightly youth to wisdom.

The lyre and drums thrummed with plaintive sweetness and Guinevere closed her eyes, following the turns and dips instinctively, sweeping her hands through the air like water. The waltz slowed to a graceful stop with the bride in the centre, and the women showered her with petals while the crowd cheered.

Gwen looked for Arthur, and found him watching her with parted lips, his eyes midnight-dark and glittering.

***

Arthur’s knights insisted on wrestling off his boots as they escorted him rowdily to the bedchamber. They spared him his tunic and breeches only under threat of immediate banishment from Camelot, and even then Merlin had the gall to magic, bloody magic, off his socks so he nearly tripped on his feet.

At the top of the stairs they retreated with more jests, largely due to an extremely embarrassed Leon who seemed appalled by the antics of Camelot’s finest. As they turned to go, Arthur stopped Merlin, and pulled him into a brief, impulsive hug.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he gruffed.

Merlin nodded, then punched him lightly on the shoulder, “Hugs are infinitely preferable to whacking me on the arm. I must say I like this new, softer side to you.”

“Merlin?”

 “Which is it, shut up or get out?”

“Seeing as how it’s my wedding night, preferably both.”

Alone at last, Arthur paused with his hand on the door, thinking of the woman who awaited him within.

The chambers were magnificent, nearly twice the size of his rooms in Camelot. Candles glowed in silver holders, and a healthy fire warmed the sweet air.  On the east end of the rooms, two doors opened unto a terrace facing the sea. Guinevere stood there, her head angled against the frame, in a cream chemise loosely girdled. The sea breeze made the soft cloth cling to her curves in a way that stole his breath, and her expression was contemplative yet serene.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps, and the pearls in her hair glimmered.

“Arthur…”

For a moment he was torn between swift desire and merely admiring her loveliness. The candle-flames flickered in her deep eyes, and Arthur barely remembered crossing the distance between them. Then she was in his arms and his mouth found hers with a low moan, and he was drowning yet wanted more, always more of her.

Suddenly he was desperate to feel her skin. Guinevere tugged his tunic over his head, and then ran heated fingernails over his torso, sighing in pleasure. Arthur grasped her slender waist and pushed her up against the wall.

She is so small. My hands could crush her like a flower.

Then her arms were looped around his neck with her breasts all flush against him and Arthur felt himself hard and ready. His mouth found hers again, drinking the taste of her soft wet tongue while her hands stroked him, teasing his pleasure before she undid the lacings to wrap her fingers around his shaft. He groaned softly against her neck, then slid his mouth down over her breast, sucking through the sheer cloth until her nipple poked through stiff while his fingers caressed between her nether lips to feel her wet and writhing against his hand.

“Guinevere,” he husked, and could swear she arched more urgently against him, “God you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m yours, Arthur,” she whispered, “Take me.”

He skimmed his hands up her thighs to curve around the luscious rump. Hmm stockings. I’ll see to those later.

He lifted her in one swift motion so she was braced against the wall, and the head of his manhood half-buried in her sweet wet folds. For a moment her eyes widened as she realized what they were about to do, then her legs tightened around his waist and she wriggled to better position herself.

“Arthur…,” she urged throatily and then, “Ohhh…,” when he filled her in a single stroke.  He began to move, slowly at first, gauging their position and lifting her higher, then they found the rhythm together and sliding in and out of her moist heat felt as natural as breathing and just as essential. Perspiration slicked their skin and he tasted the salt when his mouth almost devoured hers in a searing kiss.

The sea, he thought dazedly, We ‘re the sea . Salt and wet and surging.

Arthur grunted and shifted their weight to his right arm, his sword arm, then used his free hand to reach between them and touch her where he knew she wanted. The soft nub was swollen with desire and Guinevere bucked against him, her fingernails digging desperately into his back, hard enough to make him clench his teeth. He could feel her release building and began to thrust faster, flicking with his thumb, drawing out moans and eventually low cries from that beautiful mouth. Guinevere’s head fell back against the wall, pearls scattering to the floor with each thrust while her hips writhed.

“Arthur! God…” her climax shuddered through her, inner walls tightening around his cock until his eyes swam with the ecstatic agony of his own delayed pleasure. He braced her hips with both hands, holding her firm while he moved savagely in and out, as though desire were a lash urging him on. He came with a harsh groan, pleading her name against the damp skin of her throat while wave after wave rushed through his body before eventually receding.

“I love you,” he breathed hoarsely, sliding her gently down. Her legs trembled when they landed and he held her close, dropping lazy kisses over her mouth, the single beauty mark on her cheek, her temples, brushing back the damp tendrils while the night air smelling of coral and foam wafted over their moist, heated skin.

***

It was much later when Guinevere awoke, and the candles sputtered in pools of wax. Her back was pressed snugly against Arthur’s chest, his arm engulfing her possessively even in sleep. She smiled, running her fingertips along his powerful forearm, tracing the veins in his heavy hand while his breath rumbled through her hair.

He snores. Quite loudly too.

She extricated herself carefully and padded to the washstand, naked but for her stockings. Stepping behind the screen, Gwen soaked a fresh rag and wiped her private parts carefully before wrapping herself in some furs. The fire was low and the room had grown noticeable colder.

She paused once again to observe Arthur. His golden hair rumpled over the smooth brow, the long muscular lines of him all relaxed and statuesque.

He’s so beautiful. My husband. My king.

Something too deep for joy and gratitude lodged in her throat.

I have all I need for the future. Hope, and love.

But something of the past remained with her. The letter she’d kept for herself, the letter Morgana had written three years ago, breathless with excitement about visiting Eirinn, the letter she’d unfolded by the dawning sea.

Holding her furs in place with one hand as she approached the terrace, Gwen read it once more.

Her eyes skimmed over Morgana’s extravagantly looping script to reach the end.

Be well, be happy Gwen. I feel a change in the air for both of us, like the wind turning. Perhaps the darkness of these times will lighten at last. Perhaps.

Morgana.

Unbidden tears filled her eyes. She’d kept this missive as a keepsake, the last letter before the darkness fell upon their friendship. She’d wanted to hold on to something, even as she refused Morgana’s gift. But the paper was silent and the words flat, unreal somehow.

Their world had changed, through death and fire and hatred and war and fire again. The mornings of summer innocence when two girls pledged their sisterhood were swallowed beneath the waves of Time, and they would not return save in the depths of a Druid’s crystal.

Guinevere opened her palm, and the wind snatched the parchment. She saw its brief flash like a fallen bird before it disappeared, down where the sea’s embrace awaited.

All roads end in Avalon, as rivers in the Sea.

The prayer from her childhood came back unbidden, and she whispered the words again.

It’s quieter she mused, and realized Arthur was no longer snoring. He came up behind her and encircled her in his arms.

“You should come back to bed love,” he murmured.

He was warm skin and hard flesh and the scent of leather and cloves she loved. He nuzzled her hair, and dropped soft kisses where the fur had slipped off her shoulder.  It was then he noticed the dampness on her cheeks.

He said nothing, simply tightened his arms around her, resting his chin on the crook of her neck while she wept softly, and she knew he understood.

Gwen wiped her face and sniffed, “Arthur, I was wondering, may we…I know you want to return to Camelot soon, but I was wondering if we might stay for the solstice celebrations.”

A warm callused hand cupped her jaw, gently tilting her face towards him. The melted-sapphire eyes filled her world, tender and attentive.

“Is that what you would like?”

She nodded and he kissed her mouth, a sweet engulfing kiss that made her sigh contentedly, “Yes of course. I’ll send messengers to Camelot tomorrow.”

Arthur turned her in his arms, and she let the furs slip from her nakedness. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes darkening. Then he swept her up easily and carried her back to the bed, and she could feel the head of his erection pressing her hips

To her surprise though he laid her down gently, then leaned back on his knees, hands cupping her breasts, then her waist and hips, flattening out over her soft skin, drinking her in with eyes and touch. Gwen felt herself grow moist with anticipation.

He nudged her thighs apart with a knee, then traced light fingers there, brushing her sex, before resting on her garters. Then his golden head bent to replace his fingers with his lips. Arthur kissed around the little ruby rose fastenings, drawing a soft “Ah…” from her when he snapped them easily open. Raising his passion-drugged eyes to her, he tossed the garters away and grasped the top of her stocking with his teeth, peeling it away from her skin as though she was a delectable fruit. He repeated the motion with her other leg, eyes lifting lazily as though to savour the sweet torment.

His lips travelled up her thighs again, this time seeking the hot wet heart of her and flicking with his tongue. Guinevere moaned and dug her fingernails into the bedclothes while his tongue and lips undid her slowly, layer by layer, second by second until she was slippery with desire and panting his name. Impatiently she grabbed a fistful of blond hair and urged him up. Arthur, needing no further encouragement, settled back on his hips and lifted her over his cock. She rubbed her soaked curls up the length of his shaft and his jaw clenched, then he positioned her thighs and buried himself inside her. Gwen wrapped her arms tight around his neck, rocking against him while he grasped her hip. Ripples of heated pleasure radiated from her core with each thrust, leaving her hungrier still and aching for more.

“Arthur…” she moaned, “Please...”

Without breaking contact, he leaned back, stretching out his legs slowly so he lay flat on his back. The change of angle sent her reeling, and she seized this new freedom enthusiastically, undulating her hips, dipping hard and deep then pulling up slowly, and it was Arthur’s turn to groan her name. He shifted a thumb between her legs, find her nub easily and rubbing back and forth. His hips pumped faster and Guinevere felt her senses tugged under a sucking tide of pleasure. Deeper and stronger it tugged until the unbearable knot of pleasure inside her loosed all at once, like a rushing and roaring sea, and she threw her head back and cried out her husband’s name.

Arthur growled low in his throat and tightened his grip on her thighs while he pumped his hips, hard and deep and searingly urgent.

“Come here,” he demanded hoarsely and Gwen bent over him. He tangled a firm hand in her hair and the other held her rump firmly in place while he moved. “Look at me, Guinevere,” his breath was ragged, chest glistening with sweat.

“I love you, Arthur,” she gasped and he came with a violent final thrust, hips pounding feverishly while his seed emptied inside her.

All roads end in Avalon

She collapsed on top of him like a spent wave, and there was nothing else save the salt and heat in the aftermath of their lovemaking, no other world but the one between their beating hearts.

As rivers in the Sea.

***

“I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times,

In life after life, in age after age forever.

My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs

That you take as a gift, wear around your neck in your many forms

In life after life, in age after age forever.”

                               Unending Love, by Rabindranath Tagore (translated from Bengali by William Radice)