Author: logansrogue (Nancy Lorenz)
Genre: One Shot, Arthur POV
Spoilers: Season 2 Episodes
Disclaimer: The character depictions there-in belong to the BBC.
Summary: She does not know, nor have I told her, nor will I till I'm king...
Author’s notes: This is just a rough little one-shot that has been clanking around in my head for a while. Love-lorn Arthur has been singing sonnets to his lady and I, I had to write them down. Perhaps I'm a little taken with Gwen myself! She is very lovely! Perhaps this is a secret missive Arthur wrote when he couldn't sleep one night? I know the tone of the piece is pretty formal and Arthur rarely speaks like that in the show, but I can imagine him making this pact to himself one day. Hah, wouldn't it be awesome if Merlin found it? *chuckle* Anyway, here it is. Un-beta read, for I'm up to my ears in commissions and so forth. Warning - it's SAPPY and poetic. But I'm old-fashioned at heart.
She does not know, nor have I told her, nor will I till I'm king. That is a harder thing than fighting beasts and facing my good father's anger.
I remember standing in her little cottage, the place that once was a hovel and an insult, but is now a place I wish I could escape to again. To sleep on that horrible little bed and to wake up to the sound of her humming and making herself breakfast... It is better than a castle, more wholesome than the hearth in my room, that would take up her entire kitchen.
I remember watching her lovely dark eyes as she read my note, her slender, gentle hand touching that single red rose. I remember her touching my face just the same way she tenderly caressed that rose. It is burnt into my mind. It is there every time I close my eyes.
No matter how I say it, my words of hope do not find a home in her heart. When she curtseys and bows her head to say goodbye, how I wish she never had to do that again. How I prayed to God that one day, the world would bow to her in such a way. How worthy is she of such honour?
She toils by day, quietly and with no complaints. She is happy to serve the dear Lady Morgana, who I wonder if she is more a sister to Guinevere than a Lady over her. Despite her station, she is triumphant and majestic. I have met so many of royal blood, and so few have her grace and kindness.
I want her to be my Queen.
It is a promise I've made to myself, though I have told no-one, no-one at all. Long nights I spend, wondering how I will make it so when I am king. I do not look forward to such a thing, for it would mean the end of my dear Father. But I will wait till that horrible day before I seek her for my royal wife. Till that day comes, I shall want no royal woman to be my love.
Guinevere doesn't believe me, that I will wait that long. Perhaps it is a part of her stirring humility, that she feels this is so. Or perhaps it's the harshness of the life of a servant girl, making her disbelieve that something so wonderful could happen for us.
No matter the time or the protestations of my father, I will wait for her.
I will be happy to see her cross the courtyard beside her Lady, the sunny afternoon breeze playing about the stray midnight curls that frame her lovely face. I will treasure every smile that skips upon her lips and lights my day. I will keep our stolen moments where our eyes meet as we pass each other in the corridors close to my heart.
Every night, as I go to sleep, remember the holy touch of her lips, that stolen moment in my tent when I was under a magical stupor. Coming out of that false love was like coming out of the night into a golden dawn. Her embrace was as warm, her touch as invigorating and inspiring. I ache for that moment again, again and again, living in sweet agony knowing that it will be years before I shall hold her so again. The memory of it is like a prayer, for it was heaven in her arms, and I knew I was with the woman who should be my wife. I long to go back to that heaven. I know I must, it must be so.
I tried to tell her, that this was a promise to her heart I would keep, but her hope died in the cruel play of magical lust. I will live to prove my love to her.
She does not know it, that my love for her is undying. She does not know how brightly she shines in my affections, that no woman can come close to her splendour and beauty. She does not know that every day till I can ask her to be my wife are days I am waiting to begin living.
She does not know, nor can I tell her, not until I am King of Camelot. On that day, Camelot may celebrate the crown of the Kingdom sitting upon my brow. My heart shall be beating triumphant, hoping upon hope that my love will have waited for me.