Chapter Text
Were it up to Gawain, he would not leave.
But the appointment has been passed down by his uncle or, perhaps more truthfully, by his own mother’s request. She has not told him so, but when he shares with her that he is to be placed as the hand of some forgotten lord to the north until such time as he is needed at court again, she is not taken aback or even upset.
It is an insult, and everyone knows it. He is a would-be knight and a someday king, or so he is told, and this is not the path to either of those roles. It is, however, something to be done with such a man as he is: hedonistic and stagnant in every way. He does not blame his mother for his faults, though he does not think she realizes the part she has played in the shape he has grown into.
She is frustrated with him, and him alone, and he understands—he is frustrated with himself. His life is such a fraught and unasked for thing, sometimes he wishes he had not been born. On those days, he lies in bed and does not get up. He is spoiled for choices and so he makes none until his hand is forced, as it is now.
“Will you come back changed?” his mother asks him after he has been fitted with chainmail and made to look impressive.
“I should hope so,” he replies, unsure if he means it with all his soul.
She holds his face in her hands one last time, and he leans into the touch so that he can remember it well. She has failed him, and he has failed her, and that is the way of kinship and family. It makes no difference. That he loves her may be his one good trait, or at least he cannot name any others.
He has watched men leave the court on similar appointments, lovers kissing them goodbye and tokens of affection in their arms. He has only his mother and sisters when he goes, and he is given just one thing.
It is a small vial, empty of any liquid.
“What is it for?” he asks, turning it around in his hand. The light catches on the glass as he does so, and it is a pretty, if useless, thing to behold.
His mother closes his hand around it. “Not what,” she says, “whom. Hold onto it closely, my son, and it will serve you well when the time comes.”
In the east, the sun is rising, and he says goodbye to his small party.
Then he is gone.
—
The trek to the lord’s household is five nights north. Having turned away every companion, it is only silent Gringolet at his side as he makes the journey. He lights fires along the way and skips rocks across river water to entertain himself. Some two days in he begins to understand the mindset of deserters, heart wild in his chest one evening and breathing shallow.
There is no name he can think of for the way he spends that night, shameful and shaking with worry about all things. He finds himself wishing for his mother, even for her prodding questions and pointed stares.
Unbecoming, he admonishes himself in his mind, and childish besides, to still wish for your mother at this age.
That feeling in his chest never truly leaves, but he makes the rest of his way steadily and pushes those thoughts out of his mind. They will not serve him where he is going, and he is to be a representative of something far greater than himself. How will he ever look his uncle in the eye again if he is found out to be a weak thing?
He cannot bear even the idea of it, and so he presses on.
And then, all at once, on the early morn of the sixth day, there are stone walls in front of him and a door that he might knock on.
It is answered by a man in kilt and furs, and Gawain is struck instantly by his eyes. They are a kindness in and of themselves, and he drops his head into a bow to avoid meeting them. He has never done well with men who would be warm to him. There is something about such treatment that makes his hands shake.
“My lord,” he says, because he does not have to ask after who is standing in front of him. It is obvious. “I am Gawain, sent to your door by his Grace, our King. That I would be in your service is an honor to me, and I hope you will welcome me here gladly.”
“Come in, come in, and do not avert your eyes,” the lord says, sounding full of cheer at Gawain’s arrival.
To himself, Gawain thinks this is only because this man does not know him and all his faults, but steels himself to look up and meet those kind eyes. He holds back a flinch at how they strike him. Kind, yes, he was correct, but also knowing. It is the cousin of the gazes that follow him when he is spotted leaving the brothel by other members of the court.
He resolves not to look away as he is led indoors, but it is not without difficulty.
Inside, there is staff about, but less than he would have thought for a household of this size. There are just two young maidens moving through the halls, seeming busy, but taking a moment to welcome him. Gawain watches after them and is surprised by the only feeling in his gut being that of wanting to protect them. They are young still, he realizes with a jolt, and he is growing older.
The lord is showing him the way to his rooms, and the building is a maze. There is a flight of stairs and then another, followed by two turns.
“You will be adjacent to my own chambers,” the lord says as Gawain sets his things down and looks around. It is a large room with a washing room off of it. The bed itself is large, too, and covered in sheets of woven silk in a deep, rich blue. The windows to the bed’s right look out upon the overgrown gardens of the grounds.
“Easterly,” the lord tells him, “so that you may rise with the sun.”
“Thank you,” Gawain says, throat dry and mind swimming. “This is…far more than I expected, my lord. I have not put you out for this, I trust?”
“Would you rather the cellars?” the lord asks, looking curious. “Are you so modest a creature?”
“In truth, no, I am not,” Gawain admits, heart pounding. He should not be saying this, most chivalric of knights as he is meant to be one day. A knight does not seek to live above his station, and certainly this room is above his in this place. “I would ask after my horse’s accommodations, however. He is tied outside at the entrance, and he is dear to me.”
“As all good steeds should be,” the lord agrees. “We have space in the stables here, ample for your good friend. He will want for nothing we cannot give, except perhaps a visit from his Gawain.”
Hearing his name in this man’s mouth, Gawain is struck. He is sick with these feelings lately for which he does not have a name. That rising panic in his chest not long ago on the night where he could not sleep, and this twisting in his stomach now.
“I will visit him, surely,” Gawain murmurs, casting his eyes down, “when I am allotted the time. I expect I will be happily busy with all manner of things in your charge.”
“Quite,” the lord agrees, “but that is for tomorrow. Today I would have you rest and eat with us when the time comes. Will you join us?”
“It is not my choice.” Gawain is startled by the idea of it, and wonders if the lord has heard tell of him before. If he knows of Gawain’s reputation, perhaps the words are meant to barb him, to suggest that he will laze about and neglect his duties instead. And if that is the case, he may well have already failed in his task here.
“But of course it is.” The lord still has that curious look on his face. “We shall talk about more serious things tomorrow, but for now do not worry after your role here. If nothing else, take me as your host now and do as I ask.”
“What do you ask, then?” Gawain is in careful awe of this strange man. He expected someone stern-faced and ready to work him to the bone. A glorified farmhand or a silent vassal, whatever he was to be, he did not expect so much conversation or care for his own wellbeing. It is almost worrying, he thinks, for given the chance he may easily become that spoiled boy once more, if he has ever stopped being him at all.
“I ask that you be comfortable in my home, dear thing,” the lord replies, saying the endearment so easily that Gawain feels lightheaded at the sound of it in that deep voice. “Will you do this for me?”
“Yes, I—yes.”
Gawain is left alone to his thoughts after that, and spends long moments with his hands against the silken sheets. They are softer even than he deserves, but he finds himself resolved anew to respect his host, and allows himself to find comfort in the touch of them upon his skin.
Eyelids heavy and without even fully undressing, he drifts into sleep.
—
He wakes in near-darkness and is frantic at his own carelessness.
Throwing water onto his face in the washing room, he moves quickly through the motions of readying himself for dinner. This home is still a maze to him, but he is somehow able to remember the way back in his addled mind.
There by the entrance he finds one of the young maidens, gazing out a darkened window.
“Oh, Ser,” she says, bowing her head.
“I am not so important, my lady,” he tells her, distractedly, looking this way and that. “Have I missed dinner?”
She is looking at him with wide eyes, her hair a warm, chestnut brown upon her head. “Not at all,” she says, slowly. “Our lord takes it later than most, you see.”
“Thank you,” he says to her. “Will you show me the way?”
She nods, and begins to lead him down one of the halls, glancing back at him as she does. “If I am not to call you by title, then what would you prefer?”
“Gawain alone is fine,” he says, aware it is not normal to ask such a thing of a lady, but unable to stop himself. She reminds him of maidens he has seen around the court with pitchers or washrags in their hands. She has dirt on her nose, and cannot be more than half his own age. A child still, in some ways. “What are you called?”
“Lunete, Ser—oh.” She makes a face as if she has eaten a lemon, and he laughs not unkindly. “Gawain. I am sorry. The last man who came here as you do now, he was very insistent about such things. I hope you will forgive my slowness in following your wishes.”
“Not at all. You are doing me a kindness by making the effort,” he says, alarmed to find the feeling of wanting to protect this young woman has only grown within him. He has never been one to want a child, and yet he feels a sudden pang within him as he follows her, that he would not let her come to harm.
They have made a turn and then another down these warmly lit halls. There is flickering candlelight along the way and more doors than he should think necessary, but at the end of their way, Lunete leads him to a considerable dining room where the lord is already seated along with the other young maiden Gawain saw earlier.
“My sister,” Lunete tells him, quietly, “Laudine.”
“I have sisters, as well,” Gawain replies, and she smiles in answer.
The sister is laughing at some story the lord is telling, and Gawain is interested in the sight. So often has he been at court, he is not used to informality in spaces such as these. Surely in the brothel and among the common people there is mixing of all kinds. But in a household it is still a strange thing to see a man of titles dine so openly with those who most would not let sit at their table.
“My lord,” he says in greeting, head bowed.
“Good of you to join us, Gawain. Sit if you would. You will find us sharing tales around this merry circle,” the lord tells him. His cheeks are already warm with the touch of spirits, and Gawain is surprised by his eager need to do as he is told.
He does remember himself, however, and is careful to ask, “Are you sure? Gladly, I would stand in wait of any needs you may have.”
“Tomorrow, dear thing, tomorrow,” the lord reminds him.
As asked, Gawain joins the table, and he is soon regaled by a story Lunete offers about a ring that makes men invisible. She is a well-loved storyteller, it seems, and her words mix nicely with the meal in front of him, which he is told is freshly made venison and stew. Time moves forward, and the sisters begin to yawn. With that strange kindness, the lord sends them to their slumber and then it is only the two of them in this large room.
“You would ask me something,” the lord says, in that knowing way of his that is already so evident.
Gawain is hesitant. “Your wife,” he says, glancing to the other end of the table where a chair identical to the one the lord sits in is empty of anyone. “I suppose I may have been wrong in assuming, but it is rare to find a household where a lord is not matched with a lady in every way.”
“She is a fickle thing,” the lord admits. The flush on his face has subsided, though he still holds a cup in hand. “I do have her, somewhere in this world. But it has been some time since she has truly been a part of this household.”
“My lord.” Gawain bows his head. “I am sorry to have reminded you.”
There is a laugh from the lord, and it lacks humor but it is not cold in nature. “Not at all. I do miss her in many ways, but not as I fear you may think. She is her own person and I am mine. And you are here now, besides.”
Gawain is not so sure and thinks it is only a matter of some days before he is found wanting. Hoping he hides the thought well, he says, “Is it just you three, then?”
“It is,” the lord replies. “Will you be lonely with just us for company? I know you come from a place more full with life than this. But I hope you see that we spend our time here well, and do not worry after decorum such as it is.”
“I do not mind it,” Gawain answers, though he is curious of Lunete’s mention of someone previously in his stead. He does not mention it now. “I think it should be good for me, although, I am sorry, that hardly is the point. You see, my lord, I am trying to become less selfish, and so my worry is instead that you are lonely here.”
“You are an honest thing, are you not?” The lord casts a glance his way, and Gawain can barely handle the heat of it.
“I am a liar,” Gawain admits, unsure why he is doing such a thing. He promised himself that when he came here, he would not be so open. He can feel his cheeks warm, aware he is acting a fool and for no clear reason. “But I am trying not to be, any longer. Trust in this, if you will.”
“I will,” the lord nods. “I will. And your concern after my own countenance is sweet, but I am nearly content here.”
“Nearly?” Gawain does notice the word choice.
“Nearly.” From the head of the table, the lord beckons to him. “Come here, if you would.”
Gawain does, calmed by the request. He does not know how to put it into words, only that he is unworthy of choice. It is right that he should be commanded, and a warmth pools in his belly at the thought. He would like this, to be told to do simple things and to do them and be smiled at for his ability to be so good.
“Give me your hand,” the lord asks of him, and Gawain complies more readily to that than anything he has ever done before. The lord’s touch is not gentle, but also not harsh. Gawain has offered his hand palm-up, but the lord turns it the other way around. Heart in his throat, Gawain cannot pretend he isn’t alarmed by it. His hand being held like this, he is akin to a woman.
“My lord, I am not—“
“Allow me this, as your host.”
Gawain can feel his hand trembling as the lord brings it to his lips. All of it is for a singular reason: that it is so deeply right to be touched in this way by another man. The press of a kiss to the top of his hand causes a satisfaction to wash over him that he did not know was possible before now.
“A simple start to what I would have you engage with here,” the lord explains, and Gawain does not understand but he nods all the same.
He makes it all the way back to his rooms before he realizes he did not even partake of the drink laid out on the table, and yet his body is warm and his thoughts are a mess. He can still feel the press of that man’s lips against the skin of his hand, and he traces his fingers there for some time, a guest in this place that he thinks may ask of him more than he has ever realized he has to give.
—
At the dawn of the next day, Gawain finds Gringolet in the stables and is cheered by his mere presence. He presses his forehead against the horse’s muzzle and asks him, “Have you missed me?” In response, the creature whinnies and Gawain laughs at the sound. He has always had conversation with his steed, caring not whether anyone else overhears.
“What do you believe is to be my lot, here?” he says, quietly, as Gringolet eats greenery out of his hands. “I cannot figure it out. I expected I would be a silent guard or errand boy. Instead, I am sure more queer things are afoot. Although, you have known me long enough. Am I not queer in nature, as well?”
Gringolet taps his back hoof down on the ground twice, and Gawain takes that as agreement.
It is nothing he is not already aware of, though he is sometimes loathe to admit it to himself.
He leaves the stables with the hood of his cloak pulled over his hair, the sky looking pregnant with rain overhead. He has just made it to the doors when the rainwater starts to fall, and he finds the sisters at the entrance, taking shelter from the burgeoning storm.
“Ser,” Laudine says, her face bright red.
“Gawain,” Lunete corrects, with a smile in his direction.
“Well met,” he nods to them. “Would either of you lead me to where I might find our lord, this morning?”
It is Laudine who does. She is bashful in his presence, moreso than her sister, and he is careful to follow her at a distance as she takes him through the twists and turns of this strange place. Behind her, he notes that her hair is darker than Lunete’s, with a red hue to it, and longer, too. As he watches her from behind, he notices the mark of a scarred cut just peeking out from the collar of her tunic.
“My lady,” he says, when she stops in front of a door, “are you hurt—“
“Not any longer,” she says, quickly. Her face grows red, as if embarrassed by her ability to interrupt him. He smiles to show her he does not mind. “Thank you for asking after me. My sister…she said you were patient with her.”
“As she deserved,” he says, “as you both do.”
She stays fidgeting with her fingers and does not look directly at him, but the corners of her lips do turn up. “You will find our lord through here. And, please know, we are glad that you are here with us, Ser Gawain.”
He does not have the heart to correct her as she goes.
The door she led him to opens into a library, not nearly as large as the ones around the court, but impressive for a single household to be sure. The lord is sitting amongst some pile of books, and welcomes him happily, calling for them to sit together on the floor.
“My lord, I do apologize,” Gawain says as he settles down as neatly as he is able. “But is this proper?”
“If it is not, then who is to know.” The lord dismisses the worry with a wave of his hand. Gawain is jealous of his easy nature, and beholden to it as well. “I have compiled some books I thought you may find helpful while you are here.”
Gawain glances at one of the stacks to his side. The titles vary, but he notices a common theme: ladies and the stories they have to tell.
“I am not sure I understand,” he admits, though he reaches out a hand to brush his fingers against the cover of the topmost book. It is leatherbound and gilded in flaking gold. “Forgive me, again, for my rudeness, but I was under the impression my role here was to guard you from harm.”
“Last night you said your aim was to be less of a liar,” the lord says. “And so I would have you tell me the truth. I know why you believe you were sent here, and what you must have expected from this appointment. But if it was for you to choose, what would you do here, away from all that know you?”
“I do not understand.” Gawain’s hand is flat against the cover of the book now.
“You do lie to me now,” the lord says, his mouth dropping into a frown.
Gawain swallows, for it is true, and though he does not know why, he is reticent to disappoint this man already. The problem is that he is a liar now and has been for so long. “I…I am afraid to say, and to take up your precious time with my own selfish desires.”
“Nonsense. You see how the rain pours against the windows.” The lord gestures towards one and it is true, the storm is relentless this day. “So I cannot hunt and, besides, I am a married man with no wife in my bed. I am a lord with no one to counsel. Shall I order you to help me spend my time more joyously, dear thing? I would do so, if it would help.”
Gawain’s voice is a whisper when he says, “Yes. Please.”
“Then, sweet Gawain, your first true command from me will be that you are to be my companion while you are here,” the lord tells him, voice sharp and clear. And Gawain is shamed to feel that wave of comfort roll over him once again at being told what he must do. “I would have any companion worth his weight tell me truthful answers to my questions, you understand. So I ask again: what would you do here, were it up to you?”
“May I think of how to put it in words?”
“Of course.”
Gawain feels as if he is knelt in supplication, knees against hard wood floors and hair falling into his eyes. He takes that topmost book and turns it over in his hands. “I feel I must explain that I am not pious and upright, first.”
“I find it is most often pious men who admit to not being so,” the lord says in reply.
Gawain swallows, though his mouth is achingly dry. “Even so, my lord, I believe I have been sent to you because they know not what to do with me, and for that I cannot fault them. I do not know what to do with myself, either. Which is why…”
He stops speaking for a moment, and the lord does not push him, only waits. Against the windowpanes, the rain continues to fall. The room they are in is as warmly lit as the rest of this place, and there is hardly a draft to be found. Perhaps that is why Gawain feels strangely comfortable despite this conversation. Or perhaps it is the lord himself, who’s steady hand he can imagine the press of on his back. Gawain does not know.
“Which is why I should like for you to tell me what to do,” he admits, finally. “Whatever it is, I will do it. But I warn you, I am not a good man. I have no honor or chivalry. Or perhaps I do, but it is the wrong sort. I…I do not know why I am considering telling you this.”
“You do not have to tell me anything you do not wish for me to know,” the lord says, plainly.
“Thank you for that, truly, but it is not out of respect that I feel I must share this,” Gawain says, holding that book close to his chest. “Rather that selfishness which I mentioned. You see, I have loved women, at times to my own detriment. But the truth is that I have also coveted the looks of men and the touch of their lips upon mine in ways most untoward.”
The lord is silent, but Gawain feels no judgement from him. He is dressed as he was yesterday in kilt and furs, but perhaps more handsomely than that. He remains the type of man that Gawain is most enamored by, and it is for this reason that he cannot meet his eyes.
“I have often thought, and still think now, that I was made to be of a different sort,” Gawain continues. The rain has become torrential, slamming against the windows with some force, but he can barely hear it for the sound of his heart beating. “You see, I am a man and do not wish to be otherwise. However, when you ask me what I would do here without anyone who knows me around, my first thought is to be something that I have never been allowed to be.”
“How perfect,” the lord says, and Gawain is surprised at his reaction. He looks up at the lord through the hair that falls over his face, and sees a fondness there that shakes him. “For I will gladly command you as you have asked, but would never put upon your shoulders a weight you were not prepared to carry. And so my request is thus: as I find myself without a wife, I would ask you to stand in her place while you are with us.”
The book falls from Gawain’s hand. It is as he feared and as he hoped.
“The sisters, surely, one of them would—“
The lord is already shaking his head. “They are like daughters to me, and so young. I could not stomach it. You are far more to my tastes, regardless.”
“My lord, you must have visitors here,” Gawain protests, though his mind is already filling with the thought of things he might wear and what he may do at this man’s side. All manner of things, in company and alone. “They would not look kindly upon me in such a role, surely.”
“Then they would not be welcome here,” the lord replies. “And I promise you, dear Gawain, that none from your court would see you that way if you did not wish it. Moreover, you may leave when you see fit. If this offer is offensive to you, I will understand. But I would ask you keep your word from last night, and act only on honesty inside these walls.”
“If I could be given time to think on it,” Gawain says, bowing his head again.
“Naturally, I would prefer that you did.” Gawain does not see it, but he hears the lord stand and then walk forward. Then, the lord’s hand is on the crown of his head for a fraction of a second. It is warm, and a touch he should like to feel again. “After dinner tonight, you will give me an answer.”
“Yes,” Gawain replies, voice hoarse.
Then it is only him in that room, surrounded by books of all kinds. Outside, the storm is brewing still and he cannot escape that feeling for which he does not have a name, the panic rising as he realizes he wants this and that he should not. But he does, he does.
He does.
—
Gawain spends the rest of his day in that library, though he scarcely reads a word.
It is Lunete who comes for him as the skies grow dark, peering in and calling his name so that he might follow her to the dining room.
“Has your day been spent pleasingly?” she asks. Her hair is plaited up on top of her head in intricately woven braids. She no longer walks in front of him as she did on the first day and as her sister did this morning, instead staying at his side as they move through the halls.
“I do not know,” he answers, truthfully. She glances at him. “I know it is a strange answer.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “It is like that here, I understand.”
Curious, he asks her, “How long have you been here, then? And what of your family?”
“Such questions!” But she has a smile on her face and does not look mad. “It was our mother who worked here before us, and our father was the stablehand. They are gone now, but our lord did not wish for us to leave. And so we have stayed since then. I am not strong at numbers and so I do not know the years exactly, only that it has been some time.”
“I understand you by half,” he admits as they stop at the top of the last set of stairs they have to descend. “I knew my father in some ways, but he was dead before I was grown and gone much of the time otherwise.”
“What of your mother?” Lunete asks.
“Oh.” Gawain is startled to realize he has not thought of her since he arrived, nor of that odd empty vial she gave him to use here. His mind elsewhere, he looks down the stairs and finds the lord at the bottom of them, raising a hand to gesture them to join him. “Perhaps I will tell you all a story of her, tonight.”
Sat around the table, he finds the courage to do it, if only for the sisters who sit rapturous as he tells them of his mother. It is something beyond songs and puppetry, and from what he knows only half of it is invented. All of it happened before he was born, when both his mother and her brother were young, and there were still battles to be fought. The sisters gasp as he tells them of his mother’s clever orchestrations and of her ability to heal those who made foolish decisions without her input.
“Your mother practices witchcraft, then?” Laudine asks with large eyes at the end.
“Laudine!” Lunete cries, reaching out to pull on a strand of her hair.
“I only wondered,” Laudine murmurs.
“It is alright,” Gawain says, shaking his head. He does not mind this girl saying it so openly, only when it is said with cruel intentions and behind his back. “She does practice something of the sort, yes. It is a thing she and my sisters are devoted to, and not my place entirely to know of it all. But my mother has protected a great many from harm…even when their very presence irritates her.”
The sisters giggle at that and Gawain catches the lord giving him a smile over the brim of his cup. It sets that feeling off again in his stomach, and he has to look away.
It is Laudine’s turn to tell a story next, and Gawain is sorry that he does not listen, but his mind is full of his earlier conversation with the lord. He glances again at the empty seat at their table, the one across from the lord, and lets his eyes roam over the intricate carvings along the back of it. It is a beautifully made thing, and Gawain thinks himself far beneath it.
But his mind does wander towards it as the night goes on.
And soon, sooner than he would have thought possible, the sisters are sent to bed and Gawain is alone with the lord once more.
“Will you drink with me tonight?” the lord asks, and Gawain nods in answer.
It is the first drop of wine to touch his tongue since he arrived here, and the taste is rich and sweet. He notices the way the lord watches him imbibe, and feels as if his chest is going to burst underneath that gaze.
“It is good,” he says, quietly, setting his cup down.
“Only good?” The lord’s offense is a parody, Gawain knows, but he still shakes his head.
“In truth, the best I have had, even better than at court.”
“You flatter me,” the lord laughs.
By Gawain’s estimation, there is too much space between them, and he would fix it if he knew how. Instead, he looks towards the lord and allows himself to be the thing he usually hides: covetous of another man. It is the same look he may have sent to a woman at the brothel in the past, the same look he has hidden with care when in the stables with other would-be knights.
Appreciative and considering, he allows himself to not avert his eyes.
The lord in front of him is not the most handsome man he has ever seen in his life. But he is well-cut, strong and older than Gawain, who is less surprised than he might have thought to find he likes that. It is all part of the same thing: his appreciation for an older man and his enjoyment at such a man giving him commandments.
He only wonders how he never thought to want this before.
“What are you thinking, dear thing?” the lord asks, voice low and deep. The sound of it takes Gawain to the very depths.
“I am wondering if you think me pretty, like a wife should be,” Gawain says, before he can stop himself.
“Hm.” The lord sits back in his chair and presses his hand to his chin, below his bottom lip, gazing at Gawain openly with those knowing eyes. “I do not need to think on my answer, which is surely yes, but I am struck by the thought that you do not see it in yourself. Has no one told you what you are?”
“I have been called all manner of names,” Gawain says, lifting his chin and watching the lord’s eyes follow the line of it. “What would you call me?”
“You must know you are a gorgeous thing,” the lord tells him, and Gawain is hot with wanting. What, he does not know. Only that he wants it with a sudden fierceness. “I would call you wife, lady of the household, and I do not think anyone would argue that you were not fit for the part.”
“Would I—“ Gawain does look away here, for he cannot say the words without feeling some shame. “Would I dress as a wife? And have all of her duties?”
“I would command you, yes, as I have since you arrived,” the lord says. “But you would not be beholden to me in all ways. I do not believe in such things. And if there is some part of this that is ugly to you, you would be free to tell me. I would never force your hand. It is only that you are so appealing, that I would ask so much of you.”
Between them, the air is thick like it is on a summer’s day. Heavy and hot and pressing down on their skin. The feeling of it is inescapable, and Gawain’s breath is stolen from him for a long moment. He feels distant from himself, watching the lord watch him, and aware now that this may be the first time in his life that he has been judged perfectly suited for a task which he wishes to carry out.
“Alright.” Gawain can barely hear himself, he says the word so quietly. He shifts in his seat, lifts a hand to gesture to the open chair. “Shall I sit there, then, tomorrow night?”
“It would make me most pleased,” the lord says, “but there is a matter of which you should be made aware. I have a guest on the way, who shall be here in some days.”
“Then,” Gawain pauses, licking at his lips. “Then I will need help, to prepare.”
“Yes,” the lord says with a nod, “yes, you will.”