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Chapter Text

Hidden Favor

“Surely you might spare your queen a dance, good Gawain,” Guinevere said, her grey eyes cold and smiling. She rose from her seat beside beside him.

“Surely I might not,” Gawain replied, staring at the procession on the far side of the hall. “Your lord and mine should not permit it.”

“You jest!” Guinevere exclaimed. She reached with both hands now, slim fingers splayed on Gawain’s forearm. “Surely he should.”

“What I should or should not do,” Arthur said into his wine, “is debatable.” He set the chalice down. “Unfortunately, it was a poor jest.”

“And I have not the heart for any jesting greater, sir,” Gawain said irritably.

How they would stop at nothing, since Gawain’s return, to lift his spirits! He watched the procession slowly approach, counting the dishes as they came. A few of the kitchen boys buckled under the heavy platters, their leather shoes scraping the smooth stone floor for purchase. Gawain also pitied the court musicians, freezing in their miserable corner behind the dais.

“Gawain, dear boy,” Arthur said, “look that you please the lady.”

“Yes, sir,” Gawain sighed. He stood and bowed stiffly, rising to meet Guinevere’s motionless gaze. “By your leave.”

The queen pouted and grasped his hand, pulling him along the row of chairs, back after familiar back: Agravain, Bishop Baldwin, nameless relations, Ywain. How could it be that she spared them, and how could it be that he had not? They still wore the sign of his shame about their shoulders and across their chests, innocent in their mirth. Gawain had not shown the mark for months, weary of the court’s game. They did not understand. Only its absence now might free him from their crushing acceptance. It had chilled him through the spring and summer, and at the first breath of fall, he had hidden the Green Knight’s favor.

No longer would sunlight warm those otherworldly gold-streaked threads.

“Gawain, you are as clumsy as Gringolet in a swamp,” Guinevere told him. She led him before the dais and curtseyed low, fixing Arthur with her icy smile. She ignored Gawain and bowed to the applause of the others, still clutching Gawain’s hand.

“You have never seen Gringolet in a swamp,” Gawain said under his breath.

“No, but you have told us about it many times.” Guinevere still smiled at their audience, lifting her skirt with her free hand. Gawain felt the ground slide beneath his left foot.

“I never said—” Gawain drew in his breath, lifting his foot from her hem.

Guinevere had stepped in front of him, her lips as poised as ever.

“No, but I have imagination enough to conjure it,” she said, taking Gawain’s other hand.

Yet not enough to kill you, Gawain thought.

The procession was forced to move around them, trays and dishes swaying unsteadily as Guinevere led the dance. Gawain could scarcely hear the music; he hoped blindly that the queen’s uncanny sense of rhythm would save them from accident, but trust it?

Never again for a woman, his trust, save for the visage safe and silent in his shield.

“You are also as mute as a stone,” Guinevere said, spinning him away from a heaping platter of venison. “Good Gawain, whatever ails thee?” Her voice was soft in his ear, a breathy croon—almost concerned, just beyond his belief.

“Your lord speaks, my lady,” Gawain said stiffly, not putting his foot down until he was most certain it would pin her hem again.

Guinevere scowled and stopped mid-step, dropping Gawain’s hands abruptly.

“You are dearly beloved of your uncle,” she whispered, furious. “Surely you are not fool enough to think that I would refuse him—”

“Nay, you are fool enough to listen,” Gawain said with a curt bow. “Now, if it please you, my wine is waiting.”

“It does not,” Guinevere said, cool composure turned petulant, following him back to their seats. Small wonder that she had not swooned on that very day two years ago, indeed.

The procession halted before the dais, cooks and servants standing two by two, waiting for the king to speak. Gawain slid into his seat, ignoring Guinevere’s indignant stamp as she passed him and huffed down in her own. Let Arthur behead him for lack of manners, Gawain cared not—most likely the king would ignore it. In case Arthur did not, Gawain knew (such a sad, secret thrill, that thought) that no blow since this very day a year before had succeeded in striking him down. The perverse magic held firm. Gawain had not expected it to.

And he had tried, heaven knew, he had tried…

“The time for jesting, I believe, has passed,” Arthur said, rising from his seat, his voice raised high to match. The assembly cheered, fever-pitched and wild, partly in adoration and partly (Gawain guessed) in relief. Perhaps he should have played upon his hunger rather than his thirst: the queen sat all but fidgeting, hands folded across her flat stomach. How like a child she could be, and how like a child her lord.

Well-matched, Gawain thought, catching a grin from Lancelot. There was a knight willing to dance the night through, if his queen so commanded. Gawain nodded to him, thankful.

“Hear!” shouted Dodinal impatiently. “My lance did not fell that boar for naught!”

Arthur laughed, and the rest of them fell into silence.

“Nay, good huntsman, I am sure,” said the king. “You shall all feast soon, but first,” he added, “we must not forget in whose honor we have gathered here this New Year’s Day!”

Never before had Gawain so fiercely wished to hide.

Shouts of his name rose on all sides, full of cheer and praise. Gawain forced himself to smile in acknowledgement, raising his drink to the crowd. He lowered the goblet and drank deeply, inhaling the sharp, spiced scent. The sooner it went to his head, the better. The evening held him no promise, and he longed for the quiet of his chamber. If he fled, they would call him Lanval behind their gloves the next morning at Mass and laugh. It was far better to endure the festivities, to lose himself in thick, mulled red. Hot as fire, cold as blood.

“Our good knight has a healthy thirst,” Arthur announced, commanding more laughter. “To Sir Gawain, champion of the Green Chapel!”

“To Sir Gawain!”

“Knight of the Green Chapel! Hurrah!”

No. Gawain lowered his goblet and stared at the silver plate in front of him, hardly noticing that Arthur had motioned for him to be served. First venison, lean and steaming, then a thick cut of swan. Did the bird have no sense to flee for the winter? Boar next, rich with gravy and fat. Gawain waved the servants off, missing his chance at some fine, curled trout swimming in butter. Too close, too familiar. A mockery of the finest feast he had ever known, a pale shade of the Green Knight’s hospitality. I am not the Knight of the Green Chapel; whither he has gone, I know not.

“Your long face,” Guinevere murmured in his ear, “could charm an eel.”

Gawain picked up his knife and stuck the boar brusquely.

“Then I hope,” he said graciously, “that you are duly charmed.”

Guinevere’s chalice came down on his fingers, crush of heavy gold.

“How dare—”

“The gate, my lord Arthur!” The cry rang from the end of the procession, from the fair-haired page whose name everyone invariably forgot. “Porter calls!”

Gawain wound his fingers tightly in his cloak and watched through tear-stung eyes as Arthur lifted his gaze from his heaping plate and smiled.

“For God’s sake, you heard the boy—stand aside! Let them pass!”

The procession scattered, accompanied by disappointed shouts and sighs.

Fascination ruled over hunger, though, that much Gawain knew—he abandoned his knife and still he watched as the heavy door creaked on its hinges, rattling inward. There stood Porter, his poor old fingers quaking on the rough-hewn wood as he pushed with all his strength.

A shadow loomed behind him, obscured by sleet and flickering sconce-light.

“A traveler, my lord king,” rang Porter’s voice, strong in spite of his great age, “beseeches your hospitality this frozen New Year’s Day night.”

“Well, let him come!” Arthur demanded, turning to glance at Gawain. “Perhaps we’ll have our jest after all.” He winked, eyes flicking briefly to the magnificent axe mounted above the dais.

Gawain sighed and picked up his goblet. Never ours to keep, he thought, drinking down to the dregs. Never mine to claim, never yours to show. Dizzy, Gawain put down his drink and bound his fingers tighter. They stung fiercely, and his vision had not had time to properly clear.

Porter led the shadow now, guiding him out of the freezing rain and into the warm glow of the hall. Head spinning, Gawain caught glints of green and gold before he heard—

“Lord Arthur, fairest King of Earthly Kings!” hailed the visitor, standing clear of the door in all his glory. His shape flowed to the floor in a graceful, kneeling bow, his auburn locks spilling onto the stone. It was not possible; it couldn’t be.

“You are most welcome here, my weary friend,” Arthur greeted him, indicating that he should step forward. “My feast is both free and plentiful for those who ask with courtesy. My good knight, lay down your traveling robes and tarry a while.”

Gawain blinked and got to his feet, compelled, as the visitor made a sign of thanks and shed his elaborately embroidered cloak into Porter’s waiting hands. Gawain blinked again and squinted to discern designs as the garment was swept away: birds, butterflies, vines, hares, hounds.

They matched the saddle adornments in Gawain’s memory perfectly. He realized that he had swayed only after he caught himself, unknowing, palms flat against the table.

Arthur ordered another place setting, then calmly returned his attention to the visitor, who stood still and calm, quite close now. He surveyed the costly green coat and fur-trimmed mantle, nodding in approval.

“A comely knight, indeed,” said the king. “By what name shall we call you, fair friend?”

Gawain sank into his seat, but the movement was not quick enough, or perhaps too quick.

The visitor saw him, gold-flecked eyes darting as quickly as a blade. His lips curved, all but hidden by his magnificent beard, parting to speak a name that Gawain knew well.

“Bertilak de Hautdesert, your majesty. I accept your hospitality, and offer my service.”

Gawain closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair. Do they not know? How could they not? Surely he does not lack enchantment on this day of all days! Gawain stared helplessly. Bertilak knelt before the dais as he had knelt before the door, his hair in russet disarray, his hands shapely and pale clasped upon his knee, which was green only for the hose covering it.

“I do not like the look of him,” said the queen, hushed and fearful.

Gawain turned just in time to see her swoon, but not quickly enough to miss Bertilak’s smile. Amidst the uproar surrounding the queen, he stood as still as Gawain sat, watching with tempered patience. Under Bertilak’s unblinking gaze, he could not help but return the smile.

I welcome you, too, as you once welcomed me, and now all our debts are repaid.

Bertilak nodded, then allowed Porter—always hovering, that wraith of a man—to show him to his seat. Gawain sat back and sighed. He knew that if he expected to speak with Bertilak, he would have to wait. The feast, once more interrupted, had only just begun.

* * *

Gods, but the boy was beautiful.

Bertilak watched Gawain’s quick, dark eyes dart from one noble face to the next, his worry-bitten lips part with forced laughter at Sir Lancelot’s joke. Of all Arthur’s knights, Lancelot had the sharpest humor, true, but Gawain’s striking presence set him far above the rest.

They sat in a circle before the great fire, lords gathered for mirth and drink. Beside Gawain, his young cousin Ywain dozed, fair head nodding back in his seat. Bertilak compared that gold to Gawain’s tousled curls and snorted—ebony to end every manner of fair!

“But enough of that,” Lancelot finished, taking a swig of wine before wiping his mouth on his sleeve, satisfied. “We have not yet heard a feat from our guest.”

Bertilak held up his hand and drank deeply from his own cup, wordless honor and salutation.

“My deeds are quite small in comparison.” He lowered his cup and watched Gawain drink solemnly from his own with eyes fixed upon Bertilak’s over the brim: a toast, a gesture of recognition. Had the boy truly told them so little?

“Nay, it could not be so,” Ywain said, suddenly awake. “Not for a man of your size.”

Bertilak nigh felt sorry for the young knight; the ensuing laughter made Ywain’s cheeks turn pink. Gawain remained silent, but his flushed face radiated mirth as he shook his head and stared into the flames. Red wine became him well, Bertilak remembered, as had—ah, yes. An unadorned green silk sash graced every man about the circle. Every man except for Gawain.

That he should have abandoned such a dear gift…

“There is one story that I might tell,” Bertilak said, considering Gawain from his uncovered head to the languid sprawl of his limbs. Dark, rich vestments, burgundy, trimmed about the neck and cuffs with white fur, fox down as stark as snow.

Gawain, aware of Bertilak’s appraisal, sat up straight, fidgeting.

“My good lord, I assure you that I have told…” He paused, staring beyond Bertilak at the delicate Florentine tapestries. Some of it, but not all; they will not rob me of my secrets.

“Gawain, you know this man?” Agravain’s curiosity appeared to know no bounds.

“We met in my travels,” Gawain said. “I can assure you that neither of us has forgotten the other. Is that not so, my friend?” Unnerving, those eyes, when Bertilak had a mind for them to be.

“Your travels deserve congratulation, dear Gawain, as do your accomplishments. What your fellows do not know, however, I will be glad to impart. There is more than one side to every story. There is that which comes before—”

“And that which comes after,” Gawain said pensively. “Very well, lead on.”

Bertilak considered him for a moment, humbled by this unexpected permission. No, he would not tease—too cruel, that, too much for the boy’s pride and fear. Better to speak of what came before than to fill in the blanks; besides, Gawain did not know what had come after, a confession courageously spoken. Without hesitation, Bertilak began.

“I once lived in a wild moor-land where happened many wonders. More creatures than Our Lord Christ rules over in creation wander there—strange beasts and fowl, monsters in mist-deep lakes. I remember a castle high on a hill. Having traveled there, Gawain, you must remember it?”

“Yes,” Gawain said, restrained. “Surrounded by ancient pines.”

Bertilak nodded in agreement.

“A castle more handsome and forbidding, I know of none in all of Logres. I heard tell that a lord kept his council there, and that Morgan Le Fay herself heard tell of the glory of his court.”

Lancelot and Ywain crossed themselves. Agravain leaned forward, anxious.

Gawain sat back farther in his chair, fixing Bertilak with a steady look. “That part, I had not heard,” he said. “Was this lord mortal, or some woodland spirit? What did Morgan wish of him?”

“Devilry,” Ywain murmured.

“He was as mortal as yourself,” Bertilak said. “And devilry of a sort it was: she desired to be mistress of that lord and all his court, unwed as he was. They say that the lord merely laughed, said that he could not believe, not for all the realm of fey, that Morgan herself might desire him. In secret, too, they say that he did not wish to accept her, that he wished to seem polite in his refusal. This angered Morgan, to be sure—they say that she enslaved him, court and all, and, as punishment, gave him not herself as a wife, but a beauty above all others with eyes like diamonds and jewels in her hair. A beauty that he was forbidden to touch, a wife in name only. She was winsome and wily, unfaithful as fey are often wont to be. They say that her name was Pearl, after the jewels she wore.”

“Cruel, unjust Morgan,” Lancelot said sorrowfully. “What a punishment indeed!”

“I believe that I may have heard her name,” Gawain said softly.

“You listen well, my friend,” Bertilak said. “As for punishment, I cannot say—though her body was comely, her temperament left much to be desired. The lord’s true suffering was two-fold, something altogether different, as he had gotten on without a wife quite well for many years. First: in Morgan’s thrall, he was lord of his own demesne in name only, like a mockery of his marriage. Second: a curse came upon him at the New Year, and under it, he was to do Morgan’s bidding—whatever she might command. For many years more, he endured this curse, but did not act. Some say that Morgan had nothing to ask, that cruel mastery of his form was her sole pleasure.”

Gawain made a noise low in his throat.

“I believe that changed,” he said.

“Indeed,” Bertilak said gravely. “The tales say that there came a time when Morgan grew jealous of a lady in a far-off kingdom, desiring the lord who possessed her. Ever-hungry, Morgan commanded her thrall to travel far and long, wondrously changed in shape and countenance, that he might frighten the good lady to her death.”

“Did he go?” Ywain asked eagerly. “Did it work?”

Gawain laughed unexpectedly, and it was several moments before he recovered himself.

“Yes,” he said, “and no, it did not. I recall that much; it was cleverly played, as tales go.”

“And there is no more to tell?” Lancelot asked, sounding disappointed. “What happened then; was Morgan not angry?”

“Very angry,” Bertilak assured him, “but the lord threw a bit of his own fun into the proceedings, which made for quite a complicated adventure. One that, it would seem, made Morgan all the angrier. She tired of the lord and let him go, taking all his court with her. The castle lies abandoned now, they say, and the lord wanders alone, wherever he will. They say that he is cursed, that he cannot die. Such is the jealous wrath of Morgan Le Fay.”

“That last part, I had not realized—” Gawain stopped himself and swallowed, his eyes fixed on Bertilak. “That is truly dreadful.”

“What about the complicated adventure?” Lancelot persisted. “We are missing much of this story, I can tell.”

Bertilak stretched and drank some more wine, settling back with a yawn.

“I believe you have already heard that part,” he said, “somewhere in all your own wanderings. It is quite popular.” Bertilak kept his hands folded about his cup, restraining himself. He regarded Lancelot’s green sash with a heavy eye, but no one except Gawain seemed to notice.

“Gawain has a story,” Ywain said confidently, “that might trounce yours in the first breath."

“No,” Gawain said, “hardly it could. Besides, he already knows it.”

Bertilak tilted his head at Gawain. He was tempted to challenge the boy again; Gawain’s response under the duress of manipulation was astounding. Comical. Unpredictable.

“Impossible!” Ywain exclaimed. “All of it?”

Bertilak made up his mind, nodding.

“Yes, to the letter. Shall I prove it?”

Before Gawain could protest—those dark eyes wide now, ever so wide—Ywain appointed himself conductor of the venture and proclaimed, “Very well, then. You know about the New Year’s feast, much like the one you witnessed tonight?”

“Very much like, indeed,” Bertilak agreed. “Right down to the intrusion.”

Ywain sighed, visibly annoyed.

“And the intruder, you know of the intruder?”

“A Green Knight is a curious thing indeed.”

Gawain’s flush had crept well under his collar, but he remained silent, biting his lip.

“The challenge, then,” Lancelot threw in. “You must know of the challenge.”

“The beheading,” Bertilak confirmed, “was most commendable.”

“Thank you,” Gawain said weakly.

“And to accept such a journey and blow in return, aye,” Bertilak said, nodding at Ywain. “A most marvelous thing indeed.”

“Oh, Gawain, you spoilsport,” Ywain grumbled. “Do you spew it off to every traveler in your wake? Humble? Why, you’re so eager for fame—”

“He probably blushed when he got to the part about the temptress,” Lancelot sneered, drunk enough to elbow Bertilak suggestively. “And the kissing game.”

“It was not a kissing game,” Gawain burst out. “That’s all I had gotten, all I could give!”

“You got the love-token,” Bertilak said steadily, “and failed to return it. You could have failed to return the kisses just as easily. You could have given your poor lord six chaste embraces, never mind six kisses—some of which, if I recall, were not so chaste.”

Gawain’s exposed skin shone with sweat.

“Some of which were not so chaste when given!”

“Too honest for your own good, cousin,” Ywain chuckled, fetching his cup from the floor. He swung it high, sloshing a bit over the side. “To Gawain, who’s too bloody honest for his own lily-arsed good!”

“To Gawain!”

“Lily-arsed Champion of the Chapel!”

“Hear, hear! Quiet!” Bertilak held up his hand.

Gawain was on his feet, shaking.

“I,” he announced, “am leaving. My fair lord, friend, I bid you luck with your new court.” Gawain turned and fumbled for his cloak on the chair, then swept it across his shoulders with a clumsy flourish. He left them to stare after him, weaving a little as he went.

“The king will be up till all hours, by my troth,” Agravain muttered into his wine.

“How do you mean?” Bertilak asked. If it was an impertinent question, so be it.

“He’ll be worrying after his nephew well after he’s finished nursing the queen.” Agravain laughed and raised his cup, a tipsy toast to—himself, to Bertilak?

“Who needs a Green Knight,” Ywain said, grinning, “when you’ve nigh done what he couldn’t? Guinevere will stay abed for days, mark me.”

“I beg your pardon,” Bertilak said, standing, “but the fault for your cousin’s offense is at least in part mine. I shall inquire and look after him, if I must. Tell your good lord that he may rest easy. Good night.”

Bertilak left by the way that he had seen Gawain go, knowing that his departure would hardly be felt. These men drank and talked for themselves, and for themselves alone.

* * *

Gawain should have known better: jests were nothing but jests.

Bertilak had never meant to kill him, not even at the first. He knew that now, knew it like he knew the chill of glass beads against his stomach, the whisper of gold-threaded silk against his skin. Gawain threw his chamber door wide and let it swing heavily closed behind him.

In the end, kisses were nothing but kisses—empty gestures, flights of idle fancy.

He cursed, kicking roughly out of his stiff winter shoes. A fire licked gently at the grate, delicate fingers of flame reaching, begging to be touched. Gawain slumped at the foot of his bed, fisting his hands in the fur-lined coverlet. He could not reach, must not give in.

Earlier, perhaps, he might have been willing—the very sight of Bertilak's smile had warmed him more sweetly than Arthur's wine. But this, not this…

To think that he never wished for my kisses!

Gawain shook his head violently, staring at the hearth.

"No," he said, speaking simply to hear it. No. The word pulsed through him, snatching a beat from his heart. Unbearably real, this truth, that it had been exactly as Bertilak said: how easily he might have lied, how simply he might have refused! Gawain sank into the mattress, defeated. It was over, finished to the last blow. He had chosen not to refuse, and in the end, he had been refused.

Gawain twitched, crawling up to the cushions to curl on his side.

That is a lie, and you know it full well.

Bertilak had offered him far more than he had been ready to accept. Return to his aunt, to Morgan le Fay? No, surely not—Gawain had spent his twenty-three years knowing her only in rumor. What would it have profited him, had he started in person? Gawain opened his eyes wide, staring at the bare, chiseled wall just beyond the blur of crimson covers bunched at his cheek.

Knowing what he knew now, he might have been…

Prisoner? Surely not. She treasures you as her own blood.

Gawain closed his eyes again, his fingers creeping to unlace his collar. He slid his hand inside, just far enough to touch the fine, smooth crescent at his nape. Marked, he had been marked.

Blood on his armor, in his hair, on his skin. In his skin—

Love?

If he had stayed, it might have been Bertilak's to bind him.

But now?

"No,” Gawain repeated.

In the word, he tasted surrender.

* * *

The boy's door opened with soundless ease.

Bertilak drew it along behind him, easing it closed with his fingertips. He could tell by the shadows cast upon the wall that the fire had been burning for some time, ready for Gawain to retire. The knight lay upon his bed even now—curled on his side, resolutely facing the far wall. Bertilak knew from the line of Gawain's back that he was far too tense for sleep, not that this was guarantee against feigning. The boy had done it before, and Bertilak was certain that he would do so again. He crossed the room silently, pausing beside the bed. So great a risk needed careful considering.

Gawain's breath quickened: another faint sign of his body's betrayal.

The boy was slight, but abundantly agile, swift and shockingly strong. If Bertilak spoke, he might freeze or flee. Unable to guess which, Bertilak cautiously sat on the edge of the mattress. The absurdity of it all struck him with more unexpected force than Gawain's blow. If he had not angered the boy, his intrusion might have been accepted. Welcomed.

He leaned against the bedpost and waited.

After long moments, Gawain stirred.

He stretched from hip to knee, ankle to toe, shifting quietly. The knight did not turn to Bertilak right away: he stretched slowly, languidly, one arm above his fire-wreathed head. In one tense movement, Gawain was facing him, his dark eyes hazy with woodsmoke and fatigue. He propped himself up on one elbow, regarding Bertilak with troubled calm. His collar hung unlaced.

"You might have saved a lot of trouble," Gawain said, "if you had come in the first place."

Bertilak gestured at the air, finding words inadequate.

"You would have laughed."

"I laughed at your lady." Gawain's tongue was as flat as his glance, a dull slap in the face. "Surely you knew," he said coldly.

"Aye," Bertilak murmured. "Much to my regret."

Gawain laughed sharply, suddenly sitting—poised, nearly catlike.

"To your regret? Your expressions, I fear, are as quaint as your manners, my lord. I do not understand what you mean—"

"I regretted knowing this while knowing what I must do!" Bertilak shouted before he managed to collect himself. "Or—that is, what I had to—"

"Many would say," Gawain said softly, soberly, leaning so close that Bertilak could smell the wine on his breath, "that indeed you had much while yet you could reach it."

Bertilak dared not move, held Gawain's dark eyes fast.

"Is there truth in this?"

Gawain blinked, glancing down at his hands upon the coverlet.

"I know not."

"Nay," Bertilak said, reaching in spite of himself, in spite of all that he must not do. The boy's fear still rolled off him in waves, filling the four corners of the room. "Thou knowest well thy worth, fairest of knights." Gawain's cheek was hot beneath his fingertips, no mere ghost of warmth. Bertilak guessed that his fingers might be cold.

Gawain's jaw set instantly, though he did not pull away.

"I have nothing to give you, my lord."

Bertilak raised his eyebrows. "Surely you have been offered—"

"I have been offered many things," Gawain assured him, nodding slowly, "but that which I have been given of late is…most painful, to say nothing of the giver." Gawain lifted his left hand, flexing three badly bruised fingers.

Bertilak let his hand drift from the boy's cheek to his wrist, something akin to breathless as he met with no resistance. He folded Gawain's hand in his own, brushing across the livid marks with his thumb.

"This, I have not dealt, but perhaps I shall claim it for whimsy’s sake."

Gawain lowered his gaze so that Bertilak would not see it crumble.

"By your leave, my lord," he whispered.

Bertilak drew the hand to his lips and held it there, still waiting.

Gawain looked up, swift angry flash of his shattered eyes.

"Did you not hear me?" he demanded. "Take what is…yours..."

His speech slowed as Bertilak let go of his hand and reached for his collar, ridding the garment of its lacing with quick, efficient tugs. Bertilak set the dark ribbon aside, watching the tunic fall apart, exposing Gawain's chest criss-crossed by his prize.

"…that I might claim it back again, my lord, if…if it please thee,” Gawain continued, his voice softer than fox-fur brushed with snow, fiercer than the memory of the hunt.

The green silk fell away in a rustle of beads, its tassels chasing trails of gold beneath Bertilak's fingertips and over the boy's skin. Bertilak watched Gawain’s eyes as he unwound the girdle, lingered over the stubborn set of that familiar mouth. Freed, the girdle slithered loose into Bertilak’s hands. How had the court derived such a simple mockery of fabric from a splendor such as this? Bertilak could nearly feel the boy’s heartbeat pulsing in the space between them. He reached for the boy again, skimming his palm over the crescent scar on his neck.

“I am waiting,” Gawain said, trembling afresh, “for your answer.”

Bertilak draped the girdle aside casually, looking Gawain square in the eyes.

“I have given it,” he said steadily. “This pleases me, Gawain.”

The knight flinched at the sound of his name, though not in fear. His apprehension had begun to fade, drifting like smoke to the high-arched ceiling.

“Then you were not serious downstairs when—”

“I am rarely serious,” Bertilak said, and smiled.

“Then assure me that this night is rare, and I shall be content,” Gawain said.

When had the boy’s fingers moved to cover his own? Bertilak finally lifted his hand, carrying Gawain’s with it. He held it to his breast, stroking the bruised knuckles gently.

“I believe that I gave you a kiss when we parted,” Bertilak said with hope.

“There is truth in that,” Gawain said, and returned it.

Bertilak would tease the boy only so far, for he knew that, between them, they had only so much patience.

Gawain drew the kiss out longer than he could have dreamed it—slow, deep, and even. Bertilak took the boy's lack of hesitation for a good sign, daring to let his fingers drift, settling his palms at Gawain's hips. Gawain gasped and started, ending the kiss in a painful clash of teeth. Bertilak chuckled and licked the Gawain's chin. He had not expected the boy would be that skittish.

Gawain took a nervous breath and laughed. "What manner of seduction is this, my lord? Had you some instruction from a hound in the barn?"

"You can be sure that I will repay you," Bertilak said gravely, shifting his grip to let his hands slide lower, "for your cheek, my good knight."

Gawain swallowed faintly and lowered his eyes, shying from the heated response of his own body. "I spoke with all seriousness."

"Perhaps you did," Bertilak said, finding that his patience had given way more quickly than it ought. The boy trembled with strain, kneeling, supported only by Bertilak's hands. Bertilak leaned in and warmed his lips against Gawain’s cheek. That close, Gawain's eyelash tickled the bridge of his nose.

"It's truly a seduction, then?" Gawain whispered, disbelieving.

"In all seriousness," Bertilak replied, "yes." He sealed the words against Gawain's cheek with a kiss.

The boy relaxed without warning, sagging against Bertilak's chest. "I thought you were rarely so," Gawain murmured, his breath perilously close to Bertilak's ear. Cheek indeed.

"And I thought you needed reassurance that this night is rare." Bertilak closed his arms around Gawain's waist, pulling him closer. Let him panic now, or let me hold him ever.

Gawain sighed against Bertilak's neck and shifted as he was bidden, sprawling stomach to stomach, no longer ashamed. "I believe," he said, breath punctuated with a push of his hips, "I already have it."

Bertilak closed his eyes, fisting one hand in the boy's hair and the other at the small of his back.

Gawain seemed to sense his loss for words; a sympathetic murmur of soft, quick breath against Bertilak's ear confirmed it. The boy was still nervous – Bertilak could feel it, swift pulse under smooth, damp skin – but he was determined. Gawain sighed and rested his head on Bertilak's shoulder when Bertilak stroked up Gawain’s spine to his nape. How fine to the touch, that stubborn and unruly hair!

"Something of your reputation is missing here," Bertilak mused, repeating the same stroke downward. The boy shivered under his caress, rewarding him with another unexpected push when Bertilak's hand came to rest once more at the small of his back.

"There is a difference between the art of courtly speech and the art of following through, though very few seem to have noticed." Gawain's voice was tense with sudden irritation.

Ye gods, had he never...? Bertilak slipped a finger beneath the waist of Gawain's breeches, loosened by now with his restless movement. Gawain wound his fingers in Bertilak's doublet, motionless save for the hard, shaking breaths he took. Bertilak bit his lip, nuzzling the boy's neck so that he would not see. Gawain relaxed again, responding with a muffled sigh. Bertilak let his hand slip fully beneath the fabric, fingers splayed over fine, taut muscle.

"It's not as bad as they claim," Gawain said weakly.

Bertilak looked up, startled. "What—"

"My lily arse!" Gawain snapped.

"I assure you," Bertilak chuckled, relieved, "that I shouldn't mind if it was."

Gawain blushed brighter than the firelight could paint him. He was being stubborn, staring down at the fur-trimmed coverlet as if his salvation depended on it. With his free hand, Bertilak tipped Gawain's chin up, forcing the boy to meet his eyes. Gawain set his jaw and stared back, unblinking. Several shades colored his gaze: trepidation, hope, desire. Even love, perhaps.

"You have nothing to fear," Bertilak whispered, leaning till their foreheads touched. "I promise thee."

Gawain kissed him gently this time, so soft and brief that he scarcely felt it. Bertilak opened his eyes to find Gawain's still fixed on him. The boy was calm now, an easier weight than he had been. Bertilak returned the kiss even more softly, surprised when the result was a faint whimper of protest.

"Stop playing," Gawain said quietly. "The time for games is past."

Bertilak raised his eyebrows. "I was only—"

"How in God's name do you manage?" Gawain asked, running his fingers down the front seam of Bertilak's doublet, perplexed.

"How do I—ah," Bertilak said, catching Gawain's hand. "The hooks are quite small. From the inside, see?"

"Yes," Gawain said absently, watching the heavy brocade fall away, tracing its absence with persistent fingertips. "Difficult to miss..."

"Quite the opposite of what you said a moment ago," Bertilak reminded him, shedding the garment and letting it fall to the floor. He heard the clink of beads and knew it had fallen on the sash. Gawain laughed, then fell silent, as if he feared he had been irreverent. Gods, it was good to see the boy smile.

"I make no apology for my contradictions," Gawain said, combing his fingers reverently through Bertilak's beard. His fingertips brushed the skin beneath, leaving a faint tingling in their wake. "Just as you make no apology for your jests."

Bertilak shivered, sliding both palms down to the boy's waist. "So, too, is the time for apologies past."

Gawain breathed in and closed his eyes, nodding.

The boy's breeches were by no means difficult to decipher: they slid away with ease at the slightest tugging. Gawain stretched, sighed, and lay back against the pillows, making eye contact with difficulty. Bertilak had known the boy was modest to a fault, but he had not previously seen that shyness with his own eyes. Bertilak bent to kiss the sharp angle of Gawain's collarbone, brushing one hand tentatively across his stomach. Wide-eyed, Gawain jerked up against the touch with another whimper. I was beginning to think he did nothing but talk!

When Bertilak tried to put his musing to words, only a sigh escaped him.

"Do continue," Gawain murmured.

"Soon," Bertilak promised. He rolled aside, staring across the chamber, wondering what the boy might do if he evened the score. Bertilak carefully removed his breeches and hose, aware that Gawain undoubtedly watched (he had felt the mattress shift). The boy's fingers managed to get in the way even then; one arm curled about Bertilak's waist was enough to make him start. He managed to kick the last of his clothing to the floor before twisting to regard Gawain with mock reproach. "I believe we agreed there were to be no more games?" He snatched Gawain’s hand and kissed it.

"I agreed to nothing," Gawain said innocently.

Bertilak couldn't have prevented himself from laughing even if he had tried. He bent and tasted Gawain thoroughly this time, mouth open and demanding. Gawain started with a muffled gasp, floundering under Bertilak for a moment before winding arms and legs around him like a sturdy vine. Gawain made other sounds, too, when their tongues brushed—equally puzzling, those, but no less demanding than Bertilak himself. After long moments, Bertilak broke away, lifting himself just enough to discern Gawain's eyes: clear and wide with amazement. He felt the rise and fall of the boy's chest nearly crushed beneath his own, the fierce heat of shame swift blooming into pleasure. Bertilak brushed a few damp strands of hair back from Gawain's temple, overcome with unaccustomed tenderness.

"I ask only that you agree to this," he whispered.

"As if I had not," Gawain replied, drawing Bertilak closer, impossibly tighter. "I lied when I said nothing."

Bertilak shifted, pinning him to the mattress. "We both lied."

"Some of us more recently than others." Gawain squirmed and thrust up helplessly.

"Irrelevant," Bertilak said softly, nuzzling the boy's cheek. "You could claim that your king worshipped worms, and I'd not care—"

Not care as I care for thy kisses! Slow and dreamlike, nearly chaste it was, just as in the beginning. Gawain moved as Bertilak had never imagined, living flame all through him. Too long since he'd been with a lover, too long to recall what embers lay in years past. Bertilak found that he did not wish to remember, not with Gawain here in his arms, Gawain gasping—

"Bertilak." His fingers clenched and unclenched, digging into Bertilak's skin as he shuddered.

"Gawain," Bertilak murmured, catching tight hold of the boy's hand against his shoulder, "my Gawain, be still."

Gawain moaned, eyelids fluttering, then managed an embarrassed smile.

Yes, Bertilak thought, so good to see him. He would let Gawain rest, aye, but not without a kiss.

The boy talked in his sleep.

Pearl had told Bertilak that night after the fox hunt, all windswept laugh and coy smile.  Dreaming, she had said, dreaming of you in terror or I'm a silly mortal.  Bertilak had never wanted to strike her before, but he had not dared to do such a thing on the eve of such an important meeting.  Morgan wished Gawain to live, and so it was.  Bertilak strained to listen the next time it came: faint, hot breath scattered from Bertilak's neck to his shoulder as Gawain struggled in his sleep.  Here and there, words broke the surface, lancing the cool air of the chamber with no and please and I beseech you.  Bertilak chuckled, rubbing Gawain's back with the heels of his palms.

"No, you don't—"

"I do," Bertilak whispered in Gawain's ear, apologetic, then laughed again.

"Mmmhm.  Then I'll—"

Gawain shivered awake, tensing.  He lay still for long moments, breathing harshly. 

"I might wish," Bertilak said, skimming one hand up to fist in Gawain's tousled hair, "that I had given you a ward against nightmares while yet I was able."

Gawain kicked Bertilak's shin, then let his foot drift down until their ankles locked.

"I might wish that you had the good sense to let me sleep, for sleep is sleep, nightmares or no," he said irritably, stretching as much as he was able.  "I can't move."

Bertilak let go of Gawain, shifting for a stretch of his own.  The fire had burned out sometime during the night, and the covers had slipped enough to let the chill have at them.  He wondered if any of the lords had intended to grant him a chamber of his own, and he imagined that his disappearance would be counted as strange at breakfast.

"Bloody cold," Gawain mumbled, and rolled over on top of him.

"With you for a blanket, I should think not."

"With you for a mattress, I'll be adding to my bruises."

Bertilak chuckled, starting at the unexpected touch of Gawain's tongue against his neck.  If the boy had any thought for what excuse he might give to explain his own absence, he wasn't dwelling on it.  Perhaps it was custom to sleep through dawn and into noontide.

"Will—" Bertilak began, hesitating when the tasting turned to a kiss "—you be missed?"

"No," Gawain said, curious, and licked Bertilak's ear like a guilty child with sweets.

"I—ah—see."

"I'm sure," Gawain mumbled, nuzzling the spot with a sigh.  He untangled his fingers from Bertilak's beard and hair, smoothing the tangles back into place.

"I've been discourteous," Bertilak said, feeling more pensive than he ought to be given that the finest knight in all of Arthur's court was sprawled over him and wanting.  "Someone will notice that I have not returned," he said, carefully spanning the small of Gawain's back with both hands.  A marvel indeed, that spare frame, and all that it held besides.

"I think," Gawain said, rising on one arm, peering down at him with eyes blurred by the brightness of morning, "that you've lost your mind.  I can speak for you, and shall."

Bertilak considered this, but found himself distracted by the way Gawain's pupils shrank from the sunlight.  When he didn't answer, Gawain bore down on him hard enough to stop his breath.

"Seems I'm not the only soul starved for sleep, am I?"

"Make a journey of two months in a fortnight and see if you've strength left to talk," Bertilak said, pinching Gawain's sides lightly, satisfied with how he jumped.

"So recently dismissed?" Gawain asked softly, catching his breath.  He lifted his hands from Bertilak's shoulders and set them over Bertilak's at his waist, his touch wistful.

"Yes," Bertilak said, turning his hands under Gawain's so that their palms touched.  "Discharged without honor, where would you have sought your fortune?"

"A desolate place," Gawain said, leaning forward.  "I suppose we are even."

Kisses, Bertilak thought, were far sweeter without bargain.  He put the court from his mind, turning his hands again to steady Gawain as the kiss lengthened.  Instead, he wondered at the glow of Gawain’s skin, picturing how days spent under sun at the height of summer might burnish it the brighter.

"You are—" Gawain gasped, breath damp against Bertilak's cheek "—as mattresses go, warm."

"And you resemble snow more than a blanket, but I'll make do," Bertilak said, and let his hand slip up from Gawain's hip to his stomach, fingers spread, taunting.

Gawain sucked in his breath, furious, and, finding himself in no position to kick, gave another startling shove of his hips.  "I'll melt thee, just see if I don't," he hissed, scarcely a whisper, one hand tangling roughly in Bertilak's beard while the other fumbled between them, trembling to find—ah.  His shaking fingers closed around Bertilak's shaft, squeezing too hard for comfort.

"Gawain," Bertilak murmured, wrapping his hand around the boy's.  "Gently, my Gawain."

"You talk like a song," Gawain snorted, but his grip loosened, fingers stroking.  "No, worse than that," he continued, drawing his thumb along Bertilak's wrist.  "You talk like the queen thinks songs ought to go, only…"

Bertilak caught his breath long enough to ask, "Only?"

Gawain kissed his temple and tightened his grip again, hand moving easily despite Bertilak's continued hold.  "Only you're right," he panted, restless body keeping time with his touch.  "So I shall send you to her to—to settle the matter—straightaway."

Bertilak took a breath with the intention of rebuttal, but it left him again as an undignified groan.  Clearly, it took less than an arduous journey rushed to rob a man of words.  He closed his eyes tightly and felt the fringe of the boy's hair brush against his brow as Gawain leaned low to press another haphazard kiss against his forehead. 

"Sing, then," he whispered.

Too helpless to find his tune and too joy-filled to care, Bertilak gasped for breath a second time and let it carry him off in thunderous crescendo.  The only sound in the room was Gawain's strained breathing and the hammering of his heart, as if it meant to shake the stones of the castle from their very moorings.  Bertilak touched his thigh, then closer, finding heat and hardness, sweat and softness.  More like silk than snow.

"You've a better voice," Bertilak said, and took fierce hold in his turn.

Gawain groaned, trembled, and spoke, but his words were lost to the pillow and seemed somehow less important when the fire poured off him now in all-consuming waves.  Bertilak gathered him close, tensing with the clarity of Gawain's muffled cry.

"Hush," Bertilak breathed, but the boy was already still.  He closed his eyes again, at the edge of silence, waiting for song.

Chapter Text

Star and Plough

Even beneath the spread of two woollen cloaks, the grass was damp and sharp with the scent of pollen and nettles. Gawain shied from the brief sting at his exposed ankle, right into Bertilak's waiting arms with his usual twitchy, endearing grace.

"They only mean well," he told Gawain. "They remind us we're alive."

"Are you alive now?" Gawain propped himself up on one elbow. "Were you before?"

"A worthy question," Bertilak said, considering Gawain's frown. "I was sorcery."

"Human under the sorcery, yes?" Gawain prompted, throwing one leg over him.

Bertilak grunted and shifted till he was fully beneath the infuriating creature he'd won.

"If you can't tell by now, lad, then there's more than a bit amiss."

"I thought you brought us here to watch the stars," Gawain said. "Liar."

"It's what I do best, I confess," replied Bertilak. "You're the brightest one."

"And that would make you...what?" Gawain asked, shoving his hips into Bertilak's.

"The Plough, I reckon," chuckled Bertilak, and rolled them over into the wet grass.

"You weren't at court last night," snapped the Queen, at breakfast.

"Indeed," said Arthur, peeling the shell off a boiled pheasant egg.

Gawain lowered his eyes. "No disrespect intended to Your Grace."

"You little brat," said Guinevere, in lowered tones. "That green rag of yours may impress everyone else, but it does not a whit for me. I miss your company and your conversation. I find you lacking of late. What say you to that?"

Bertilak cleared his throat, fresh from a swig of watered-down cider.

"It was my doing. I delayed him, Good Lady. What punishment shall I have?"

His collar was open just enough to show off the nettle stings—and worse.

Guinevere blanched, lowering her eyes, tapping an egg testily.

"No need for aught," she sighed. "Our Gawain's seen to it."

"Indeed," agreed Arthur, grinning into his cup.

Chapter Text

With the court gone, human and faery alike, Hautdesert was cold.

At first, Morgan had regretted letting the girl stay. Without jewels in her hair and about her neck, she was a dull creature—dark hair, dark eyes, dark smile. Now, her gowns were the plainest linen embellished with cobwebs, and her hair hung loose about her ashen face in unkempt waves.

Pearl had fallen out of the habit of speech weeks ago, and the only sound to make her presence known was the pat of one slim, bare foot after another on the worn stone floor. Such light steps had been an advantage in the game, but Sir Gawain had proved an even lighter sleeper still.

"Your firewood, my lady," she said, her voice dry as the kindling she dropped.

Morgan scowled at her book, snapping it shut. She hadn't expected to hear another word for the rest of the girl's existence.

"Stupid creature! Would you scare me to death? You had no great talents, either of you. Perhaps you should have married."

Pearl crossed to the hearth, her steps unsteady, and dumped the armful of sticks into the burned out coals.

"I would have wed him, had you let me," she said, chin tilted defiantly over her shoulder, and spat at Morgan's feet.

Morgan laughed until the book fell out of her lap, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Girl, have you forgotten yourself? Would you be my jester, then, and not my servant?"

"I would fain be dead, if you'd but will it," Pearl hissed. She backed up and hit the wall, slight frame shaken by the impact.

Morgan sat forward in her chair, stroking her chin. Here was a thing she'd taken for granted, a thing of little more value than diversion and distraction. She studied Pearl from forehead to toenail and concluded that the girl's plainness was deceptive. Cleaned and garlanded, she'd been a more than serviceable beauty. And without that spirit, well, she would never have done for the ruse against Morgan's nephew. Gawain's resolve was hard to crack, but the girl had stood a fighting chance.

"You would wed Bertilak, you say?"

Pearl's eyes flashed deep scarlet with hurt.

"You mock me, my lady."

"No, I inquire of you if this is so."

Pearl's pale, perfect fingers scraped at the wall behind her.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice reed-thin in the silence of the once-warm chamber.

Morgan retrieved her book and smoothed the bent parchment leaves. She'd chosen the girl because she'd been painfully, obviously in love with that stupid, reckless lord of a mortal. She'd gone to the task gladly, though she'd been bitter about not being allowed to lay a finger on him, and the fact that her would-be husband had not seemed interested in her had, doubtless, been a smack in her plain, pretty face. No matter how bitterly she had complained, Morgan had not listened.

"It will be so," Morgan said. "If you do not fail me again."

Pearl's sharp features tightened, fae-madness darkening her eyes to the hue of blood.

"My lady?"

"I will bring them here again if I can," said Morgan, rising. She took a step toward Pearl, enjoying the way the girl flinched. "And you shall be adorned more finely than before. You will help me set a trap of another sort. My nephew is wayward, but I do not think we will find him impossible at a higher price."

"Niggards, both," Pearl said, slipping from the language of faery into coarse human speech. "They'll never pay it."

"One," said Morgan, raising a finger to wag in chastisement, "would gladly pay, I should think, for the other."

Pearl's features, as distorted as they were, seemed to radiate thrice her hidden beauty.

"You dismissed him, cursed him. He'll avoid the very scent of your magic as he would the plague."

Morgan shook her head with a sigh, letting her hand fall. In some matters, Pearl lacked the appropriate wit.

"We play them one against the other, do you see? My nephew first, and then your groom-to-be."

"I doubt this," Pearl said slowly, glancing at her dust-covered feet. "Gravely, my lady."

"They'll have no choice but to come," Morgan reassured Pearl, touching her cheek, "if the king my brother should decree it."

Pearl's head snapped up, her fiery eyes lighting to sudden, crisp blue.

"He'd send them if you asked?"

"No, fool," said Morgan, drawing her fingernail in a harsh, cutting line from the juncture of Pearl's ear to the base of her throat. "If you asked."

With a cry, Pearl fell to the floor, hands fisting over the blood that dripped from her wound.

"My lady, I—don't—"

"Stand up, my child. Your lovely dress needs staining."

Pearl obeyed, and, amazed, stared down at her garb that had lately been coarse: it shimmered with silver and midnight sky.

"You have been beset with terrors, separated from your father and brothers by the cruelties of this wood. You have come to a high, deserted place of horrors, and you have scarcely escaped with your life. You have wandered for days out of mind without food and drink. Go."

As if dizzy from loss of blood—convincingly human, Morgan thought—Pearl nodded.

"I'll go, my lady. Straightaway."

Satisfied, Morgan took her seat again and began to read.

With Pearl gone, the castle was cold, but quiet.