Fic: Alone With You - Motherhood
Title: Motherhood
Author: imgination
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Morgana, OC
Word Count: 3000
Disclaimer: I don’t own it!
Summary: In Arthur’s absence, Gwen dwells on another missing person.
A/N: This update is long overdue, but that you all so much for reading ... and prodding me to work. It looks like we're nearing the home stretch. ♥ I should also mention that in light of things that happened toward the end of Series 2, this is story is AU after 2.07.
The latest installment in 'Alone With You,' the story of Guinevere's pregnancy.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
“Is there anything else you require, my lady?” asked Hannah as she withdrew, fingertips lingering lightly on her queen’s shoulder.
Gwen forced a small smile. “Not at the moment, no,” she murmured in reply, and reached up to give the elder woman’s hand a squeeze. All she needed now was rest and more rest; it had been her prescription for months now, and she doubted it would change in the foreseeable future. She reclined back onto her pillows. “Thank you for tending to me so diligently.”
Hannah lingered only a moment, concerned etched into her face, but she could not argue with her mistress. So she bowed her head and took her leave, closing the heavy door to Gwen’s chambers with a firm click.
Maternal warmth was something of a distant memory - wisps of her mother were anchored far in the past, like the remnants of a dream rather than something tangible, real - such that Gwen rarely recognized it when in its presence. But even she was not so obtuse as to be blind to the extra care Hannah had bestowed on her in recent days. It was not simply the kindness of a servant tending to her mistress; rather, it was the generosity of an woman looking after her daughter, and Guinevere was grateful if not a tad uncertain what to do in response. Distantly, she wondered just how distressed she looked, people were treating her so gently these days.
At first it irked her. Three weeks ago to the day, Arthur and Merlin rode out to the druid camp, knights and guards in tow. Guinevere tended to her duties - and Arthur’s - without missing a step. She ruled with a steady hand, saw that the work in the lower town went on unhindered as early fall moved into Camelot, dealt with petitioners, and sent updates to the king as necessary. Nothing she did should have been cause for alarm among the castle’s inhabitants.
But those first days, when she’d expected to see him again soon, and for everything to be set right again, became a week … and then two. Whispers of ‘abandoned’ and ‘critical hour’ did not escape her ears in the hall.
Guinevere was not abandoned. Morgana, for one, was a constant presence in court as ever, listening in silence as Gwen held court.
But then Morgana’s silence had become deafening in the wake of Arthur and Merlin’s departure to the druids. It was no secret that her sister-in-law longed to go, though she had not told Gwen explicitly. But, shockingly, she had not demanded to accompany them, made no mention of it.
So Gwen had. Over dinner, a week ago, Gwen finally asked why. And though Morgana denied her interest on being part of such an adventure, the flick of her gaze - from Guinevere’s face down to her ever-expanding belly - the young queen knew. And deep down, resented it.
A familiar scratching started up from the floor beneath Arthur’s side of the bed. Gwen awkwardly rolled onto her other side, looking out into the empty space beside her.
“Come on then,” she whispered affectionately.
Silence, then more scratching. Gwen propped herself up. “Come on,” she encouraged, louder.
Another brief pause, and the bed shook with the added weight of another, not quite as heavy as her husband yet growing every day. His dog - pet project - made for a sweet substitute. The puppy padded across the mattress, tongue lolling and brown eyes bright in the moonlight.
She wasn’t exactly sure when she began permitting this. Gwen supposed it coincided with the realization that she was having trouble sleeping without some other warm person in the room.
“At least you’re acting normal,” murmured Gwen, sitting up slowly. Training and diligence was beginning to pay off; he did not move to lick her face, but was positively shaking with the desire.
Once upright, Gwen instantly regretted it. A tremor of nausea and pain shocked her at once, tight heat from behind her stomach. She couldn’t help but cry out.
Which then she regretted as well, the clamor of feet outside the door was immediate. Her room was suddenly flooded with light from the antechamber, followed quickly by an alarmed Rosaline and guard gripping his spear tight at the ready. They stumbled in, and the dog sounded the alarm, barking wildly from its place beside his master.
“My lady!” gasped Rosaline, a few paces short of the bed, eyeing the dog wearily, “What happened?”
Gwen grasped for the sheets, and attempted to draw the blanket over her. But encumbered by the aching bulge of her stomach, the fabric barely made it over her bellybutton.
“I’m sorry,” she started, covering her breasts awkwardly with an arm, “You can go … oh!”
“Are you- … having the baby?”
Wincing, Gwen shifted her hips. “Heavens, no! Just …”
The guard was oblivious. “Shall I fetch the physician?”
“No!” hissed Gwen emphatically, feeling her temper rise in a way it hadn’t since the beginning of her pregnancy.
Rosaline turned her back to Gwen, but that didn’t prevent the queen from overhearing her poorly whispered: “Do you think we should?”
“I said I’m fine,” snapped Gwen. Deep inside, the baby threw an irritated jab; Gwen gasped and rocked her hips the other way.
With a calm and resolve Gwen had not witnessed from her before, Rosaline turned to face her mistress. “Forgive me, my lady,” she began evenly, candle in her hand flickering, defiant, “You do not seem ‘fine.’”
Queen, guard, maid and dog sat in silent standoff for a long moment. But the baby put Gwen at a disadvantage; she relented first, collapsing back onto her pillows.
In an instant, the pressure was gone, and she broke a small sweat from relief. “I am,” she breathed, and something in her face must’ve reassured Rosaline. She turned and nodded the guard away.
It would happen that Arthur’s departure would coincide with this unpleasant turn. Her baby’s movements had become far more wild, and seemingly constant. The physician said that this was simply the consequence of growing, but Gwen wondered if she wasn’t doing something to bring it upon herself. Boy or girl, whatever she had would inherent Arthur’s will and stubbornness. With increasing frequency, it pushed and pushed, forcing Gwen to sit or lay down in a position it demanded, and often sitting was simply not in the cards.
Rosaline was beside her before she realized it, dabbing away at her forehead with a kerchief. Next to her, the dog still bristled at the interruption.
Gwen could not meet her handmaiden’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. She hated being the center of such theatrics.
“No need to apologize,” replied Rosaline sweetly. “What happened?”
“Just … the usual.” She wanted to laugh, but couldn’t find the energy. So instead she reached up and stilled Rose’s hand. “You must be exhausted; why aren’t you home?”
Her eyes flashed, and even in the dark, Gwen could see the blush creep up her neck. “Oh, I’d much rather sleep here-”
“I was a handmaiden as well, you know,” interrupted Gwen. Under usual circumstances, she’d sit up to speak, but she dared not try that again. So she settled for a knowing gaze. “The servant’s quarters are nothing compared to the comfort of one’s own bed-”
“Well, yes, but-”
“Did the king put you up to this?”
The corner of Rosaline’s mouth gave her away, and as soon as Gwen raised an eyebrow, her servant’s expression bloomed into a sheepish grin. “Well, I agreed.”
“For three weeks you haven’t slept at home?”
“My lady, I would not leave you alone here-”
“What must your mother think of me?” gasped Gwen, shutting her eyes tight. “Oh, Arthur is going to get an earful-”
“My mother’s had me for years, she could spare me for a month in your service.”
Gwen smiled wearily, and peeked a look at Rosaline, seated next to her. “That’s very kind of you. Too kind … but it would give me more peace if you rested comfortably.”
“Respectfully, my lady, I’d rather stay here.”
Slow warmth spread through Gwen. She inched a little closer to her dog, who quickly took the opportunity to nestle its head in the crook of her arm. She could not argue with Rosaline’s choice; it was her decision to make. So she simply nodded. “If you like.”
The matter settled, Rosaline looked toward the door, though she did not rise from her place on Gwen’s bed. “Shall I fetch the Lady Morgana?”
“No,” murmured Gwen, rubbing the curve of her belly absently. It was late, and she felt ashamed enough having drawn Rosaline back to her quarters as it was already. “I’ll see her in the morning. But we might talk a little longer, the baby’s moving round again.”
“Ooh!” Gwen’s servant squealed. “Is he awake?”
“‘He’? Not yesterday you called him ‘the princess,’” Gwen teased, making space.
Rosaline settled in close, as Gwen imagined she might’ve with her own mother, once upon a time. As she had with Morgana years ago. She let Rosaline talk her into sleep, and dreams of her husband on the horizon.
***
Gwen did make good on a promise to herself. First thing the next day, she sought Morgana out, and enlisted her on an errand she could not send someone else to perform for her.
She was thankful that they were able to depart the palace early, before too many were out and about. They wound their way down the road and into the towns unnoticed for the most part, and those who did simply bowed politely and got on with their day. Camelot was a working place, and it warmed Gwen’s heart to be among those with better things to tend to than making too much of a fuss over her.
Upon marriage, many had expected her to give the place up. The assumption had been that she would shed all indicators of her former, shameful life, unbound by its “limitations.” And Guinevere had entertained the notion for her own reasons; why maintain a house for the sheer value of calling it hers? She would have a new roof over her head, a new bed to sleep in … certainly, the home that had served her well her whole life could serve another.
But when the time came, the bond was too difficult to break. It was not simply her house; it had been her father’s house, and before him, her mother’s. It was the place they had made their own, filled with a fragile little light and bright voices and family. Gwen’s father was buried, but her mother had no grave. She could not get rid of her memory there.
For all the closeness of their friendship, Morgana had never spent much time at Gwen’s home. Not that it made sense to.
She stepped delicately around a few chickens, congregated at the side of the road. “Are we looking for something in particular?”
Gwen nodded to a man in passing, holding up the hem of her dress out of habit rather than necessity. “Perhaps,” was all she offered, eyes trained on the familiar, wooden frame.
“So mysterious, Gwen?” Morgana laughed lightly, narrowly avoiding a milky brown puddle, “How unlike you.”
Gwen smiled. “Not mysterious. I’m just not sure yet.”
Together, they stepped into the shade of the awning at the front of the house. A long dried out swag of flowers, tied neatly in the center, hung just above the door, and slats of wood covered the front window frames. With a careful hand, Gwen pushed the handle open.
Somehow it shocked her that so much was left unchanged. After her wedding, she’d visited only twice: first, to collect a few forgotten, crucial items; the second to ensure that it was still safe. Though it made her heart ache to think of this place as lost to her, it stirred a number of uncomfortable things to dwell. She generally steered clear.
The first thing she noticed, stepping through the threshold, was the light. Even at their lowest moments, Tom kept his home full of light and warmth. Even when Eleanor was on what would be her deathbed, and Gwen was kissing her goodbye to stay with her aunt, her house was not a dark and sad place. Tom did not entertain demons here.
Dust, like a film, had settled over everything. Most of Gwen’s possessions - the house’s former signs of life - were stored safely in the bowels of the castle. What remained - a table, a bench, a chair - was woefully unused.
Her shoes sounded so loud on the floor, Gwen had to wonder if it had always been that way. She stepped as lightly as she could, tentatively, in.
“Is it all how you remember it?”
Morgana’s voice made Gwen jump. Behind her, Morgana was standing with hands clasped in front of her, eyes wide and not a little weary. It made Gwen wonder whether she, as a seer, was experiencing the same rush of memory Gwen was … though the memories would not be her own.
“It was never so unclean,” murmured Gwen, dragging her fingers across the table, drawing tracks of brown across the gray.
The dark haired lady nodded, but made no move to enter. “Shall I give you some privacy?”
Gwen’s eyebrows shot up, and she turned to look at Morgana head on. “It’s not too private.”
Morgana nodded. “If you don’t mind, though, I’ll wait outside.”
Something indecipherable passed over her face as she looked past Gwen and into the home. Her mind was already made up, and Gwen certainly wouldn’t ask more of her. “Of course,” she replied, “I’ll only be a minute.”
Alone, Gwen set to work. In the very back, behind a now empty chest, sat a low, innocuous chest, previously concealed by sacks of potatoes and grain. Very carefully, Gwen lowered herself down onto her knees before it, nearly tipping backwards off-balance. It was not a comfortable position in the slightest; the weight of her stomach made her lower body feel squeezed as soon as she settled down.
She exhaled slowly, ignoring the press of her baby against her spine, objecting to this new way of sitting. Instead, she focused on the task at hand - and Morgana waiting outside.
The chest, as always, remained unlocked. Once upon a time, it held Tom’s smaller blacksmithing tools, especially those of no more use but great sentimental value. Those now had a place in the castle, in Guinevere’s room, stowed neatly away until she could bequeath them to her child. Now, she opened it to reveal an array of dried flowers, resting on an old gray blanket.
Gwen extracted the flowers as carefully as she could, though their leaves and petals crumbled in her hands. Beneath the blanket were scraps of paper, receipts, pages ripped out of Tom’s ledger. She leaned forward and reached in, in search.
Eleanor left Gwen few mementos in death. When she passed, Tom had most of what she’d owned burned, as a precaution against disease. It troubled her as a child, but less and less with each year that passed; Eleanor faded from mother into memory. And eventually, all that remained were stories … not the stories Tom repeated to Gwen by request, but the stories Eleanor told Gwen when was too ill to move, too weak to sit up and braid her daughter’s hair or teach her how to cook. Stories she found the strength to scribble down so Gwen could look back at them in her absence.
Little did she know, her death would give Gwen little reason to seek fairytales. She did not believe in them.
But that did not mean Gwen didn’t want her child to know Eleanor’s spirit. Guinevere loved the parent that had remained with her whole heart, made him both mother and father. But she would honor Eleanor as much as she honored him; her baby would have the tools of a blacksmith, and the scrawl of a short-lived woman with an impressive mind.
***
That night, Gwen fell back, exhausted. It had taken nearly the entire day, and pulling the house apart, to find her mother’s papers. She’d searched until her legs ached and her back hurt, and she’d been just about ready to give up … only to find them folded neatly beneath her old mattress.
She settled into bed, dog sprawled out beside her, and candle burning away. Tired though she was, Gwen couldn’t resist her Eleanor’s call. She read, comforted by an absent mother’s words, tall tales and fables she could now pass on in good conscience.
And when her husband’s lips on her eyelids woke her hours later, in the dead of night, Gwen delighted in the knowledge that he was absolutely, irrevocably real
Author: imgination
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Morgana, OC
Word Count: 3000
Disclaimer: I don’t own it!
Summary: In Arthur’s absence, Gwen dwells on another missing person.
A/N: This update is long overdue, but that you all so much for reading ... and prodding me to work. It looks like we're nearing the home stretch. ♥ I should also mention that in light of things that happened toward the end of Series 2, this is story is AU after 2.07.
The latest installment in 'Alone With You,' the story of Guinevere's pregnancy.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
“Is there anything else you require, my lady?” asked Hannah as she withdrew, fingertips lingering lightly on her queen’s shoulder.
Gwen forced a small smile. “Not at the moment, no,” she murmured in reply, and reached up to give the elder woman’s hand a squeeze. All she needed now was rest and more rest; it had been her prescription for months now, and she doubted it would change in the foreseeable future. She reclined back onto her pillows. “Thank you for tending to me so diligently.”
Hannah lingered only a moment, concerned etched into her face, but she could not argue with her mistress. So she bowed her head and took her leave, closing the heavy door to Gwen’s chambers with a firm click.
Maternal warmth was something of a distant memory - wisps of her mother were anchored far in the past, like the remnants of a dream rather than something tangible, real - such that Gwen rarely recognized it when in its presence. But even she was not so obtuse as to be blind to the extra care Hannah had bestowed on her in recent days. It was not simply the kindness of a servant tending to her mistress; rather, it was the generosity of an woman looking after her daughter, and Guinevere was grateful if not a tad uncertain what to do in response. Distantly, she wondered just how distressed she looked, people were treating her so gently these days.
At first it irked her. Three weeks ago to the day, Arthur and Merlin rode out to the druid camp, knights and guards in tow. Guinevere tended to her duties - and Arthur’s - without missing a step. She ruled with a steady hand, saw that the work in the lower town went on unhindered as early fall moved into Camelot, dealt with petitioners, and sent updates to the king as necessary. Nothing she did should have been cause for alarm among the castle’s inhabitants.
But those first days, when she’d expected to see him again soon, and for everything to be set right again, became a week … and then two. Whispers of ‘abandoned’ and ‘critical hour’ did not escape her ears in the hall.
Guinevere was not abandoned. Morgana, for one, was a constant presence in court as ever, listening in silence as Gwen held court.
But then Morgana’s silence had become deafening in the wake of Arthur and Merlin’s departure to the druids. It was no secret that her sister-in-law longed to go, though she had not told Gwen explicitly. But, shockingly, she had not demanded to accompany them, made no mention of it.
So Gwen had. Over dinner, a week ago, Gwen finally asked why. And though Morgana denied her interest on being part of such an adventure, the flick of her gaze - from Guinevere’s face down to her ever-expanding belly - the young queen knew. And deep down, resented it.
A familiar scratching started up from the floor beneath Arthur’s side of the bed. Gwen awkwardly rolled onto her other side, looking out into the empty space beside her.
“Come on then,” she whispered affectionately.
Silence, then more scratching. Gwen propped herself up. “Come on,” she encouraged, louder.
Another brief pause, and the bed shook with the added weight of another, not quite as heavy as her husband yet growing every day. His dog - pet project - made for a sweet substitute. The puppy padded across the mattress, tongue lolling and brown eyes bright in the moonlight.
She wasn’t exactly sure when she began permitting this. Gwen supposed it coincided with the realization that she was having trouble sleeping without some other warm person in the room.
“At least you’re acting normal,” murmured Gwen, sitting up slowly. Training and diligence was beginning to pay off; he did not move to lick her face, but was positively shaking with the desire.
Once upright, Gwen instantly regretted it. A tremor of nausea and pain shocked her at once, tight heat from behind her stomach. She couldn’t help but cry out.
Which then she regretted as well, the clamor of feet outside the door was immediate. Her room was suddenly flooded with light from the antechamber, followed quickly by an alarmed Rosaline and guard gripping his spear tight at the ready. They stumbled in, and the dog sounded the alarm, barking wildly from its place beside his master.
“My lady!” gasped Rosaline, a few paces short of the bed, eyeing the dog wearily, “What happened?”
Gwen grasped for the sheets, and attempted to draw the blanket over her. But encumbered by the aching bulge of her stomach, the fabric barely made it over her bellybutton.
“I’m sorry,” she started, covering her breasts awkwardly with an arm, “You can go … oh!”
“Are you- … having the baby?”
Wincing, Gwen shifted her hips. “Heavens, no! Just …”
The guard was oblivious. “Shall I fetch the physician?”
“No!” hissed Gwen emphatically, feeling her temper rise in a way it hadn’t since the beginning of her pregnancy.
Rosaline turned her back to Gwen, but that didn’t prevent the queen from overhearing her poorly whispered: “Do you think we should?”
“I said I’m fine,” snapped Gwen. Deep inside, the baby threw an irritated jab; Gwen gasped and rocked her hips the other way.
With a calm and resolve Gwen had not witnessed from her before, Rosaline turned to face her mistress. “Forgive me, my lady,” she began evenly, candle in her hand flickering, defiant, “You do not seem ‘fine.’”
Queen, guard, maid and dog sat in silent standoff for a long moment. But the baby put Gwen at a disadvantage; she relented first, collapsing back onto her pillows.
In an instant, the pressure was gone, and she broke a small sweat from relief. “I am,” she breathed, and something in her face must’ve reassured Rosaline. She turned and nodded the guard away.
It would happen that Arthur’s departure would coincide with this unpleasant turn. Her baby’s movements had become far more wild, and seemingly constant. The physician said that this was simply the consequence of growing, but Gwen wondered if she wasn’t doing something to bring it upon herself. Boy or girl, whatever she had would inherent Arthur’s will and stubbornness. With increasing frequency, it pushed and pushed, forcing Gwen to sit or lay down in a position it demanded, and often sitting was simply not in the cards.
Rosaline was beside her before she realized it, dabbing away at her forehead with a kerchief. Next to her, the dog still bristled at the interruption.
Gwen could not meet her handmaiden’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. She hated being the center of such theatrics.
“No need to apologize,” replied Rosaline sweetly. “What happened?”
“Just … the usual.” She wanted to laugh, but couldn’t find the energy. So instead she reached up and stilled Rose’s hand. “You must be exhausted; why aren’t you home?”
Her eyes flashed, and even in the dark, Gwen could see the blush creep up her neck. “Oh, I’d much rather sleep here-”
“I was a handmaiden as well, you know,” interrupted Gwen. Under usual circumstances, she’d sit up to speak, but she dared not try that again. So she settled for a knowing gaze. “The servant’s quarters are nothing compared to the comfort of one’s own bed-”
“Well, yes, but-”
“Did the king put you up to this?”
The corner of Rosaline’s mouth gave her away, and as soon as Gwen raised an eyebrow, her servant’s expression bloomed into a sheepish grin. “Well, I agreed.”
“For three weeks you haven’t slept at home?”
“My lady, I would not leave you alone here-”
“What must your mother think of me?” gasped Gwen, shutting her eyes tight. “Oh, Arthur is going to get an earful-”
“My mother’s had me for years, she could spare me for a month in your service.”
Gwen smiled wearily, and peeked a look at Rosaline, seated next to her. “That’s very kind of you. Too kind … but it would give me more peace if you rested comfortably.”
“Respectfully, my lady, I’d rather stay here.”
Slow warmth spread through Gwen. She inched a little closer to her dog, who quickly took the opportunity to nestle its head in the crook of her arm. She could not argue with Rosaline’s choice; it was her decision to make. So she simply nodded. “If you like.”
The matter settled, Rosaline looked toward the door, though she did not rise from her place on Gwen’s bed. “Shall I fetch the Lady Morgana?”
“No,” murmured Gwen, rubbing the curve of her belly absently. It was late, and she felt ashamed enough having drawn Rosaline back to her quarters as it was already. “I’ll see her in the morning. But we might talk a little longer, the baby’s moving round again.”
“Ooh!” Gwen’s servant squealed. “Is he awake?”
“‘He’? Not yesterday you called him ‘the princess,’” Gwen teased, making space.
Rosaline settled in close, as Gwen imagined she might’ve with her own mother, once upon a time. As she had with Morgana years ago. She let Rosaline talk her into sleep, and dreams of her husband on the horizon.
***
Gwen did make good on a promise to herself. First thing the next day, she sought Morgana out, and enlisted her on an errand she could not send someone else to perform for her.
She was thankful that they were able to depart the palace early, before too many were out and about. They wound their way down the road and into the towns unnoticed for the most part, and those who did simply bowed politely and got on with their day. Camelot was a working place, and it warmed Gwen’s heart to be among those with better things to tend to than making too much of a fuss over her.
Upon marriage, many had expected her to give the place up. The assumption had been that she would shed all indicators of her former, shameful life, unbound by its “limitations.” And Guinevere had entertained the notion for her own reasons; why maintain a house for the sheer value of calling it hers? She would have a new roof over her head, a new bed to sleep in … certainly, the home that had served her well her whole life could serve another.
But when the time came, the bond was too difficult to break. It was not simply her house; it had been her father’s house, and before him, her mother’s. It was the place they had made their own, filled with a fragile little light and bright voices and family. Gwen’s father was buried, but her mother had no grave. She could not get rid of her memory there.
For all the closeness of their friendship, Morgana had never spent much time at Gwen’s home. Not that it made sense to.
She stepped delicately around a few chickens, congregated at the side of the road. “Are we looking for something in particular?”
Gwen nodded to a man in passing, holding up the hem of her dress out of habit rather than necessity. “Perhaps,” was all she offered, eyes trained on the familiar, wooden frame.
“So mysterious, Gwen?” Morgana laughed lightly, narrowly avoiding a milky brown puddle, “How unlike you.”
Gwen smiled. “Not mysterious. I’m just not sure yet.”
Together, they stepped into the shade of the awning at the front of the house. A long dried out swag of flowers, tied neatly in the center, hung just above the door, and slats of wood covered the front window frames. With a careful hand, Gwen pushed the handle open.
Somehow it shocked her that so much was left unchanged. After her wedding, she’d visited only twice: first, to collect a few forgotten, crucial items; the second to ensure that it was still safe. Though it made her heart ache to think of this place as lost to her, it stirred a number of uncomfortable things to dwell. She generally steered clear.
The first thing she noticed, stepping through the threshold, was the light. Even at their lowest moments, Tom kept his home full of light and warmth. Even when Eleanor was on what would be her deathbed, and Gwen was kissing her goodbye to stay with her aunt, her house was not a dark and sad place. Tom did not entertain demons here.
Dust, like a film, had settled over everything. Most of Gwen’s possessions - the house’s former signs of life - were stored safely in the bowels of the castle. What remained - a table, a bench, a chair - was woefully unused.
Her shoes sounded so loud on the floor, Gwen had to wonder if it had always been that way. She stepped as lightly as she could, tentatively, in.
“Is it all how you remember it?”
Morgana’s voice made Gwen jump. Behind her, Morgana was standing with hands clasped in front of her, eyes wide and not a little weary. It made Gwen wonder whether she, as a seer, was experiencing the same rush of memory Gwen was … though the memories would not be her own.
“It was never so unclean,” murmured Gwen, dragging her fingers across the table, drawing tracks of brown across the gray.
The dark haired lady nodded, but made no move to enter. “Shall I give you some privacy?”
Gwen’s eyebrows shot up, and she turned to look at Morgana head on. “It’s not too private.”
Morgana nodded. “If you don’t mind, though, I’ll wait outside.”
Something indecipherable passed over her face as she looked past Gwen and into the home. Her mind was already made up, and Gwen certainly wouldn’t ask more of her. “Of course,” she replied, “I’ll only be a minute.”
Alone, Gwen set to work. In the very back, behind a now empty chest, sat a low, innocuous chest, previously concealed by sacks of potatoes and grain. Very carefully, Gwen lowered herself down onto her knees before it, nearly tipping backwards off-balance. It was not a comfortable position in the slightest; the weight of her stomach made her lower body feel squeezed as soon as she settled down.
She exhaled slowly, ignoring the press of her baby against her spine, objecting to this new way of sitting. Instead, she focused on the task at hand - and Morgana waiting outside.
The chest, as always, remained unlocked. Once upon a time, it held Tom’s smaller blacksmithing tools, especially those of no more use but great sentimental value. Those now had a place in the castle, in Guinevere’s room, stowed neatly away until she could bequeath them to her child. Now, she opened it to reveal an array of dried flowers, resting on an old gray blanket.
Gwen extracted the flowers as carefully as she could, though their leaves and petals crumbled in her hands. Beneath the blanket were scraps of paper, receipts, pages ripped out of Tom’s ledger. She leaned forward and reached in, in search.
Eleanor left Gwen few mementos in death. When she passed, Tom had most of what she’d owned burned, as a precaution against disease. It troubled her as a child, but less and less with each year that passed; Eleanor faded from mother into memory. And eventually, all that remained were stories … not the stories Tom repeated to Gwen by request, but the stories Eleanor told Gwen when was too ill to move, too weak to sit up and braid her daughter’s hair or teach her how to cook. Stories she found the strength to scribble down so Gwen could look back at them in her absence.
Little did she know, her death would give Gwen little reason to seek fairytales. She did not believe in them.
But that did not mean Gwen didn’t want her child to know Eleanor’s spirit. Guinevere loved the parent that had remained with her whole heart, made him both mother and father. But she would honor Eleanor as much as she honored him; her baby would have the tools of a blacksmith, and the scrawl of a short-lived woman with an impressive mind.
***
That night, Gwen fell back, exhausted. It had taken nearly the entire day, and pulling the house apart, to find her mother’s papers. She’d searched until her legs ached and her back hurt, and she’d been just about ready to give up … only to find them folded neatly beneath her old mattress.
She settled into bed, dog sprawled out beside her, and candle burning away. Tired though she was, Gwen couldn’t resist her Eleanor’s call. She read, comforted by an absent mother’s words, tall tales and fables she could now pass on in good conscience.
And when her husband’s lips on her eyelids woke her hours later, in the dead of night, Gwen delighted in the knowledge that he was absolutely, irrevocably real