100 Fantasies Challenge: #85:Gwen/Guinevere
Title: Gwen/Guinevere
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen
Rating/Warnings: G
Spoilers: Nope. However if you haven’t heard Arthur call Gwen, Guinevere in his way then I suggest you check that out first (the best ones are in episode 10 and 13) just so you get what I’m talking about, though it’s not a necessity just an idea.
Disclaimer: ALAS, WOE IS ME! I still don’t own anything…
Summary: Gwen’s thoughts on how she feels when Arthur calls her Guinevere.
Word Count: 720
Author’s Notes: This was written for the 100 fantasies challenge hosted by camelot_love The prompt was: Calling Her "Guinevere"
The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names-Chinese probverb
--------
Guinevere. Three syllables, her name.
“It’s a strong, proud, kind, loving, beautiful, graceful name and you my darling are all those things”
That’s what her mother had told her when she’d asked why the name was given to her. It was a name fit for a lady and yet that had always been the problem, the reason she had chosen to go by Gwen. She wasn’t a lady; yes she was of the female variety but a lady, never. Her hands were coarse; years of hard work had taken its toll on them. No longer were they smooth and soft the way a lady’s should be, the life of a servant had claimed them and with it had taken her name.
She was maid, a commoner, nothing more and nothing less and she was content with it. Satisfied to watch the show yet never star in it. A spectator hidden by a curtain that would flicker and flutter occasionally, allowing her a rare glimpse of the audience, but would never fully be drawn. The curtain would always be there blocking her path to the stage.
Guinevere was a shadow on the wall; it had no face or life. It was merely a black blur on the walls of her mind, untouchable. Guinevere eluded her with every breath she drew. Mocking her inability to live up to the name her mother had so fondly given her, ridiculing her incapability of doing it justice.
Gwen would watch Morgana as she walked about the court full of confidence and elegance. She would see how the men stopped dead, entranced by her beauty and poise. With one simple word Morgana could tear a man down or lift him high, while Gwen would stumble and stutter, speaking before she thought. Morgana’s hands were soft and silky, no harsh work had been forced upon them. She was a lady of Camelot. The name Guinevere suited her far more than it did Gwen and with every glance at Morgana, every moment Gwen stood in her place behind, Guinevere slipped further and further away from her. She wasn’t resentful of the fact, jealous or envious; it was merely a truth; a reality that Gwen could not hide from.
If she was honest she preferred it that way. She was almost happy to be reminded of her position, to recall that Gwen was best suitable for her. Gwen was comfortable; she knew her well, could trace every line on her face in the dark. Guinevere was always out of reach. She, Gwen could never be worthy of such a name, never deserve it and yet when he spoke it, said those three syllables it was like she was born to bear it.
She was bold, sure of herself, she was Guinevere and although Gwen was still there bubbling inside of her, Guinevere was no longer the shadow on the wall but rather Gwen was. Although the shadow of Gwen had a face, a life, she could touch her, feel her. So even though she was Guinevere in those moments when he spoke her name she was still holding the hand of Gwen, they were side by side. Balanced. Together.
When Arthur, prince of Camelot, articulated her full name she was a lady worthy of it. She was a star shinning brightly on the jet black stage unable to hide yet unable to wish to. She could see her audience, feel the spotlight on her face and though she was nervous the sense of worth and accomplishment out weighed them.
She wondered if he knew when his voice uttered her name he bestowed upon her strength and a value she never knew she could feel for Guinevere. She questioned if he noticed the power it gave her, whether he could see how she grew taller, how her heart swelled to twice its size.
She’d reveal it to him one day when the time was right. She’d explain that by calling her Guinevere in his way he’d taken away the peasant, the spectator. He’d left Gwen but merely rid her of the baggage that she carried on her shoulders every day. Arthur had freed her of the chains that bound. He’d given her hope, her herself. Arthur had brought her to life, he’d breathed in Guinevere. He’d made her heart beat.