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You are built for things bigger than love.

A legacy rests on your shoulders—the weight of an entire kingdom drags you to overthink every decision you have ever made. Not a good trait for a king, you know this, but it keeps happening anyway. You will continue to doubt and doubt and doubt.

You are meant for an arranged marriage with a princess who you do not know. You are meant to care for her in time and respect her as the queen she will become. She may even tell you her red thread of fate is tied to someone else. You will look at your own hand, still bare, and tell her you’re happy for her. Perhaps she will take her fate-tied beloved as her consort. Maybe you will warn her to keep it a secret and be careful of any bastards that might be conceived, then you can live in some semblance of harmony.

Of course, you never think of your own thread. You never believe in fairytales where the beautiful princess’ thread is tied to your own. Silly delusions, you say though your heart aches; your hand feels empty.

Besides, your thread only becomes visible to you when you fall in love with your soulmate. If reciprocated, the thread pulses with an unearthly light. There have been people with multiple threads, broken threads, threads that can only been seen by one party, people with no threads at all. But you’ve always been a romantic at heart. You’ve dreamt of a red thread that connects you to your fate-tied beloved. You’ve dreamt it glow.

Why are you thinking about this? How foolish. You will not marry for love, nor will you fall in love.

You’re built for better things than that.

#

Guinevere has existed in the periphery of your life for many, many years. Since you were a mere squire, you thought of her as a maidservant to the annoying girl you secretly thought of as a sister.

And she is a maidservant. That truth has not changed. But your vision of her has been coloured differently. It starts when she pretends to bring you food on the harrowing day Merlin almost died for drinking poison that would’ve killed you instead.

Brave, you think.

You don’t remember ever knowing a woman as brave as her in that moment. Risking imprisonment, maybe even banishment, to get Merlin’s cure from your hands.

Her rough-spun dress snags your attention as she leaves the dungeons. Her flyaway curls that escape the quickly done hairdo. Her raw-bitten lips.

Beautiful, you think.

The ground probably grateful for the reprieve, you physically stop pacing as if it can stop the thought itself.

But it still whispers like a lover in your ears. Brave and beautiful.

You pretend you don’t hear it.

#

She is everywhere.

In the royal smithery when you’re there, at your meals where she serves Morgana, in the halls where she bows politely and lets you pass, in your mind where she flits about like a breeze.

It shouldn’t be this distracting, noticing her. You reckon you have passed her in the hall a hundred times before. But now it is as if your eyes search for her in every space you enter.

A habit you’re trying to break.

It’s working until you find her sleeping on the ground on the way to Ealdor. There are more important things to worry about, so you tamp any thoughts of her down. You’re doing quite well, actually. Kanen and his men have you strategising how to better protect Ealdor from ruin. Merlin’s friend Will is acting like an ass—though you see where Merlin gets his blatant hatred of royalty from.

You try not to think about your father slapping you in chains for endangering Morgana. You try not to think about your father slapping you in chains for fighting battles on another kingdom’s soil. You try not to think about your father at all.

There is only this: a village in need of saving.

There is only this: a sword in your hand, chainmail on your back.

But then there is this: Guinevere with a bowl cupped in her palms.

“Arthur, Hunith made you some food,” she tells you.

You take it and almost grimace. “Thanks.” The sight of it is as unappetising as it tastes. You murmur underneath your breath, “I think.”

Guinevere’s voice is firm. Unyielding. “Food is scarce for these people. You shouldn’t turn your nose up at it.”

She is looking at your directly, not as a servant, but an equal. Guilt wells up in you. These are hard times and you know the privileges you get as the Crowned Prince of Camelot. Enough food to feed half the village just for your breakfast and it’d be a luxury for them. You don’t even think they’ve ever tried a single grape, going by Merlin’s reaction when he first came into your chambers.

She breaks her gaze and looks down, a servant waiting for chastisement. “Oh, no. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” Guinevere shakes her head, shifts on her feet. “I’m sorry.”

She is walking away when you say simply, “Gwen.”

All she does is ramble on, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It won’t happen again.”

A phantom of a smile crosses your mouth before you say, “Guinevere.”

You are enamoured with the way her name rolls off your tongue.

Guin-e-vere.

She turns to face you, her hands locked in front of her. Nobody can see another’s red thread unless it’s your own, but you look anyway. Nothing. You almost shake your head as if to dislodge your gaze.

Her back is straight as she awaits her punishment for speaking out of turn. She is so brave and so beautiful, so you say, “Thank you. You’re right and you were right to speak up. I should’ve listened to you and Morgana. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“We’ll be fine,” Gwen says. The divot between her brow deepens with concern.

“How can you be so sure?” you ask. It doesn’t occur to you that maybe you shouldn’t be looking for reassurance from a maidservant who has not been in battle, but it seems almost natural to seek comfort from her.

Earnestness seeps from her very pores. “Because I have faith in you.” She blinks. “I mean, we all do.”

“Thank you,” is all you can say. Then she takes her leave and leaves you to your thoughts.

Though your attention is focused on the battle that lies ahead, you still come back to what she said. That adorable fumbling. The steel in her spine. The undeserved devotion in her words.

You are built for bigger things than love, you tell yourself. You sound like your father.

You sound like a lie.

#

You are the son of the man who sentenced Guinevere’s father to die. The injustice of it all burns at your throat. You hate to see her in pain, grieving. There is not much else you can do at this point. You cannot bring her father back to life. You cannot undo your own father’s actions.

But perhaps you can offer her a modicum of comfort.

“Sire.” Guinevere stands immediately, brushing her skirts. Her eyes are red-rimmed. You wish to take her pain onto yourself. It’s overwhelming, feeling this for someone.

“Guinevere,” you say, “I want you to know that your job is safe. And that your home is yours for life. I guarantee you that. I know that under the circumstances it’s not much, but . . .” You pause, letting the words feel as meaningful to her as they are to you. “Anything you need, all you have to do is ask.”

It is scary, you think, that you truly would give her anything.

You turn but then you pause. Turn around. “I’m sorry.” It isn’t enough, but you had to say it anyway.

“Thank you, sire.”

And you are gone.

#

You are half out of your mind in pain. Sleep comes to you in the form of nightmares and it’s then, in the moments where pain burns your mind to clarity, that you can finally commiserate with Morgana.

There is a moment when your father comes in and brushes his hand upon your head, tells you to sleep in a shaky tone, almost close to tears.

You think it is a dream.

More people come by. Merlin comes in and says nothing, Gaius comes in muttering underneath his breath and checking your wounds, Morgana comes in and admonishes you for being so stupid for ignoring her warnings while on the verge of tears.

Then there’s her. Guinevere.

You’re awake, but barely. Your heart still beats, your lungs still draw breath, but it is a tenuous job that your body is failing to do.

“You should get some rest,” she tells Gaius. Your eyes stay close because you have no strength to open them.

A short sigh. “He must not be left alone.”

“I will nurse him.”

Gaius’ footsteps recede from and the damp cloth over your forehead disappears. You don’t even twitch. Your bed shifts with a new weight and the damp cloth gets dabbed onto your fever-hot skin.

“You’re not going to die, Arthur.” A brief pause. “I’m telling you because I know that one day you will be king. A greater king than your father could ever be. That’s what keeps me going.”

Her voice gets softer, graver. “You are going to live to be the man I’ve seen inside you, Arthur. I can see a Camelot that is fair and just. I can see a king that the people will love and be proud to call their sovereign.”

You think this is a dream too. Her hand in yours, her faith in you.

“For the love of Camelot,” she prays, “you have to live.”

Guinevere cradles your hand in hers and rests her cheek to it. Even in the haze of this pain, you feel her lips, soft as flower petals, right against where your red thread of fate would be. Oh, this must be another dream, for how can someone as tender as her hold you so gently? I made you up, you think drowsily. You are a dream I can never have for myself.

For a brief moment, you believe something ties itself around your finger. When you awake, nothing’s there.

#

You face death more than most, but you come out the other end. This time is just a little more dire.

A gargoyle comes straight at you. Your back is still on the ground, the resounding ache throughout your body has you groggy and slow. You attempt to move away, but your chainmail is several times heavier than normal and you don’t even budge.

Somebody drags you away from harm.

You look up and Guinevere shines in moonlight. Her hair is down, her curls wild and free. A slight sheen of sweat is visible and her eyes track the gargoyle as it flies away.

Something like fear strikes your core. What is she doing here? Why isn’t she inside?

“Guinevere,” you say, struggling to get on your feet.

Her voice is strained, her eyes still affixed to the sky. “Sire.”

“That thing could’ve killed you,” you tell her, willing her to leave.

Guinevere’s not looking at you, though. “And it still might!”

With her whole body, she pushes you down to the cobblestone. A gargoyle screeches in your ears, but you cannot focus on that. The whole weight of her presses down on you and you are maybe too smitten for such a dangerous occasion.

Her hands press down on your chest and you inhale sharply at the pain. She says, a little breathless, “Sorry, sire.”

You ache all over and she’s still above you and your head is going in so many directions it makes you vision spin. Perhaps that’s the injuries speaking too. You will blame that later when you tell her, “No, my pleasure.”

She continues to save your life and takes you to the makeshift med-bay. Guiding you to an empty spot, you groan as your wound hurts even more.

“I’ll get you something to stop the bleeding.” She’s focused on her task, utterly competent.

“Guinevere,” you say.

She turns and, God, she is so brave and so beautiful it makes your heart stop.

“I wanted to say . . .” You look into her brown eyes and forget everything you mean to tell her. “Just, uh . . . you always surprise me,” you finish lamely.

Guinevere looks confused and you are vaguely embarrassed enough to bring your gaze elsewhere. She asks, “Is that it, sire?”

“That’s it.” You blink slowly, trying to get your bearings as she walks away. “Oh and”—she turns back again—“thank you.”

She smiles awkwardly and leaves to go do more important things than listen to you fumble your way into gratitude.

Stupid, you admonish yourself. Idiotic.

You have a feeling this will happen again.

#

You have mastered the art of putting your royal foot in your arse of a mouth.

“How could I? You’re Prince Arthur.” She’s exasperated, annoyed, and such a surprise. “Besides, you didn’t even give me a chance. You just assumed the bed was yours.”

To mask the shame, you act defensive. “How am I supposed to know if you don’t tell me?”

“You shouldn’t need to be told to think of someone other than yourself. You’re not a child.”

You stand there, your hands on your hips, and take in the brazenness of her. You’ve heard worse from Merlin, but that’s just Merlin who is not just a simple country boy, but not even a natural citizen. Guinevere has been a picture-perfect, loyal maidservant of Camelot for as long as you can remember.

You ask, “Is there anything else you’d like to say to me? Please, I’d like to hear it. If there’s something you want to say to me, don’t let me stop you.”

One part of you wants to see if she has the guts to speak her truth. The other part of you just likes to hear her speak.

For a second, you think she will crawl back into the skin of a demure servant, but she looks you in the eyes. “You don’t have any idea, do you?”

You shake your head. “About what?”

“About how rude and arrogant you can be.” Her words hit your chest like a mortal blow. “This is my home and you are my guest in it. I know you are used to more luxurious quarters, but that is not an excuse to be so rude! You claim titles don’t matter to you, but you behave like a prince and expect me to wait on you like a servant.” She says ‘prince’ like an insult. Maybe it is, with the way you’ve been acting. “Saying it means nothing if your actions betray you. Would it kill you to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ once in a while?”

You frown.

“My lord,” she adds hastily.

“Is there anything else you’d like to add?” you say, mostly too struck by her speech to counter her. But, truly, you think she has made several points. Your actions have been disgraceful and all your words of competing not as a prince but as a man taste like ash.

Guinevere bites her lip and shakes her head. “No, I think that’s it.”

Silence falls between you two and you struggle with the regret in your heart, the inconvenience you have caused her.

“You are right,” you say, biting your pride and letting humility come in. “You have invited me into your home and I have behaved appallingly.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

You almost smile. “Oh, really?”

“Well, perhaps a little,” she adds, a tad cheeky.

Your smile blooms like one of the flowers in her hair. “There’s no excuse. I’ll make it up to you.” Without thinking, you say, “Tonight, I will make dinner for you.”

You place you hands on her shoulders and guide her out. Think not of the impropriety of it—think not of the impropriety of staying alone in her home unchaperoned. If you were just a man and not a prince, this scene would have been more domestic to the outsider. A dumb husband making an apology dinner for his beautiful wife while their red thread tugs them closer.

But she is not your wife and you are not her husband. You are not fate-tied. You are a prince and she is a servant. You ignore the voice in your head that sounds like your father and get Merlin to grab some dinner.

“So,” you begin, smiling as dinner comes to an end, “do I have any more annoying habits you wish to tell me about?”

You are charmed by her. Her wit, her innate grace, the beauty in her doe eyes.

“No, none,” she lies, avoiding him.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” You are half incredulous, half in love. “What is it?”

“Well, the truth is,” she says, the softest smile at the corner of her lips, “you snore.”

Your eyes widen in mock offense. “I do not snore.”

Guinevere giggles. “You do!” Then she adds, “The first night you were here, I thought a pig had gotten into the house.”

“So now I’m a pig? Thank you, Guinevere.”

“I just meant you sound like a pig.”

You stare at her, amused.

“I think I’d better stop talking,” she laughs.

The night takes a turn for the worse because you are an arrogant ass who can’t keep your mouth shut.

“We had a nice meal together. What does it matter where it came from?”

“Because I thought you’d shown some humility! You’d done something kind for me even though I’m just a servant. A good king should respect his people, no matter who they are.”

Why do you keep embarrassing yourself in front of her? Have those hundreds of lessons of etiquette done nothing for you?

She goes to walk away, but you forget yourself. You grab her arm. “Guinevere.” The heat of her grounds you to reality as you face one another again. “I know I have much to learn. There are some things that I’m terrible at, cooking being one of them, but also knowing what to say to someone I care about.”

And you do care about her, more than you’d like to admit. More than what being a prince is expected of you.

Something shines in her eyes and both of you lean forward just a fraction of an inch and—

Merlin comes in babbling on about an assassin.

You let go of her.

Already, you miss her.

#

Merlin’s blue cloak is tied around your shoulders. You are loathed to leave, but there are things to do, tournaments to secretly compete in.

“One more match,” you say. “Tournament will be over.”

Sunlight caresses the left side of Guinevere’s face, making her brown skin glow. In her purple-dyed dress, with pieces of her hair falling down to her kiss her collarbone, you think she might be the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

She gives you a little smile. “You can go back to being Prince Arthur.”

All you can do is nod and avoid her eyes. You fear you might do something completely illogical if you spend one more moment looking at her.

“Um,” Guinevere says, holding a strip of white cloth in her hands. “I thought you might wear it for luck.”

Knights, though they will never admit it to anyone’s face, yearn for a favour from a pretty woman before a tournament. A simple good luck charm, knowing that they were chosen. It bolsters them up. Your chest cracks open.

Your fingers come up to grab the cloth, brushing up against her own. You smile and thank her. She lets go.

The very air pulses with possibility.

You say nothing.

She says nothing.

Her eyes captivate you. Ensnare you. You knew it was a bad idea to look at her—you knew you’d do something illogical.

Common sense flees you.

You lean down and kiss her.

Guinevere’s lips are just as you’ve dreamt. Petal-soft. You find enough wit in you to not hold her with your hands, but it is a near thing that you do. A second or an eternity passes and you pull back, your eyes drifting open to see Guinevere bathed in gold light and leaning toward you.

Sense barrels back into you. “I must go.”

You leave her there and you don’t look back.

#

The tournament is won, the assassin dead. You get no outward glory, but you get this: Guinevere’s pride in you and it is a sweeter thing than any victory you have ever won with your bare hands.

You catch her gaze in the throne room and you forget yourself. You forget who you are and smile crookedly, thinking of her lips and her faith and her sharp tongue.

But—

Your father’s presence is larger than life. Larger than love. It looms. It casts shadows long enough to hide every hope and dream you’ve ever had for yourself.

You stand taller and you chest cracks again, different this time. A closing, bones shifting to cover your heart again. He says nothing, but motions you and the rest of the knights to follow him out. You pause as you leave the room, knowing Guinevere is somewhere behind you.

“Guinevere,” you say. She walks to you and you clear your throat. Your father is down the corridor. The weight on your shoulders pulls you down, the shadows he casts makes you cower in the corner like some animal. Somehow, the words you are about to say hurt more than the lance you took to your ribs. “What happened while I was staying with you . . .”

Her smile falters. Her brows furrow.

“I’m afraid my father would never understand,” you finish.

Guinevere gives you a sad smile. It already feels like a goodbye. “You don’t have to explain. Perhaps when you are king, things will be different.”

You think of a golden future where she is by your side, a pulsing red thread tying you two together.

Before you can even think to respond, your father calls for you. You walk away from her and it hurts the same.

This time you look back.

#

Guinevere is in danger and you are half out of your mind with worry, but you cannot say a word. You cannot show your concern. Morgana calls you a gutless coward in your chambers and you fear that she is right. You shouldn’t have to manoeuvre your way through your father’s graces just to save one of your own citizens. You should have been able to gather a round of knights to go after her—not just because she is Morgana’s servant, not just because she has become an indelible part of your mind, but because she is a person who deserves to be saved.

At least, you find levity in Merlin, teasing him like normal. It’s going well until he says, “Well, they do say love makes you do strange things.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask. The tone in your voice suggests that Merlin should shut the hell up.

Merlin slants you a grin. “Why can’t you just admit that you have feelings for Gwen?”

You try to brush him off. You scoff. Turn your head away and go to gather your things instead.

“It’s so obvious. A blind man could see it.” You sheathe your sword as Merlin continues, “Is it really that hard to admit you like her? Just say it.”

You twist on your heels. “I can’t.” You swallow thickly. “How can I admit that I think about her all the time? Or that I care about her more than anyone? How can I admit that I don’t know what I’ll do if any harm comes to her?”

It’s unthinkable. Your very being just aches at the thought of her hurt.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because nothing can ever happen between us. To admit my feelings knowing that . . . hurts too much.” Your chest aches; your hand is as empty as it’s always been without hers to hold.

Merlin’s confusion knows no bounds. “Who’s to say nothing can happen?”

Without thinking, you tell him, “My father won’t let me rescue a servant, do you honestly believe he’d let me marry one?”

“You want to marry Gwen?” Merlin blurts out, eyes practically falling out of his head.

“No, no—” you say immediately, but images of her next to you as your wife flood your mind. “I don’t know.”

Merlin raises hands in surrender.

“It’s all talk and that’s all it can ever be.”

“When you’re king, you can change that.”

The thing is—the thing is you have thought about it. A Camelot with you as king, Guinevere your queen by your side. But she deserves more than you. You were born into this world with the lives of hundreds’ to protect. You were born to rule, but your father still stands heartily on his throne.

How many years would it take?

“I can’t expect Guinevere to wait for me.”

Merlin’s feet crunch the soil. “If she feels as you do, she’ll wait for you.”

You hope and, for the first time, you pray.

#

You’re brooding.

Not that you would it admit it to anyone. With your fist against your mouth, your feet propped on the other chair, you are the picture of brooding. A knock sounds the door. Not Merlin, obviously. He always comes in regardless of any manners.

“Come in,” you say, still staring out the window.

You catch the gaze of—

“Guinevere,” you say, surprised. Your hand falls away and you fix yourself into a more proper position.

“I saw what you did earlier. The people owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“The people owe me nothing.” You frown. “My father’s still going to impose the tax.”

“Will he not be persuaded?”

“Not by me,” you say, bitter and hurt. “He can’t stand the sight of me.”

Her voice is soft. “That’s not true. The king loves you.”

You stand to lean against your arm rest. “You should’ve heard the way he spoke to me.”

“I’m sure he was angry, but you’re still his son. Everyone appreciates what you did. They know you tried and they won’t forget that.”

For all her words, your father’s still ring in your ears. You look at her, trying to mimic him. The skin of your father is too tight and too wrong around your own, but you say, “Maybe he’s right. One day I will be the King of Camelot and I cannot be a friend to the people as well as their ruler.”

The subtlety is not lost on her. Whip-smart, you think fondly.

“That’s not true.” Guinevere shakes her head and comes loser. “And you will prove it when you become king. You’ve a kind heart, Arthur. Don’t ever change. Not for anyone.”

You don’t know how to tell her that you think you’ve already changed. For all of your duties and responsibilities, you have tried in vein to become the man who would be worthy for someone like Guinevere. Worthy of her devotion, her faith, her patience.

Maybe you will change into the shape of a man she can love.

#

There is this:

Gaius on the pyre. Indecision clouding you. Guinevere asking—no, pleading for you to save him. You remember your words to her. Anything you need, all you have to do is ask. Like magic, you grant her wish.

#

There is this:

Guinevere asleep on the cold, stone floor. You, drowsy from the enchantment. Still, you pick her up in your arms. Cradle her. Take her to bed with gentle hands. A lock of hair falls into her face and you tuck it away. A flash of gold mires your vision, but it’s gone.

Just a trick of the light.

#

“Gwen!” you raise your voice.

You’re neck almost breaks from looking at the distance between her and the dragon.

“Guinevere!”

You run toward her, bringing her to safety. Just as you’re nearing the castle and as you’re gaining speed to be near her, the dragon’s claws dig into you and push you both on the floor.

A grunt escapes you, but you take her hand in yours and run anyway. She hurries you to an empty cot and takes your armour off with practiced hands. Blacksmith’s daughter, you remember. You have somehow coveted every bit of information from the past two years about her in your head.

The shirt she takes off delicately and gathers up damp cloths and cleans your wound. The tenderness of her actions make you love-dizzy.

“You shouldn’t have risked your life.”

The slight smile on your face can’t be repressed. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”

Guinevere gives you the barest hint of a smile in return and moves to take the cloth away. But you stop her. No words are spoken between you two. You place her hand over your heart and lets your actions speak for themselves.

In front of your very eyes, a gold thread ties itself around your finger and hers. It does not pulse, but it is there and you heart is in your throat.

You love her. Oh, you do.

#

You twirl your fingers around the thread whenever you can. You marvel at it, the tangible existence of your love for her. It feels like her, as incomprehensible as that sounds. Warm and gentle. Like her laugh.

The lack of light does not bother you. When you tug it and she does not tug back, it doesn’t bother you either.

You’re too entranced at the colour.

There’s been various kinds of threads: broken, long ones to indicate your fate-tied is farther away, frayed. But never about a change of colour. It’s always been red. It’s called the red thread of fate for a reason, for God’s sake.

Every text you have scrounged up and read say the same thing.

You have been avoiding asking Gaius because Gaius would inevitably ask Merlin to get some books from Geoffrey or even enlist him to help because his eyesight is not getting any better with age. And Merlin is a stubborn dog with a bone when it comes to something he wants to know. He would badger Gaius until he finally comes to the conclusion that it’s you who wants information about threads of fate.

Not ideal.

But you’ve exhausted every non-Gaius avenue, you take a leap of faith and it happens as you expected it to. Two days later, Merlin barges into your room with a stupid grin on his face. “You love Gwen!”

“Pipe down, you idiot!” you hiss out but, unconsciously, your eyes drift down to your left hand.

Too quick for his own good, Merlin notices it instantly.

“Wow,” he says, hands on his hips. “I would’ve expected you to have that back when you stayed over at her house.”

You glare at him.

“But why are you looking into threads now?” Merlin asks. “Gaius told me to look for something ‘different,’ but it doesn’t really narrow it down. I’ve read a lot these past two days. Do you know there are variations in thread type? It’s fascinating—”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. For all he’s a bumbling fool, Merlin is incredibly smart at times and he is your best friend.

You ask, “Has there been any mention of . . . different coloured threads of fate?”

There’s this knowing look in Merlin’s expression that you cannot, for the life of you, parse out. He just nods. “Erm, I read that there has only ever been one recorded different colour.”

You straighten, looking at him intently.

“Well, uh,” Merlin starts, “usually the colour’s red.”

You start eyeing the empty goblet and contemplate throwing it at his head.

“Gold thread,” he says and your heart nearly leaps from your chest at the anticipation, “means the parties who are fate-tied are not just bonded in this life, but the next.” Merlin’s eyes are giddy. “It means fate favoured both of you enough to grant you love everlasting.”

You hadn’t even realised that you stood up until your bottom hits your chair with a muffled thump.

All your life, you have believed to be that you were built for things bigger than love. A legacy. A kingdom. A crown.

You tug on the thread of gold.

Fate-favoured.

Your soul is built for this. For Guinevere. To hold her love like a tangible thing. You do not feel worthy of this, but you cannot think of anything else better in this world.

“Where did you . . .” you rasp out, voice breaking. “Where did you figure this out? I looked everywhere.”

Merlin comes around and pats you on the shoulder. “I’ve my ways,” he says elusively. “And you’re no scholar.”

You let out a laugh, but your attention is affixed to your thread, the way it trails out of the door and down to wherever she is.

“I’m really happy for you, you know,” Merlin tells you. “Everything will work out in the end. I promise.”

Those words sound like an oath coming from his mouth.

“Thank you, Merlin,” you say, wholly grateful. You care not about where he found this information, just that he did and that he gave it to you freely.

Merlin rewards you with a smile.

#

It happens while you comb through the reports.

Every miscalculation has set your fraying nerves alight. Merlin walked in not an hour ago and promptly walked out when he saw the state you were in.

A sigh roughly leaves your mouth and you ruffle your hair.

Your thread pulses warmth and then—

It burns like sunlight, illuminating everything in its path. You feel faint. You heart stutters, gallops, in your chest.

Without thinking, you follow the blinding glow. You probably look like a drunkard, staring at the ground and running through the castle like there’s a monster nipping at your heels.

Golden, golden, golden.

You almost stumble into her in an empty corridor.

“Arthur,” Guinevere breathes out. Her doe-eyes are wild, bright. Her hair isn’t pinned up; the curls bounce against her back.

“Guinevere,” is all you can say. Her perfect name on your lips.

You watch her try to find the words and she’s always had a bit of trouble, so you help her. With your thread-finger, you tip her chin up.

The tremulous smile she gives you outshines your thread.

“How long?” she asks softly, cupping his jaws. Her slender fingers, her calloused palms. She traces your face and you shudder at the affection. You lean into her.

“Since I’ve loved you?” Your grin is crooked, boyish. You’re in love and you cannot think of a better feeling. “According to Fate”—you take her hand in yours and drag it down to your chest, over your flittering heart—“it’s when the Great Dragon attacked.”

“And you,” Guinevere kisses your knuckles. “What about according to you?”

“When I kissed you for the first time,” you admit. “I couldn’t name the feeling. I still can’t explain it. I don’t have the words.”

She lets out a shaky laugh. “I insulted you. I told you off.”

You shake your head. “You told me what I needed to hear.” Foreheads touching, you say, “I love you.”

Guinevere gives you a shy smile. “And I love you, Arthur.”

You think not of the world you both live in: tough and hard, no room for gentleness and love. But you’re heir to the throne. One day you can change the world you live in. And you will. You’re change it so love can roam freely, without restraint.

When you finally kiss, you feel born anew. You come alive under her touch, her gasps, her gaze. Every part of you that she touches brings your awareness to them, as though you are being created in her image.

Here are your hands made for holding her. Here are your lips made for kissing her. Here is your chest made to hold the heart that beats for her.

Guinevere gasps, “Arthur,” and here you are being named. It sounds novel coming from her. Your name, as though it’s never been yours until she’s spoken it aloud.

Your breath and hers mingle as you break apart.

“Guinevere,” you say stupidly, foolishly because you are in love and words don’t matter except for her name.

Your thread pulses like sunlight between you both.

Neither of you say anything, but your lips move anyway.

#

This is not a dream, you remind yourself.

Her hands are tangled in your hair, your head rests on her stomach. Naked and sated and giddy, you are filled with so much love you are feel like you’re bursting at the seams. Your gold thread pulses with light in your line of sight. You tug it and she tugs back. It’s then when you blurt out, “Marry me, Guinevere.”

She laughs. “We’re already married, you silly man.”

You climb up, kissing her along the way: her belly button, her heart, her pulse point, her ear. “Marry me again.” Her cheek. “And again.” Her chin. “And again.” Her nose. “And—”

With a smile, Guinevere cuts you off with a kiss to your lips.

You are built for this, you think. There is nothing more important than her.