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The council chamber of Deorham had not changed in the three years since Arthur Pendragon’s death, and yet it felt, to her, as though it had grown narrower with time, its walls drawing imperceptibly closer with every meeting, every measured word, every careful silence that followed after.
The men gathered around the table spoke as they always did: calmly, respectfully, with the sort of restraint that lent their words the weight of reason rather than hostility; but there was something in the cadence of their voices that evening that pressed more sharply against her composure, as though each concern, each suggestion, had been shaped with deliberate care.
“Camelot has prospered under your guidance, Your Majesty,” one of them began, his tone even, almost deferential, and yet not without a certain edge that lingered beneath the courtesy, “but there are those who wonder whether prosperity alone is sufficient in times such as these.”
Another followed before she could answer, his hands folded neatly before him, his expression composed in a way that revealed nothing and yet suggested much. “There is a perception,” he said, carefully, “that your approach has been… measured, where perhaps a firmer hand would better serve the realm.” The word itself — measured — settled heavily in the air, as though it had been chosen precisely because it could not be easily challenged.
Guinevere listened without interruption, her hands resting still upon the polished surface of the table, her posture composed in a way that had long since become second nature, as though steadiness alone might be enough to hold the room in place. When she spoke, her voice carried clearly across the chamber, neither raised nor diminished, and entirely certain in its restraint.
“If by measured you mean that I do not act without consideration,” she replied, her gaze steady upon the man who had spoken, “then I will accept the word. I will not mistake haste for strength, nor cruelty for resolve.” There was no sharpness in her tone, no attempt to assert dominance where it was not needed, and yet something in the quiet certainty of it caused a brief, almost imperceptible pause to settle over the table.
It did not last. Another voice, older, more deliberate, followed soon after, threading its way carefully through the space she had just steadied. “No one here would suggest cruelty, my Queen,” he said, inclining his head, though his eyes did not soften, “but there are precedents to consider. In the past, such matters were addressed with… greater finality.” He did not speak the name, and yet it lingered all the same, present in the weight of what was left unsaid. “Your Majesty must understand,” he continued, “that comparisons will be made.”
“I understand,” she answered, before he could go further, and though her voice did not waver, there was something quieter beneath it now, something more deliberate, as though each word were being placed with greater care than before. “But I will not govern in imitation of what came before me. Camelot, and its people, have changed. It requires a ruler who sees it as it is now.” Her gaze did not shift, though she could feel, beneath the surface of her composure, the slow and familiar weight of fatigue settling in.
It was not the criticism itself that unsettled her, she had long since learned to endure that, but the quiet persistence of it, the way it returned in different forms, dressed in different words, until even the most carefully held certainty began, however briefly, to falter under its repetition.
“And yet,” another voice interjected, softer this time, though no less deliberate, “there are those beyond these walls who question whether Camelot appears… less formidable than it once did.” The pause before the word was brief, but intentional. “Your Majesty has shown a great deal of… clemency in recent years,” he continued, folding his hands before him, “and while such leniency may be admirable in principle, there are those who wonder whether it has been extended too far; particularly in matters that previous reigns would have regarded with far greater caution.” He did not name it, but he did not need to; the shift in the room was subtle, but perceptible all the same. “Some might even say,” he added, after a moment, “that certain decisions have invited uncertainty where once there was none.”
The implication lingered, unspoken but unmistakable, threading itself through the silence that followed not only of policy, but of precedent, of a rule reshaped under a queen who had chosen, in more ways than one, to depart from what had been expected of her.
For a moment, she did not answer, and in that brief silence, her gaze drifted, not to the men who addressed her, but to the boy standing just behind one of them, a child of perhaps twelve, silent, attentive, present only by permission rather than right, whose features, in certain angles of the light, bore an uncanny resemblance to a face she had once known at that very age. It was not exact, not enough to be remarked upon, and yet it was enough to catch at something within her, to pull her attention for a fraction longer than it should have, until she forced it back, steady once more, before anyone could notice.
She allowed the silence to settle, her gaze resting briefly upon the table before lifting once more, steady and composed, when she finally spoke. “Camelot is not less formidable for being just, nor does it weaken under a ruler who governs with fair intention rather than fear.” she said, her voice even, neither raised nor softened to appease. “If there is uncertainty,” she continued, her gaze moving, briefly, across the men before her, “then it lies not in the choices themselves, but in the unwillingness to accept that this kingdom is no longer what it was, and was never meant to remain so.”
The chamber did not empty all at once, but in a slow dispersal of voices and movement that no longer required her presence, the weight of the meeting dissolving into smaller conversations that carried on without her until the very end of the council meeting. Guinevere remained where she was for a moment longer than necessary, her hands resting lightly against the table as though the act of moving might call attention she did not wish to draw, and when at last she rose, she did so with the same measured composure she had maintained throughout, offering nothing that might suggest anything within her had shifted.
She excused herself before the others could fully gather, her voice calm, her expression unchanged, and no one thought to question it. It was only once the doors closed behind her that the silence of the corridor met her in full, long and uninterrupted, the distant echo of voices fading into something indistinct. She walked without haste, though without clear direction either, guided more by instinct than intention, until the space around her narrowed and the absence of others became certain.
It happened quietly.
Her hand came to rest against the stone wall, her breath slipping, almost imperceptibly at first, from its practiced rhythm, the control she had held so carefully beginning to loosen not in any visible break, but in smaller, less deliberate ways. When the first tear fell, it did so without ceremony, and she did not stop it entirely, remaining turned just enough toward the wall to hide what little of it might be seen, her shoulders drawn in as though the instinct to conceal it came as naturally as the effort to endure it had before.
The sound of voices carried faintly down the corridor, doors opening, footsteps approaching, and that, more than anything, brought her back. She inhaled slowly, forcing the breath to settle, lifting her head just enough to gather what composure she could before stepping away from the wall. Before anyone could turn the corner and find her there, she moved on, her pace steady, her expression composed once more, though not untouched, her path turning, at last, toward her chambers.
By the time the castle had settled into its quieter hours, the corridors dimmed and the distant movement of servants and guards softened into something far less constant, the night had taken on a stillness that did not quite belong to the place, as though the unfamiliar walls held their breath more tightly than those of Camelot ever had. The air beyond the chambers was cooler, touched by a faint breeze that carried little sound with it, and it was into that quiet that Gwaine had withdrawn, seated at the small table set along the narrow stretch of balcony that overlooked the inner courtyard below.
A single candle burned at his side, its flame wavering just enough to cast an uneven glow across the page before him, and he leaned slightly into it, one elbow resting against the table as he wrote with a focus that was, for him, almost unusual. There was a faint curve to his mouth as he did so, something caught between amusement and fondness, the sort of expression that came unguarded when he thought himself alone, as though the act of putting the day into words, however imperfectly, offered a kind of quiet satisfaction he would not have admitted to anyone else. The letter itself bore the uneven evidence of that effort, lines begun with confidence only to falter midway, words scratched out and replaced, the ink pressed a little too heavily where patience had worn thin, though none of it seemed to trouble him enough to stop.
He heard her before he saw her. The faint shift of movement beyond the threshold of the adjoining balcony, the subtle change in the rhythm of the night that did not belong to wind or shadow. His gaze lifted instinctively, though he did not move from where he sat, and it was only a moment later that she stepped into the pale light, her figure outlined softly against the darkness behind her.
She had not seen him yet.
There was something in the way she held herself that drew his attention at once, something quieter than distress and yet too deliberate to be ease, her movements measured in a way that suggested an effort towards calmness. He did not shift to make his presence known, and when she finally turned just enough to catch sight of him where he sat half-shadowed at the edge of the balcony, the reaction was immediate, though contained. The quick movement of her hand as she brushed at her cheek, the faint tightening of her expression as she gathered herself before the moment could linger.
He did not pretend not to notice.
“Gwen… you’re alright?” The question was soft, unguarded in a way that would have been out of place anywhere else, and perhaps it was that, more than the words themselves, that unsettled her composure further, the absence of formality where it might have been expected leaving little room to hide behind it.
She hesitated, just briefly, before answering. “I… I can’t sleep.”
He nodded as though that were reason enough, setting the feather aside without urgency, his attention settling on her fully now, though he made no move to stand.
“Yeah, I get that,” he said, glancing briefly at the page before him with a faint, almost self-aware hint of a smile. “Thought I’d write something to keep my worries away. Have to tell Merlin about the places we’ve been today, and let him know the council’s decided we need two more meetings, or he’ll worry himself sick.”
A small smile found its way to her, faint and fleeting, drawn more by the mention than the attempt itself. “He cares deeply about you.”
“And I care deeply about him,” he returned easily, though the lightness in his tone did not quite mask the sincerity beneath it, his gaze remaining on her in a way that suggested he had not missed what she had chosen not to say. “But I also care about you.” The shift was subtle, but present, his voice lowering just slightly, not pressing, but not letting her turn away from it either. “Come on,” he added after a moment, with a gentleness that did not need to insist, “sit with me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
He gestured to the space beside him where a worn rug had been laid against the stone, its presence more practical than deliberate, and waited without expectation, as though the offer itself was enough. She did not refuse. After a moment’s hesitation, she moved closer, the distance between them closing in quiet increments until she lowered herself beside him, the stone wall at their backs, the open night stretching out before them.
For a time, neither of them spoke. They sat side by side, not quite touching, their shoulders aligned in a way that suggested ease without assumption, their attention turned outward towards the sky where the stars, faint but steady, held their place above a world that, for the moment, seemed far removed from everything waiting within it.
The night stretched quietly around them, the air cool but not unkind, carrying with it the distant stillness of a place long since settled into sleep. From where they sat, the sky opened wide above the courtyard, the moon resting high and pale, its light softened by the thin drift of clouds that passed slowly across it, never quite obscuring it entirely. It was not a silence that demanded to be filled, nor one that pressed uncomfortably between them.
Gwen drew in a slow breath, though whether it was to steady herself or simply to feel the air more fully, even she might not have known. Her hands rested loosely in her lap, her posture no longer held in the careful composure she had carried throughout the day, but not entirely undone either, as though she had allowed herself to set something down without yet stepping fully away from it.
“I was told,” she began at last, her voice quiet, not quite breaking the silence so much as joining it, “that Camelot is beginning to look… less formidable, in the eyes of the other kingdoms.” The faintest hint of something wry touched the words, though it did not quite reach her expression. “They meant ‘weak’, but they were very careful in how they said it.”
Beside her, Gwaine let out a quiet breath that might have been the beginning of a laugh, though it did not fully form. “They usually are,” he said, his tone low, more observation than comment, his gaze remaining fixed somewhere ahead rather than turning to her too quickly.
She nodded slightly, though her eyes did not leave the sky. “It wasn’t just them,” she continued, after a moment. “It is always… repeated, in different ways, until it begins to sound less like an opinion and more like something inevitable.” Her fingers shifted faintly against the fabric of her gown, a small, absent movement. “That I am too lenient. That I hesitate where I should not. That I have made choices… that have unsettled what once seemed certain.”
She did not name it, but the meaning remained clear enough in the space between them. Gwaine always knew what she was talking about.
“I will not undo what I have done,” she added, more quietly now, though there was no uncertainty in that part of it, her voice settling with a firmness that had not been present before. “Not that. Lifting the magic ban is something I am certain enough to know I won’t let it ever go back to what it once was. For Merlin and his people’s sake, and the sake of everyone to live in a unified world.” There was no need to explain further, not to him. “But I find myself wondering, at times…” She paused, just briefly, as though the words required more care than the others had. “What if they are right? Not about that, but about everything else. What if I am… failing in ways I cannot yet see?”
The question lingered, softer than the ones she had faced in the council chamber, and somehow heavier for it.
Gwaine did not answer at once. He shifted slightly where he sat, one shoulder resting more fully against the wall, his hands loosely clasped before him, as though considering not just what to say, but whether to say anything at all. When he did speak, his voice was quieter still, lacking the easy sharpness he often carried, but no less deliberate for it.
“They said the same things about him, you know,” he said, after a moment, his gaze still fixed outward. “Not the same words, maybe, but close enough. Too reckless. Too quick to act. Too willing to take risks that didn’t look like wisdom to anyone standing at a distance.” A faint breath of something like a smile touched his expression, though it did not fully settle. “They will never be satisfied with what they can’t control or benefit from.”
Gwen’s lips curved faintly at that, though the expression was brief, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“Do you think he would have done things differently?” she murmured, head looking down.
“No, actually I don’t think,” Gwaine continued, turning his head just slightly now, not quite looking at her, but no longer entirely apart from her either. “I know he would. He already did.” There was no hesitation in the admission, no attempt to soften it into comfort that did not hold. “But that doesn’t mean he would have done them better.”
That, at least, drew her attention. She turned her head just enough to look at him, something quieter and more searching in her expression.
“He was a decent king,” Gwaine added, after a moment, the words simple, unembellished. “A good one, in a lot of ways. But he ruled the Camelot he was given and he settled for it. You’re ruling the one that came after and is trying to make it move forward.” He shrugged, faintly, though there was nothing careless in it.
She held his gaze for a moment longer than she might have otherwise, as though weighing the words not for their comfort, but for their truth. “He would not have made some of the choices I have,” she said quietly.
“No,” Gwaine agreed, just as simply. “He wouldn’t have.” There was a brief pause, not uncertain, but deliberate. “And that’s exactly the point.”
The silence that followed settled between them more gently this time, as though something in it had shifted, though not entirely lifted.
“I miss him,” she said, after a while, the words spoken without preamble, without elaboration, and yet carrying more weight than anything she had said before.
“I know,” Gwaine answered, and there was nothing in his voice that tried to diminish that, nothing that attempted to ease it away. “So do I.”
For a time, they said nothing more.
The night remained as it was, the moon unmoved in its slow passage, the world beyond the walls quiet and distant, and though the weight she carried had not disappeared, had not lessened in any way, it no longer felt quite so solitary as it had before. Gwaine shifted slightly beside her, not enough to draw attention, but enough that their shoulders brushed, briefly and without insistence, the contact light, almost incidental, and yet grounding all the same.
After a while, he spoke again, more quietly than before.
“He loved you for a reason.”
It was not said as reassurance meant to counter doubt, but simply as something he believed to be true, offered without expectation that it needed to be defended.
Gwen did not answer immediately, but the faintest shift in her expression suggested that she had heard him and had allowed the words to settle where they would. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier than it had been before, though still soft.
“I hope I am worthy of it.”
Gwaine let out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and a soft, disbelieving huff, though there was no mockery in it, only a kind of quiet certainty that did not need to be pressed further. “You are,” he said, and though the words themselves were simple, there was something in the way he spoke them that left little room to question it.
The quiet that settled between them did not feel like an ending, but rather like something that had been set gently aside, no longer pressing for attention, and Gwaine let it linger for a moment longer before shifting where he sat, the movement unhurried, as though the decision had come to him not suddenly, but naturally, the way certain things did when left alone long enough to find their place.
He pushed himself to his feet with an ease that suggested neither urgency nor hesitation, brushing a hand briefly against his trousers as he straightened, his gaze lifting toward the far edge of the balcony, then back to her, a faint, familiar glint returning to his expression, softer than his usual mischief, but no less present for it.
“Come on,” he said, tilting his head slightly, as though the invitation required little more than that. “We’re far from home… but I know a place.”
There was something in the way he said it, not entirely serious, not entirely light, that caught her just long enough to make her pause. Gwen remained where she was for a moment, her gaze searching his face as though she might find the answer there before she chose to follow it, the remnants of everything she had carried still lingering, quieter now, but not gone. “Gwaine…” she began, though the word did not quite form into protest, her uncertainty less about him than about the act of stepping away from what she knew she would have to return to.
He did not press, did not insist, only lifted his hand to her and waited, the ease in his posture leaving her the space to decide without feeling that it had already been made for her.
In the end, it was not reluctance that moved her, but something gentler, something closer to trust.
She took his hand and rose.
The distance between their chambers was barely a distance at all, the adjoining balconies allowing passage where no corridor was needed, the space between them open to the night rather than enclosed by stone. Gwaine stepped ahead first, crossing the narrow stretch with the ease of someone long accustomed to the arrangement, glancing back only briefly to ensure she followed, though there was little doubt that she would.
The quiet remained undisturbed, the presence of guards stationed elsewhere, beyond her doors, below in the courtyard, rendering this path unnoticed, almost private in a way the rest of the castle could never quite be. When he reached his chambers, he pushed the door open without ceremony, stepping aside to allow her in before following after.
The room itself bore the marks of its occupant in ways that were subtle but unmistakable, its order less precise than hers, its comforts chosen more for use than appearance, and though it was by no means unkempt, there was a looseness to it that stood in quiet contrast to the rigid structure of her own quarters. He crossed to a small chest without hesitation, lifting the lid and searching briefly within before drawing out a set of clothes, simple and unadorned, the fabric worn just enough to suggest familiarity rather than neglect.
“Here,” he said, holding them out to her as though the gesture required no further explanation.
Gwen hesitated in quiet confusion, her gaze shifting from the garments to his face. “You want me to change?”
He shrugged lightly, the motion easy, unconcerned. “It’ll make sense,” he said, not elaborating further, though the faint curve of his mouth suggested that he did not intend to just yet.
There was a moment in which she might have questioned it further, might have asked for reason or clarity, but she did neither. Instead, she took the clothes from him, her fingers brushing the fabric as though testing something she could not yet name, and when she glanced back up, he had already turned away, his back to her, his attention deliberately fixed elsewhere in a way that required no comment.
She changed quickly, though not hurriedly. The quick perception of the smell of Gwaine and Merlin’s perfumes combined gave way to the unfamiliar looseness of the garments settling over her in a way that felt, at first, strange, the absence of weight where she had grown accustomed to it almost disorienting. And yet, as she adjusted them, as she moved slightly within them, that strangeness gave way to something else entirely, something lighter, easier, the fabric falling without constraint, unshaped by expectation or presentation.
“This is…” she began, her voice carrying a note of quiet surprise as she glanced down at herself, her hands brushing lightly against the sleeves. “These are looser than my sleeping gowns. I haven’t been in something this comfortable in a very long time.”
Gwaine glanced over his shoulder then, just briefly, his gaze flickering across her before settling back, as though even that small look was given without intrusion. “Do you like them?”
“Yes,” she answered, almost at once, the faintest hint of a laugh threading through the word, softer than the ones she might have allowed herself earlier in the evening. “Though I don’t quite understand why I need them.”
“Well then,” he said, turning fully now, the hint of that earlier glint returning to his expression, warmer this time, touched with something unmistakably pleased, “you can have them.” He paused, just long enough for the words to settle, before adding, with a small, knowing tilt of his head, “And don’t worry. Soon enough, all your doubts will cease to exist.”
There was something in the way he said it that left her looking at him for a moment longer than she might have otherwise, her curiosity stirred despite herself. He only smiled.
The change in the air came before the sound. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, the stillness of the castle grounds giving way to something looser, less contained, the quiet of guarded halls replaced by the distant suggestion of life not bound by watchful eyes or careful expectation. The path Gwaine chose did not follow the main roads, nor did it seem entirely planned, winding instead through narrower passages and lesser-used streets that carried them further from the ordered symmetry of the court and into a part of the city that felt, in its own way, more honest.
Gwen walked beside him without speaking for some time, her steps measured at first, though not with the same rigid composure she had worn earlier that evening. The unfamiliar looseness of the clothes she wore still lingered in her awareness, the absence of weight and structure leaving her oddly loose, as though she had stepped into something not entirely meant for her, and yet not unwelcome either. She found herself adjusting the sleeves once or twice, more out of habit than necessity, her fingers brushing the fabric as if to reassure herself that it was, indeed, real.
It was only when the sound reached them fully, laughter, loud and unrestrained, the uneven rhythm of music played without precision, voices overlapping in a way that would never have been permitted within the walls she knew, that she slowed.
Ahead, light spilled from the wide-open door of a tavern, warm and golden against the night, shadows moving freely within it, figures passing in and out without ceremony or announcement, as though the space belonged equally to all who entered.
Gwen stopped.
“Gwaine…” she said, the word carrying both disbelief and something closer to alarm, her gaze fixed on the scene before them before shifting sharply to him. “Are you serious?”
He did not falter. If anything, the faint grin that had begun to form earlier settled more fully now, easy and untroubled, as though her reaction had been expected from the start. “As serious as I can be,” he replied, glancing toward the door before looking back at her, the promise in his tone unmistakable. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”
“They’ll recognize me,” she said at once, though the certainty in her voice wavered just enough to betray that she did not entirely believe it herself, her gaze flickering briefly back toward the tavern, toward the people who moved so freely within it.
“Gwen,” he said, softer now, though no less certain, “no one here will know who you are.” There was no hesitation in the statement, no attempt to dress it in reassurance it did not need. “Please. Trust me.”
She hesitated.
“I… I don’t know,” she admitted, more quietly than before, her gaze lowering slightly, though not entirely. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
There was no mockery in his response, no teasing edge to soften it into something easier to dismiss, only a quiet steadiness that matched her uncertainty without diminishing it. “Well,” he said, after a moment, with a small, almost thoughtful tilt of his head, “there’s a first time for everything in life, don’t you think?” He paused just long enough for the words to settle, his gaze holding hers, not pressing, but not retreating either. “You can trust me, Gwen. This will be fun.”
For a moment longer, she remained where she was, the pull of everything she knew held in quiet tension against something she did not, the unfamiliar pressing gently, persistently, against the edges of her hesitation.
Then, almost imperceptibly, she exhaled. “Okay.”
The warmth of the tavern met them at once.
It was not like the controlled warmth of hearths carefully tended within stone halls, but something fuller, more immediate, thick with the presence of bodies and voices and movement that did not pause or quiet at their entrance. The air carried the scent of ale and woodsmoke, of food long since served and laughter that had not yet worn thin, the low hum of conversation layered with bursts of sound that rose and fell without pattern or restraint.
No one turned to look at them.
It struck her then, not all at once, but gradually, as they stepped further inside and the door swung closed behind them, that nothing about their presence had altered the rhythm of the room. There was no shift in posture, no hush of voices, no careful glance in her direction masked as something else. The people around them continued as they had been, talking, arguing, laughing too loudly, drinking without thought of consequence, entirely unbothered by who she was.
Or rather, by who they did not know her to be.
Gwaine did not pause as they stepped further inside, though he did not leave her to follow on her own. Instead, his hand found its place at the small of her back, resting there lightly at first before guiding her forward with a quiet steadiness, the gesture natural, unassuming and unmistakably deliberate. There was a gentle assurance in it, a way of moving that accounted for her without making her feel led, only accompanied.
He wove them through the space with easy familiarity, his touch adjusting just enough to steer her clear of passing bodies and uneven paths between the tables, his awareness extending beyond himself in a way that made the movement feel effortless. Gwen followed, more carefully at first, her senses still attuned to everything around her, though the presence of his hand at her back grounded her in a way she had not expected, softening the edge of her uncertainty.
This was different, there was no expectation here, no silent demand for composure. What this place had was the steady, unfiltered presence of people who did not look twice at her, who did not measure her words or weigh her decisions, who did not care, in any meaningful way, who she was.
By the time they reached the bar, something within her had already begun to loosen.
“What’ll it be?” the barkeep asked, his attention already divided between them and three others who spoke over one another at his side, his tone brisk but not unkind.
Gwaine glanced at her, one brow lifting slightly, as though offering her the choice without making it for her.
She hesitated only a moment.
“Ale,” she said, the word unfamiliar on her tongue, though it came more easily than she had expected.
Gwaine’s grin widened, just slightly. “Make it two,” he added, sliding the coins across the counter with a casual ease.
The mugs were set before them with little ceremony, the liquid within catching the light in a way that was less refined than the wine she was accustomed to, its surface uneven, imperfect, alive in a way she could not quite place. She lifted it, more out of curiosity than certainty, and took a careful sip.
It was not what she expected.
There was a sharpness to it, yes, bitterness. But also something warmer beneath it, something fuller, less delicate than the drinks she knew, and though she did not quite smile, something in her expression shifted.
“Well?” Gwaine asked, watching her with open interest now, the ease in him unguarded.
She considered it for a moment longer before answering. “It is… stronger than I anticipated.”
He laughed, low and easy. “That’s one way to put it.”
She took another sip.
Time, once it began to move, was not evenly. It slipped, instead, in moments, some brief, others stretched longer than they should have been, each one carrying her further from where she had begun, from the careful restraint she had worn so instinctively earlier that evening. Conversation came more easily than she had expected, first in quieter exchanges with Gwaine, then in brief, passing words with others who joined and left without introduction or farewell, their presence as fleeting as it was unremarkable.
At some point, she laughed so loud it caught her by surprise. It was not the polite, measured sound she had long since learned to offer when expected, nor the restrained warmth she allowed in safer company, but something fuller, less considered, drawn from her without effort or intent. She stilled for just a moment after, as though uncertain of what had prompted it, before the moment passed and the ease returned, more naturally this time.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” Gwaine remarked, his tone light, though his gaze lingered on her just long enough to suggest that he had noticed the shift, however small.
“I am not certain there is anything to ‘get,’” she replied, though the faint curve of her mouth betrayed her, the formality of the words at odds with the looseness that had begun to settle in their place.
“That’s the point,” he said simply.
The music grew louder as the night wore on, less structured with each passing hour, the rhythm uneven but insistent, drawing more and more people into its orbit until the space between the tables was no longer empty, but alive with movement that paid little heed to order or precision.
Gwaine said no word. He simply stood, setting his mug aside, and held out a hand.
Gwen looked at it for a moment, something like disbelief flickering across her expression once more, though it lacked the sharpness it had held earlier, softened now by everything that had come between.
“I do not dance, Gwaine! Not like this,” she said, though there was no conviction in it.
“Neither do they,” he replied, with a glance toward the others, whose movements bore little resemblance to anything practiced or refined. “That doesn’t seem to be stopping them.”
She hesitated. Then, slowly, she placed her hand in his.
Their dance was not graceful.
There was no measured precision, no practiced steps or careful turns, only uneven movement, guided more by instinct than knowledge, the rhythm caught and lost and found again in ways that would have been unthinkable within the walls she knew.
She missed a step once, then again, and then she stopped trying to get it right. Something in her loosened fully then, the last remnants of restraint slipping not all at once, but enough that the movement came more easily, her laughter returning, lighter now, unguarded in a way that would have been impossible only hours before. She did not think of how she looked, did not measure the appropriateness of it, did not consider, even for a moment, who might be watching.
No one was watching, and if they were, they did not care. For the first time in longer than she could remember, neither did she.
Later — how much later, she could not have said, somewhere after her second mug of ale and with the warmth of the room lingering in her skin from dancing — they found themselves at a table that was not theirs, drawn into a game already in progress by a group that made little effort to explain it fully before pressing a set of worn pieces into her hands.
The players spoke over one another, laughter cutting through half-finished rules, though one among them, a man seated opposite her, louder than the rest and far less generous in his manner, seemed particularly intent on ensuring she understood only enough to lose.
His tone carried a sharp edge disguised as humor, the sort that lingered a moment too long after each of her early missteps, his corrections offered not as help, but as quiet condescension, as though her confusion were something to be expected, even entertained. Gwen listened, at first, with more patience than the situation warranted, her attention fixed on the game despite the unevenness of its introduction, though something in her expression shifted with each passing round, the softness of her earlier uncertainty giving way to a quieter, more focused intent.
Gwaine, seated beside her, said little, offering only the occasional remark when necessary, though the faintest hint of amusement lingered at the corner of his mouth — not at her, but at the situation itself, at the man who seemed far too certain of his advantage, and at the way Gwen’s attention had begun to narrow in response to it. He did not intervene, did not correct the imbalance, but neither did he miss the moment it began to turn.
It did not take her long to adjust.
The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible at first, the slight hesitation before her move, the glance that lingered just long enough to take in more than she had been given, the careful way her hand hovered before settling, not quite where it had been expected to. It was deliberate in a way that suggested choice.
Gwaine noticed, but did not stop her. If anything, the quiet lift of his brow and the near-invisible tilt of his head suggested something closer to encouragement. The man across from her did not notice at all, too worried trying to maintain his ego.
When she claimed her small, hard-won victory a few rounds later, the shift in the table was immediate, the laughter changing shape, the man’s earlier confidence faltering just enough to betray his surprise, though he masked it quickly beneath a dismissive shrug that convinced no one entirely. Gwen did not react outwardly beyond the faint, composed satisfaction that settled across her expression, though there was something new in it now, something sharper, brighter, unmistakably pleased.
Gwaine leaned back slightly, studying her with a look that was no longer even attempting innocence.
“Did you just —” he whispererd, before stopping himself, the words catching somewhere between disbelief and admiration, his gaze flicking briefly toward the board, then back to her.
She met his eyes without hesitation, her composure returning in a way that was suddenly familiar, though the glint in her gaze betrayed her entirely.
“I do not know what you mean,” she said, her tone even, as she collected all the coins from her win very carefully.
He let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head once, conceding the point without quite agreeing to it. “Oh I see…” he murmured, low enough that it did not carry beyond them, the hint of a grin returning, warmer now, unmistakably proud. “Cheater.”
This time, she did not even attempt to deny it. Her only answer was a smile.
After that, the game dissolved. At some point, after another round won under circumstances that were, at best, questionable, and after Gwaine had leaned in one too many times to murmur something suspiciously helpful under his breath, Gwen found herself less invested in the outcome than in the quiet, shared amusement of it, the way their glances met just a fraction too long, the way his barely-hidden grin mirrored her own growing ease.
The man across from them had long since grown sour in his losses, his earlier confidence slipping into something sharper, more defensive, though it only seemed to amuse her further, the satisfaction of it no longer tied to the game itself, but to the simple fact that she could choose, in this moment, to enjoy it.
And then, just as suddenly as she had settled into it, she grew tired of it. Something louder and brighter had begun to pull at her attention from beyond the table, the music rising again somewhere behind her, laughter spilling into the space with renewed force as more people joined in. The game, for all its charm, felt smaller now, contained in a way the rest of the room no longer was.
Gwen set her piece down.
“That’s enough,” she said lightly, with a quiet finality to it that did not invite argument, her gaze already shifting past the table, toward the movement beyond.
Gwaine glanced at her, one brow lifting. “Tired of winning?” he asked, the hint of a grin returning despite himself.
“Perhaps,” she replied, though the answer came with a spark of something unmistakably playful now, her earlier restraint nowhere to be found. She stood before he could say anything more, her movement unhesitating, and for a moment, he simply watched her, as though catching up to a version of her he had not yet fully seen.
Then she turned back to him and reached for his hand.
“Come on,” she said, the echo of his earlier confidence unmistakable, though the tone was entirely her own now, lighter, brighter, threaded with something close to laughter. “We’re not staying here.”
Gwaine blinked, caught just off guard enough to be noticeable, before the grin returned fully, unrestrained now as he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet without resistance. “Careful,” he murmured, though there was nothing cautionary in it. “You’re starting to sound like me.”
“Not even close, but on my way,” she replied.
The music had grown louder and fuller somehow, the uneven rhythm carried by voices and hands and instruments that cared little for perfection. The space between the tables had filled again, bodies moving without pattern, without expectation, the air thick with warmth and sound and something unspoken that drew people in rather than holding them back.
This time, Gwen did not hesitate to join and stepped into it as though she had always known how. There was no careful beginning, only the immediate and unrestrained movements of her body, her hand still clasped in Gwaine’s as she pulled him with her, laughter already breaking through before the moment had fully settled.
Gwaine followed easily, his earlier steadiness shifting into something more responsive now, something that matched her rather than guided her. His hand tightened briefly around hers as she turned, the movement faster, freer than before, the space around them blurring at the edges.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” he said, though the words were half-lost to the noise, carried more by the shape of his voice than its clarity.
“And you are not?” she shot back, breathless now, her laughter threading easily through the words as she spun again, their hands still joined, the motion pulling them both off balance for just a moment before it settled again.
“I didn’t say that,” he returned, though the answer came with a laugh of his own now, low and unguarded, the ease in him no longer held as something he carried for her, but rather something they shared.
They moved without thought after that, the rhythm caught and lost and found again in ways that no longer mattered, the space around them alive with the same unstructured energy that had once seemed so distant from her. She did not measure her steps, did not consider where to place her feet or how she might appear, the careful awareness that had defined her earlier replaced entirely by something lighter, something freer.
At some point, she laughed again, loudly this time, without restraint, the sound carrying easily through the noise around them, uncontained in a way that felt almost unfamiliar, and yet entirely right.
And then, just as suddenly, she noticed it.
The laughter did not stop, but it shifted, softened at the edges as something else rose alongside it, something quieter, more aware. She slowed, though only slightly, her hand still in his, her breath uneven in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion, her gaze lifting briefly to meet his before drifting somewhere just beyond him, as though the moment had expanded just enough to hold something more.
“I don’t remember the last time I felt like this,” she said.
The words came without hesitation, though softer now, her grip on his hand tightening just slightly, as though anchoring herself to something she did not want to lose.
Gwaine did not answer immediately. He held her gaze instead, the movement between them slowing further, though not stopping entirely, the rhythm continuing beneath the surface even as the moment shifted.
“You should feel like this more often,” he said at last, his voice quieter than before, though no less certain, the simplicity of it carrying more weight than anything more elaborate might have.
She smiled softly at that.
“I used to,” she said, after a moment, the words coming more gently now, her gaze drifting again, not away from him, but through the moment, as though tracing something that no longer stood beside her, but had not quite left either. “Not like this, exactly,” she added, the faintest hint of warmth threading through the admission, “but close enough.”
Gwaine did not need her to explain.
“He would have hated this place,” she continued, a quiet note of amusement touching the words now, soft and fond. “Too loud. Too crowded. Too warm.”
That drew a quiet huff of laughter from him, the image easy enough to picture without effort. Her gaze returning to him now, the smile lingering, lighter than the memory might have suggested.
Gwaine nodded once, the movement small, though not dismissive. “Yeah,” he said, glancing briefly around the room before returning his attention to her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “He would’ve complained the whole time.”
That earned another laugh from her. “Relentlessly,” she agreed.
The moment lingered there, balanced perfectly between what had been and what was, the space between them steady, unbroken by anything that demanded more than they were willing to give.
And then, just as easily as it had shifted, it returned.
The music swelled again, the movement around them pulling them back into it without effort, their hands still joined, their steps falling once more into that uneven, effortless rhythm that no longer needed to be learned.
She spun again, laughter following close behind.
By the time they stepped out into the night, long hours after they had entered, the air felt cooler than it had any right to be.
It hit them all at once, the shift from warmth and noise to something quieter, open and still, the sounds of the tavern spilling out behind them in softened echoes before the door swung shut and left the world outside to its own gentler rhythm. For a moment, neither of them moved very far, as though the sudden absence of sound required a small adjustment, their laughter lingering between them in quieter bursts now, less restrained than it should have been and yet somehow more contained.
Gwen drew in a breath that turned into a soft laugh halfway through, her hand still loosely wrapped around his, though the grip had shifted from something grounding into something easier, more absent, as though neither of them had quite noticed they had yet to let go.
“That,” she said, her voice low but unsteady with amusement, “was a terrible idea.”
Gwaine huffed a quiet laugh beside her, glancing down briefly as though considering it. “Oh, absolutely,” he agreed, far too quickly to be sincere. “We should never do it again.”
She turned her head just enough to look at him, the skepticism in her expression softened entirely by the smile that followed. “You are already planning the next time.”
“I’m offended you think so little of me,” he murmured, though the faint curve of his mouth betrayed him completely. "It is already planned."
They began to walk, slower than before, their steps lacking the steady precision they might have held earlier in the night. The streets had quieted in the hours since they had arrived, the earlier noise softened into something more scattered now, the occasional voice drifting from distant corners, the world settling without ever quite falling silent. Gwen’s shoulder brushed his once, then again, the contact light, unintentional, though neither of them moved to correct it.
They passed a narrow stretch of street where the light grew dimmer, the space between buildings tighter, and there, tucked just beyond the edge of the path, a figure lay curled beneath a worn cloak, unmoving save for the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. A small wooden cup rested near his hand, its contents sparse, the few scattered coins catching what little light remained.
Gwen slowed.
Her free hand moved almost without thought, slipping into the fold of the borrowed clothes where she had tucked away the coins she had won earlier, the gesture quiet, unceremonious. She did not pause to count them, did not consider the amount, only dropped them gently into the cup as they passed, the faintest sound of metal against wood barely audible in the stillness.
She did not look back. Neither did he. Gwaine had seen it, of course, but he said nothing, the moment left exactly as it had been given, simple and unspoken, requiring no acknowledgment to hold its weight.
They walked on.
The path back to the castle felt shorter than it should have been.
Perhaps it was the lingering warmth of the night, or the way the world seemed to tilt just slightly beneath their steps, or perhaps it was simply that neither of them was paying much attention to the distance at all. The outer edges of the city gave way to the quieter grounds that surrounded the castle, the familiar silhouette of its walls rising ahead, steady and unmoved by the small, fleeting moments that passed beyond them.
“We are going to be very quiet,” Gwen said, though the seriousness of the statement was undermined entirely by the softness of her voice, the hint of laughter still caught within it.
Gwaine nodded with equal solemnity. “Silent,” he agreed. “Unnoticeable.”
She glanced at him, one brow lifting slightly. “You are neither of those things.”
“Tonight, I am both,” he returned with a smooth wink.
They approached the servants’ entrance rather than the main gates, the path less lit, less watched, though not entirely unguarded. The doors stood partially ajar, as they often did at that hour, the faint movement within suggesting the last remnants of the day’s work still being carried out beyond them.
Gwaine stepped inside first, pausing just long enough to glance back at her, one finger lifting briefly to his lips in a gesture that was, at best, symbolic.
She followed.
The attempt at silence lasted all of three steps.
Her hand brushed against a small set of utensils left on a nearby surface, the faint clink of metal against metal ringing sharper than expected in the stillness, and she stilled immediately, her breath catching as though the sound had carried far beyond its reach.
Gwaine froze as well. They waited. Nothing happened.
From somewhere deeper within the corridor, a voice carried faintly, followed by the distant clatter of something being set down, but no one came, no one called out, and after a moment, the tension dissolved just enough for Gwaine to glance back at her, the corner of his mouth already betraying him.
“You said quiet,” he whispered.
“I am being quiet,” she whispered back, though the indignation in it was entirely undermined by the smile she was trying, and failing, to suppress.
They continued, more carefully now, though not necessarily more successfully.
At one turn, Gwaine’s hand slipped briefly from her arm as he misjudged the space between them, knocking lightly against a wooden table that stood too close to the wall, the sound sharper this time, though still not enough to carry far. He winced, though it was accompanied almost immediately by a quiet laugh he could not quite hold back.
“Silent,” Gwen murmured, her voice barely more than breath, though her eyes had brightened again with it.
“Unnoticeable,” he returned, just as softly.
They passed two guards a short while later, stationed near a secondary hall, their posture straightening slightly at the sight of movement before relaxing almost immediately as recognition settled in.
“Sir Gwaine,” one of them said, low and respectful, his gaze flicking briefly toward Gwen without lingering, whatever curiosity might have arisen left unspoken. “Fun night out?"
Gwaine inclined his head just enough to acknowledge it, his tone easy, untroubled. “It’s always fun when I’m involved.”
No questions followed and they were allowed through.
By the time they reached the quieter stretch that led back toward their chambers, the castle had settled once more into its deeper silence, the earlier missteps absorbed into the night without consequence. Gwen exhaled slowly, though the breath turned again into a quiet laugh before it fully escaped, her hand lifting briefly to cover it before she lowered it again, shaking her head just slightly.
“That was not silent,” she said.
Gwaine glanced at her, his expression softer now, though no less amused. “No,” he agreed. “But it was close enough.”
They reached the balcony not long after, the familiar open air greeting them once more, the night unchanged from when they had left it, though everything else felt, in some small and undeniable way, different.
By the time they stepped back into her chambers, the night had settled into something deeper, quieter, the world beyond the walls softened into stillness. The faint light of the remaining candles cast a warm, low glow across the room, untouched since she had left it, the order of it standing in quiet contrast to everything the evening had become.
Gwen made it no further than the bed.
She simply let herself fall back against the sheets with a soft, breathless laugh, one arm draped loosely across her middle as though the motion itself had carried the last of her energy with it. The fabric of Gwaine’s clothes shifted easily beneath her, still unfamiliar and yet now entirely welcome, the weightlessness of them only adding to the quiet relief that settled into her limbs.
For a moment, she did nothing at all. She allowed herself to just breathe and exist. The faintest smile lingered at the corner of her mouth, unguarded, unmeasured, the echo of the night still warm beneath her skin.
Gwaine, meanwhile, was still moving. He moved quietly through the room, the ease of his presence unchanged, though his energy had softened into something more grounded now, more attentive. He poured water into a cup from the pitcher by her bedside, setting it within reach without comment, before reaching into the inner fold of his jacket and retrieving a small vial, its contents catching the candlelight in a muted glint.
“Drink this,” he said, his tone low but matter-of-fact as he stepped closer, holding out a small vial filled with a muted, amber liquid that caught the candlelight faintly. “Trust me. Merlin made it.”
That caught her attention just enough.
She pushed herself up slightly to take it, her fingers brushing his in the exchange, her gaze narrowing with mild suspicion despite everything. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you don’t drink it,” he replied, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s his answer to bad decisions and worse mornings. Keeps the headache away, clears your head, makes you feel human again.”
She huffed a quiet laugh at that, though she did not argue further, bringing the vial to her lips and swallowing its contents in one motion. Her expression tightened just slightly at the taste before easing again.
“That is… unpleasant,” she murmured.
“Effective,” he corrected.
“For what exactly?”
“For making sure you survive tomorrow,” he said, glancing toward the window as though the memory of the council alone was reason enough. “And, more importantly, that you survive another one of those meetings without deciding to exile half the room.”
That earned a soft laugh from her, quieter now, though no less genuine, her head tipping back slightly as she exhaled.
“I make no promises,” she said.
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he returned lightly.
He reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed then, pulling it up with an ease that suggested the gesture was as natural to him as anything else he had done that night, settling it over her without fuss, ensuring it rested properly before stepping back just enough to give her space again.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice low, the words simple, but no less sincere for it. "For everything."
He shrugged, though the motion was gentler than usual. “Anytime.”
She hesitated just briefly before adding, her tone shifting slightly and the hint of mischief returning, “Don’t tell anyone.”
That drew a quiet huff of amusement from him, his head tilting just slightly as though considering the request.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.
A small silence followed, though it did not linger heavily. Gwen shifted slightly beneath the blanket, settling more comfortably against the pillows, her gaze drifting toward him once more as though reluctant, in some quiet way, to let the moment end just yet.
“You are aware,” she said, her tone taking on a faint edge of mock formality, softened by the warmth still threaded through it, “that you have just conspired with the Queen of Camelot in acts of dishonesty, public misconduct, and… questionable gambling practices.”
Gwaine folded his arms loosely, the corner of his mouth lifting again as he regarded her. “I’ll take my chances.”
“You should be more concerned,” she continued, though the attempt at severity faltered almost immediately under the weight of her own amusement. “I could have you punished.”
“For what, exactly?” he asked, feigning thought. “Encouraging poor decisions?”
“For enabling them,” she corrected.
“That sounds worse,” he admitted.
“It is.” Another small pause. Then, softer now, though no less playful: “Good night, Sir Gwaine.”
There was something in the way she said it, something that belonged only to moments like this, where titles could be worn lightly without losing what they meant. He held her gaze for a moment longer before answering, his voice just as quiet, just as steady, though touched with something unmistakably fond.
“Good night, my lady.”
She smiled.
And this time, when she closed her eyes, the quiet that followed was not heavy, nor burdened by what awaited her in the morning, but softened by everything the night had given her, the warmth of it lingering just long enough to carry her into deep and calm sleep.