Arthurian Legend: "As It Ever Shall Be" (Guinevere et al.)

[alixtii]

Title: As It Ever Shall Be (1/8)
Fandom: Arthurian Legends
Characters: Guinevere, Merlin, Arthur, Morgan, Mordred, Lancelot, Nimue, etc.--in any and all pairings
In this Chapter: Guinevere, Leodegrance, Merlin, Nimue, original characters
Summary: The tale of a young girl who lusts for power, and a kingdom torn apart by desire.
Rating: Explicit
A/N: This is part of the Arthurian novel I worked on well through high school. It works better as fanfiction than as anything designed for professional publication, I think. The first draft of this was written by a horny teenager; the second draft by a slightly more restrained college student; and now, the final revision now by a grad student who actually has some idea how to write a sex scene (although my revising of the sex scene in this chapter was actually quite minimal). Yuletide has put me into the mood to pull it out and try to do something productive with it; think of it as King Arthur meets Torchwood. The druids in this story bear no resemblance to any actual religious tradition; no detail is intended to be in any way historically accurate (a fact I plan eventually addressed within the story itself).

Chapter One

When Valerin returned to his cabin, a fire already burned in his fireplace. “Cayley?” he asked, not even bothering to look to see.

She stepped out of the shadows of the corner, robed in the natural brown of the undyed cloth, her hood pulled back to reveal her hair and face.  “Returned from Caerleon?” she asked him, her eyes lingering disapprovingly over his riding clothes--simple enough clothes, but rich in comparison to the far simpler robes she wore. “Had enough of being trapped in cold, lifeless stone?”

Valerin just laughed. “Prejudiced against stone?”

Cayley frowned. “Only when it’s cut into shapes that you’ll never find in nature and used to cut off people from the woods, Valerin. True stone, natural stone, is as alive as anything else. But the people who live in castles don’t want to hear that. They want to be able to cut themselves off from nature, as if it were some disease which could infect them." She looked at him, accusation clear in her eyes. "And you spend time among them.”

“Not everyone loves the forests as you do, Cayley.”

 “No,” she agreed, a clear not of sadness. She knelt down and touched the earth, caressing it almost. “The old ways are passing. The new ways are those of cold iron, man dominating nature, brother seeking to rise above his brother. And this is the life that you have chosen? Soon you will begin to worship one god, as the Christians do.”

 Valerin turned away from her and knelt over the fire, warming his hands. It was burning well, of course; Cayley, so skilled with living things, knew how to get the wood to give itself up to the flame. “We have had this argument before, Cayley. My path is not yours.”

 “No, your path leads you to Caerleon itself, to use what the gods have given to you for your own ends. Have you seen the king who oppresses the land? Have you met with Merlin, who has been the scourge of the island for lifetimes before our own?”

 Valerin shrugged, accepting the criticisms. They were meaningless to him; one day Cayley would see it was she who was blind, her druidic idealism wrapping her in an illusion of a world which, if it ever existed at all, did no longer. “And yet you do nothing, sister.”

 “The druid people are forbidden to interfere against Merlin," Cayley answered with a sigh. "As you well know. He has been given dominion over Britain, and it is not our place to oppose him. But you, brother, have renounced that oath.”

 “And so you would have me rise up against him?" He laughed, darkly. "Other sorcerors have tried and failed.” Valerin paused, then whispered a few words to his white owl. It flew off through the window.

 “And so will do nothing. Come back, sleep with your noble lover, and in time return to that court of decadence?”

 “All things are as they must be," he said, taking entirely too much pleasure in repeating the druid mantra back at her. "Certainly you have not forgotten that. Yes, I will live my life for me alone. Merlin, Britain, what matters of mine are these, sister?”

 “And your lover?”

 “I do not fool myself as to her feelings for me. She lusts for power, the type of power I possess.” He made a gesture, and the fire in the hearth flared for a moment, sending a wave of life and warmth through the small cabin. “She is drawn to it like a moth is drawn to the flame.”

 “And when she finds one who is more powerful?”

He shrugged. “Then the moth will abandon her flame, and I will lose her. But I will lose her having lain with her, Cayley, and that will be well worth it all. In the end, I am a man of simple pleasures.”

 “And so you will go again to Caerleon, and always seek to satisfy your thirst for such pleasures." She shook her head, her disapproval clear. "If you had his power, Valerin, would you be all that different from Merlin?”

Of course not. “Does it matter?”

 “Pleasure is not all it promises to be, brother, nor is power always held by those who deem to use it.” She rose, pulled up her hood, and as she left, the fire went out, causing a shadow to descend over the room. 

. . .

 It was that evening that Guinevere arrived, cloaked in black so as to hide her in the shadows. How she slipped away from her father’s castle Valerin did not know, except that Guinevere had her secrets.

 “Good evening, my lady,” Valerin said as she entered. She was beautiful as ever; his heart leapt as she removed the black cloak to reveal herself, cloaked again in brilliance. Her hair was long and fair, and Valerin’s eyes follow its path down her shoulders and across her delicate décolletage. Guinevere was small, diminutive even, but she what she lacked in stature she held a hundred times in shapeliness. Yes, even for a moment, as this moth searched out this flame, to lay with her was worth all.
 
“A bird told me you might be here,” she said, “and I thought I might come find you.”

  “You are most welcome,” he said. “Do sit down.”

 Valerin’s cabin was not a great affair; there was not so much as a chair. Guinevere accepted his offer and sat on the side of his bed, a wood plank covered with hay which in turn had a blanket to cover it. “You must be tired from your return from Caerleon,” she said.

 “A little,” Valerin admitted. “It is not an easy ride. I am never too tired for you, however, my love.” He brought his hand to her hair, pressing it gently against her head as with his finger he traced it behind her ear and down to her neck.

 “How was it?” asked Guinevere. “It has been many years since I have visited Caerleon. Father is too old to travel, and he forbids me to go by myself. Were the ladies beautiful?”

 “Very beautiful,” he said, clearing her hair from the side of her neck as he bent to kiss it. “But none were even close to as beautiful as you, my lady.” He did not mention that their lesser beauty did not prevent him from partaking in what they had to offer.

 “And the men? To what new business has Caerleon turned its eye?”

 Valerin held Guinevere against him, feeling the curves of her back as the warmth of her body. “Normal court intrigues. The knights are always quarreling, trying to show themselves as the better warrior. It has gone so far that they now quarrel over who sits closest to the head of the table and their nightly supper.”

 “Really,” said Guinevere, bringing her lips to his for just a moment, then pulling back. “They must be quite a sight.”

 “You know how men are,” said Valerin. “If they cannot be better than someone else, they feel they are nothing.”

 “Wars have been started for less than a seat at a table. And you?” Guinevere asked Valerin.

 “I am everything,” he said. “I have the very elements at my command. Other men do not concern me. I dominate where it matters most.” That said--he had no wish for speech, not when there were so many things their bodies could do in silence--he began to unfasten Guinevere’s gown, pulling it off her to reveal the pale cloth of the undergarments beneath. He ran his fingers over them, feeling the contours of her body underneath: her thight, her side, her abdomen. He let his hand slide down beneath her legs, feeling the cloth under his fingers press against the womanhood beneath. For now, for this moment, this was his.

 “And as for Merlin? The master of your order?” Valerin started for a second at this question; why did she ask it now? His own passions ached for fulfillment, and Guinevere mentioned the same wizard his own sister cursed the very same day.

 “What of him?” Valerin asked, taking off Guinevere’s undergarments as well, so that she was naked before him now in his cottage, her body on display for him and only him. “He is the power behind the throne of Arthur Penndragon; through King Arthur he makes the world itself suffer. You know, as a noble daughter, the harshness of the taxes the king levies, and Merlin is none too willing to send aid to those who are in dire need of it. He takes pleasure in the misery of the nation; as it suffers, he smiles.”

 The flesh beneath the layers of cloth was a milky white, without blemish; Valerin brought his mouth to her breasts, hoping she would be silent, and for the moment as last, she was. He sucked on the white flesh, caressing it with his tongue, grazing her nipple with his teeth. She seemed so delicate, as if Valerin would break her if he touched her, but he touched her, nonetheless, not holding back as he forced her down upon the blankets on his bed with all the strength he had. He at last lowered his own trousers and impaled her. “My love,” he called out on top of her, as he squeezed her shoulders with ever more intense pressure, thrusting into her, savoring the glorious moments, until he was at last spent.

 “You will deliver a message to Merlin,” Guinevere said when it was done. She rose and, still naked, warmed herself by the fire. “I will give you a letter, and you will ensure it is delivered into the wizard’s hands.”

 “What will it say, my love?” asked Valerin, rising to join her.

 “Does it matter?” asked Guinevere. “You will do this for me. Send your owl for the letter tomorrow night.” And she kissed him, a long, slow kiss, as he traced with his hands the contours of her back all the way down to her buttocks.

. . .

 “You seem thoughtful tonight, my dear,” said Lord Leodegrance.

 Guinevere looked up from her meal to her father. “Perhaps, father,” she said. “It is close to the full moon. It is said the full moon makes people think strange thoughts.”

 “They do say that indeed,” agreed Leodegrance. “In fact, once, when your mother was alive—”

 Guinevere did not bother to listen to her father’s story. She had heard plenty of her father’s stories about her mother, and, indeed, she had probably already heard this story before as well. In any case, she had little interest in hearing another of her father’s stories. His descriptions of her mother were always tainted by the eyes of love, and entirely missed the soul of the merciless social climber.

Instead, Guinevere thought of her night with Valerin the night before. It annoyed her, in some ways, that she needed to rely on Valerin for news of Caerleon. Things would be so much easier if her father would allow her to go herself, or at least take enough of an interest in national politics to get reliable news himself. But Leodegrance cared little about what happened in Britain outside his own territories, was too ill to accompany Guinevere to Caerleon, and refused to let his daughter make the trip alone, and so a messenger became necessary.

Thus she was forced to rely on Valerin. Not that it was all bad, he truly wasn’t a bad lover, per se, and he didn’t expect much more from Guinevere than her body. He was nicely built. (She had always had an image of wizards as either being overweight or frail; that Valerin was muscular made fucking him all that more enjoyable.) Still, if all she wanted was a good fuck there were many places she could turn, some better and some worse.

 Yet she needed that intelligence from Caerleon. The king lived there, as did his advisor Merlin, the true power behind the throne. There was always a steady stream of lords and ladies, not to mention the knights sworn to protect the kingdom. Caerleon was where the power was, and if she couldn’t be there then she was damned well going to find out as much as she could from those who were.

 Intrigues abounded in Caerleon, she knew, and if she had been there she could easily have twisted just one of them to her own devices. Yet she was not, and thus her ability to interfere was severely limited. Yet perhaps this at last was her opportunity. A puny quarrel, seemingly insignificant—who really cared who got to sit closest to the head of a table? And yet….

 “All done, Guinevere?” Guinevere’s train of thoughts was interrupted once again by her father. She look at the plate of stew in front of her. She had eaten a sizeable portion already—eat any more, she knew, and her lean figure would not be slender for very much longer.

 “I think so, father,” she said. “May I be excused?”

 “Very well, Guinevere,” her father said, dismissing her. He would stay to have a few more ales before retiring, she knew, a process which could potentially last well into the night.

 As she retired in her room, she picked up a quill and parchment and began to compose her letter to Merlin. Thoughtfully, she outlined what plans she had in mind and what it was she was asking the wizard.

 Lord Wizard—
I take my pen to write to you because I believe it lies in my power to rectify a situation which exists at Caerleon, in a manner to our mutual benefit. My help in the matter should prove invaluable…

When it was blotted and sealed, Valerin’s owl did indeed arrive as scheduled, and Guinevere passed the message onto him.

That done, Guinevere went to her bed, and dreamed of Caerleon and the long line of kings and queens who had lived there.

. . .

 “Lord Wizard!”

 Merlin looked up. Who would have the courage to call him by that title? While many of the inhabitants of Caerleon—certainly the vast majority of the servants—believed him to be a wizard, few would be willing to let their belief become a certainty. He looked behind him to see Valerin, a former Druid who had renounced his vows and came to Caerleon to live a life of luxury. The men promised to one day become a powerful wizard in his own right, but Merlin cared little if he succeeded or not. After all, Merlin already had an apprentice.

 “I bear a message for you, Lord Merlin,” Valerin said, handing Merlin a parchment envelope. Merlin glanced down at it; it bore the seal of Lord Leodegrance. Yet why should Lord Leodegrance have anything to say to Merlin? He would send any message to King Arthur, and through a courier, not this forest-bred wizard. Merlin looked up at the man, his eyes asking his question for him.

 “It’s from Leodegrance’s daughter, the Lady Guinevere,” Valerin explained. Merlin thought back; he had known that old Leodegrance had had a daughter, but had not seen her for what had to be at least a half-dozen years. Leodegrance’s illness had prevented both him and his daughter from traveling to Caerleon. He called up the girl’s image in his mind, a precocious girl even then, and physically developed for her age in every aspect except for height. What did she want of him now?

 “Are you lovers?” Merlin asked, enjoying Valerin’s discomfort as the man nodded yes. “I’ll be sure to look this over,” he said, putting the parchment envelope into a pocket in his robe.

 When he left the public corridors and finally sat down alone at a table in a private chamber, he took out the envelope and broke the seal. Inside the envelope was a letter written by the Lady Guinevere. He looked over it, thoughtfully, then sent his mind down deep below the castle, into the caverns below where he kept his workshop. Castles all over Britain held similar caverns below them, some—like that of Sire Ector—because he himself had planned them that way, decades ago, when they were being constructed; others—such as Caerlon, which were older than Myrddin himself—just because they did.

 He felt the gentle touch of Nimue’s mind, could feel her crouched over his cauldron, keeping the fire going and one of his potions brewing. What may I do for you, master? she asked him.

Look at this, he answered, allowing him to read the letter in front of him, seeing through his eyes:

Lord Wizard—
      I take my pen to write to you [Guinevere wrote] because I believe it lies in my power to rectify a situation which exists at Caerleon, in a manner to our mutual benefit. My help in the matter should prove invaluable, perhaps in more way than one . According to my source, there is unrest among Arthur’s knights. While unrest is in some ways the inevitable result whenever a large number of men conspire together, I am told that part of their quarrel is over who sits closest to the head of their table. The solution, to me, seems clear: seat the knights at a round table, which has neither head nor foot.
      It happens that the King’s father, the late Uther Penndragon had such a table, as I am sure you remember when from you served as that king’s advisor as you now serve his son. That table has passed into the hands of my father, the Lord Leodegrance, and is part of my dowry. King Arthur can easily claim it, along with the rest of my dowry.
     I should write to Arthur himself with this offer; keeping peace among his officers would please him more greatly, perhaps, than it would you. Yet there is a saying, that the longer a storm brews on the horizon, the more dangerous it will be when it does arrive. You may find peace to be to both of our purposes. In any case, we both know the futility of my going directly to the man who has been crowned king. Such a deal as this must be brokered with you, and you will know best how to broach the arrangement to His Majesty. Rest assured, however, that I will make it worth your while many times over.
  Yours,
   Guinevere

 What do you think, my pet? asked Merlin.

 A power-hungry vixen, answered Nimue. She desires nothing more than to be queen. Merlin laughed—what woman would not wish to be queen? Of course Guinevere desired power, who didn’t? Every man and woman was driven by that thirst, that lust, that will to power. It only seemed that this Guinevere had come to terms with her own ambition , and was willing to be honest with herself. 
 
What could she possibly offer you? In Nimue’s mind, it was an objection, but Merlin knew there were possibilities.

That remains to be seen, my pet. That is what you shall find out. 

. . .

 Stroke. Stroke.

 Guinevere drew the brush through the lush strands of her hair. Nimue stood there, behind her, wondering how much time each day the noble girl must devote to her appearance. It was a process which was a complete mystery to Nimue, who would merely let her locks—just as fair as Guinevere’s, but without the latter’s immaculate sheen—fall as they would. Why bother with her appearance? The only man Nimue had to deal with was her master, who could hardly be bothered if Nimue’s hair was brushed or not.

 But for Guinevere, Nimue mused, this was one’s life work. Was that not the sole purpose for one of Guinevere’s sex and station? A girl such as her existed only as a show piece, her sole duty being to look beautiful for men. And Guinevere performed her job well. Her lush head of hair only completed the job, bringing out the handsomeness of her face, which in turn accentuated the slender curves of her body.

 Stroke. Guinevere halted the brush’s motion, let the strands of her hair drop from her hand. She senses my presence, Nimue thought. Guinevere gazed intently into the mirror in front of her, but Nimue had made certain to stand a little to the side, outside of the field the mirror reflected. All Guinevere would see in the mirror would be her visage, and behind her reflection her own quarters—empty.

 Guinevere picked up the strands of her hair again in her hand, and began to resume brushing, no showing a single sign of trepidation. An act? Nimue wondered.

 “How ever in the world,” asked Guinevere in a imperious tone, “did you get in here?

 “The window was open, my lady,” Nimue answered.  Of course, the small slit in Guinevere’s wall was much too wide for a human to fit through, and much too high for him to climb to.
 
Guinevere at last pivoted in her chair, turning so she faced Nimue. “Who are you?”

 “Nimue, daughter of Vivienne of the Lake.”

 “Of the Lake? Which lake?”

 “It lies near the town of Erelock, my lady.”

 “In Wales, then?” Nimue nodded. “What do you want, Nimue of the Lake?”

 “I am the apprentice of the wizard Merlin. My master had received your letter, and was intrigued by it.”

 “So intrigued that he sent a child in his place?” Guinevere asked.

 “Child?” asked Nimue. “I’m taller than you are.” And older, Nimue silently added—she was about 30 times as old as Guinevere, even if Guinevere was more developed physically.

 “That’s not difficult, girl,” Guinevere said, rising to her full height, less than five feet. “It doesn’t mean much. Merlin sent a girl to do a wizard’s work.”

 “While you may feel you deserve my master’s undivided attention, Caerleon is a busy place. My master is needed.” Guinevere’s arrogance began to infuriate her. What right did this harlot have to Nimue’s master?

 “The rule of Arthur has continued undisputed since before I was born,” pointed out Guinevere. “Who dares to oppose him? None but the Queens of Faerie, and even they know better.”

 What did Guinevere know of the Queens of Faerie? Nimue was surprised by the reference. Seemingly Guinevere had truly milked her wizard lover for any and all information she felt could be relevant.

 “What fun is that, my lady? They say an unexamined life is not worth living; is an uncontested reign worth ruling? My master is ever busy arranging certain, shall we say amusements, my lady?”

 “Do I fall on that list of amusements?”

 And so here it was. “You consider yourself an amusement, my lady?” Nimue asked, coyly.

 Guinevere stepped towards Nimue, pushing a strand of the apprentice’s hair, falling loose in front of her face, behind her ear. “If that is what I must be, Nimue of the Lake. If your master wishes, I can arrange a demonstration.” Nimue looked once again at the way the noble girl’s nightgown hung from her breasts and hips. Guinevere had a right to be so confident of herself, Nimue conceded reluctantly, feeling a surge of anger. Why did Guinevere’s attractiveness bother her so much? It was not as if Nimue had any special need of beauty. “I consider myself to be whatever is necessary to achieve my ends. I am sure you and your master can sympathize.”

 “And what are those ends?”

 Guinevere laughed, sat back down on her chair in front of her mirror. “There is only one end, my girl. Certainly your master has taught you that.”

 So Guinevere did understand. Interesting. "Yet Merlin holds power already. Why should he share it with you?”

 Guinevere sighed. Nimue knew what she wanted was for Merlin to be here, so that she could seduce him rather than deal with an intermediary. Nimue watched Guinevere’s eyes narrow, debating perhaps whether it would be worthwhile to attempt to seduce Nimue herself. Guinevere seemed to choose against it, and said only “There are many types of power, Nimue. If your master grows as restless as you claim, perhaps he would like to taste my type of power.”

 Nimue nodded, raising her hood to cover her head. She turned towards the window, and as she did, she began to shrink, her arms becoming wings and her entire body becoming a blackbird. She flew out the window, only to hear as she flew away from the castle Guinevere mutter, “Shit.”

. . .

 The moon went from full to crescent, was new, then crescent again, then full again: the eternal cycle. Guinevere waited patiently, busying herself with the intrigue of the castle and the other plans she had in process. She kept busy; power decayed without constant effort to renew it, without her skillful touch and stunning looks keeping those who mattered in her plans in place. She could never afford to let down her guard, never let the illusion be lost, not even for a moment, not even when no one was looking or aware. Part of manipulating people was always being ready, always prepared even when the situation did not seem to warrant it. It was her ability to be constantly in control of herself that allowed her to be in control of others. Yet she wanted even greater control, lusted for it—and for that, she needed Merlin.