#geraint ac enid

[gingersnaptaff]

Hey, man, hey. Guinevere wielding a sword. Guinevere having an insane amount of blood lust and bitterness. Guinevere being as fierce as Arthur when things are at their worst. Her giant's blood makes her go fuckin insane, yes, but that's nothing compared to the fuckin fury burning in her eyes.

(Hey, she's bearing down on you with Excalibur. Watch out.)

[wildbasil]

predictably, i'm a fan of the theory that the owain ap nudd mentioned in geraint and enid is a spelling error 😌

[official-wales]

its mabinogion teusday. excellent bedtime stories. go read them

for @kestrel-wylde.

[thisbluespirit]

I mean, even at the time, I think we all felt John had taken Storytime to its peak with that one.  XD 

And also hey @maryellencarter​ (cos I know you also used to have feels about it!!  although that was many moons ago now. <3)

I’m laughing though, that people might find Murder at Mill Cottage upsetting if they read it as a straight AU, because, look, it is narrated by Dr. Harry Sullivan, who has just moved into an Agatha Christie-esque village where Miss Marple lives and people keep asking him if he’s the murderer, because he’s the narrator.  And then the Brig sends a note telling him that he’s off because he’s damned if he’s going to sit around being in some murder mystery story, so I do feel that that would probably be enough of a clue not to take it too seriously!!

(In TTR-terms, this was explained as a fiction bubble, which I thought could be a fun new addition as a floating danger to catch unwary characters in Cliched Plots, but then I was ill for ages and never wrote any of the other fiction bubble ideas I had, and it was not a thing.  It was just one random fic, by me.)

I would like to see the Doctor Who characters put on Macbeth please

short answer: Storytime: Macbeth by @john-amend-all

long answer, some of which you (animate-mush) probably already know, but which will provide essential context without which most people seeing this will be completely lost:

This is going to involve a lot of me explaining memes from corners of fandom I was never in, that happened long before I was reading fic, much less active in fandom. But I have backread every archive I can find so hopefully I won't get anything glaringly wrong. If I do... well, I've tagged some people who were there!

As I understand it, back in the days of Usenet, when fic writers used to hang out on alt.drwho.creative, they, as fic writers do, liked to go meta. The particular means of going meta fashionable at the time was to have a shared 'outside-universe' setting where all the characters hang out when they're not 'on assignment' in a story. In the case of adwc this was a pub called This Time Round, which eventually sprouted a town (imaginatively called Nameless) and various associated institutions.

One of these was a daycare in which child versions of all the characters (which, since people write fic where everybody gets turned into babies, have to exist somewhere) were looked after by, for some reason, Izzy Sinclair from the comics; I don't know why Izzy, particularly, but there she was.

(Sidebar: my favorite part of the TTR stories is actually the school stories--there have to be high-school-aged versions of the characters, because people write high school AUs--which were invented by @heroofthreefaces, who will probably see this, hello!)

Then somebody (I see it was BK Willis, who I don't know if they're still active or not) came up with the idea of 'Storytime.' Various characters--often, though not always, the Master--make Izzy's life harder by reading the children exciting tales. Unfortunately the creche is equipped with a magic Storybook that forces various Doctor Who characters (sometimes random, sometimes quite pointed selections) to act out the events of the story--while retaining full meta awareness and the ability to make snarky commentary. (I particularly recommend the Sherlock Holmes stories to get an idea of how Storytime works, and Gereint and Enid because it's adorable and hilarious.)

Murder at Mill Cottage by @thisbluespirit isn't Storytime but it's also a good 'in' to the TTR world, I think, but you can also read it as just a regular AU, and it's very fun (and cute Sarah/Harry shipping as well), although sort of more upsetting if you read it as just a regular AU, because people get murdered.

I have added all of this context because I tried to make @januarydivide read Storytime: Macbeth without it and she was just like, what is happening here, do the characters know what they're doing or not, if they can make snarky remarks how come they have to play along, I am so confused. (The best I can explain is that, for the characters acting out the story, it's like one of those dreams where you're in a play you've never rehearsed but somehow you keep going anyways. Jan does that help?)

Oh, I forgot to mention that one of the running jokes of TTR is that Nyssa has snapped (from the trauma, presumably) and now spends all her time trying to kill Adric. It's less funny when you just say it like that, I think. Anyway that comes up several times in Macbeth so you should know.

Anyway. So. Why should you care? In Storytime: Macbeth, everyone's favorite time-traveling Scot, Jamie MacCrimmon, and the girls of the Second Doctor era team up to read Shakespeare to the children, and the Storybook does its fell work. Turlough is a reluctant Macbeth, the murderous pawn of supernatural forces--again. Tegan is his Lady Macbeth, grimly determined to chivvy him through the story as fast as possible and get it all over with. The narrator has to fight the witches (as well as toddler!Zoe) for control of the story. It's wonderfully meta, and in the end I think it's a comic meditation on the nature of tragedy. Macbeth is a pawn of supernatural forces; Lady M does see it all coming (Tegan knows the play), and there really is no other way out for them but mouthing the words Shakespeare wrote for them. It's like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, but with Turlough in it. Oh, and King Yrcanos, did I mention Duncan is King Yrcanos? He doesn't take kindly to being murdered by a red-headed whippersnapper. He takes some killing....

Somehow none of the horror of the story goes away even in what is essentially a story about a horrifically ill-judged production of the Scottish Play. But it is, essentially and mainly, hilarious--I feel I need to emphasize that, because I'm being serious about it--it's a comedy piece and it is side-splittingly funny; but that's harder to explain in a post.

Also Macbeth is funny.

Anyway you should all read this, and I promise it doesn't really need all that orientation if you're willing to accept some random weirdness and kind of skim the 'Interludes' that don't have any Macbeth in them.

I said in the comment I left when I read it, and I stand by it: "Completely seriously, Turlough is my favorite Macbeth. And I own the Ian McKellen one on DVD."

[isingletonmajortwo2022]

The Mabinogion:

The Mabinogion is a collection of tales from two medieval manuscripts: The White Book of Rhydderch and The Red Book of Hergest. First fully translated from Middle Welsh into English and Welsh by Lady Charlotte Guest in the mid 19th century. The Mabinogion is a series of eleven (sometimes twelve tales depending on which translation you read), often divided into four groups.

The title of the collection, The Mabinogion, is a grammatical error - Lady Charlotte Guest used the term Mabinogion as a plural and the name kind of stuck. Derived from the word Mabinogi coming from the welsh word Mab, meaning boy or youth - this became Mabinogi, meaning tales of youth/boyhood or tales for boys, but it is agreed that Mabinogi as a term in the manuscripts is more likely to mean Tale. (Though the first four branches are the only tales in the Mabinogion that refer to themselves as Mabinogi.)

The tales mix folklore, myth, historical retellings and Arthurian legends, often concerning magical beings, Annwn or the Otherworld in English and Welsh Royalty. There is no single author of the manuscripts, though it is agreed that the first four branches are written by the same author. The manuscripts originated from around 1100-1400; this dating explains the widely different writing styles and references - each tale references aspects of medieval life and the generally agreed upon morals and ethics of the time. In addition to this, the dates of the stories themselves differ wildly. The first four branches and the Tale Lludd and Llefelys predate Christianity as they contain references to the Celtic ‘pagan’ religion in Wales before Christianity, and The Dream of Mascen Wledig is believed to originate from around AD 383. All of the stories in the Mabinogion predate the manuscripts and come from oral traditions/storytelling - the manuscripts are some of the only written evidence we have of these stories.

The Four Branches of the Mabinogi: Pwyll Pendefig Dyfed/Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed Branwen ferch Llyr/Branwen, the daughter of Llyr Manawydan fab Llyr/Manawyddan, the Son of Llyr Math fab Mathonwy/Math, Son of Mathonwy.

The Three Romances: Owain/Larlles y Ffynnon/Owain or The Lady of the Fountain/Well Peredur fab Efrog/Peredur, son of Efrawg Geraint fab Erbin/ Geraint ac Enid/ Geraint, son of Erbin or Geraint and Enid

Native Tales (mix of folklore and retelling of history): Breuddwyd Macsen Wledig/The Dream of Maxen/Macsen Wledig Lludd a Llefelys/ Lludd and Llefelys Hanes Taliesin/ The Tale of Taliesin

Arthurian Legend: Culhwch ac Olwen/ Culhwuch or Kilhwch and Olwen/ The Twrch Trwyth Breuddwyd Rhonabwy/The Dream of Rhonabwy

The Mabinogion - English translation by Lady Charlotte Guest 1840 - Illustrations by Alan Lee 1982 The Mabinogion - Translated by Sioned Davies Y Mabinogion - Dafydd a Rhiannon Ifans https://www.library.wales/discover/digital-gallery/manuscripts/the-middle-ages/white-book-of-rhydderch#?c=&m=&s=&cv=&xywh=-359%2C0%2C4797%2C4079

[azure-platter-writes]

Meet my knights of the round table

Gawain. He’s a disaster bisexual and non-binary, but he uses He/Him pronouns.  He’s dating Percival. He’s a drama queen, but we love him. 

Lancelot. He’s a gay man and Merlin’s first boyfriend and childhood friend. He’s of Spanish origin.

Gareth. A trusted Knight of King Catigern until he stays in Camelot. Catigern named Merlin’s cat after the knight. He is ace and trans. 

Geraint. One of Uther’s most trusted knights, however, he doesn’t respect her because of her sex. She is Enide’s ex-wife. She’s ace and bi. Arthur knows better than to disrespect her. 

Percival. He’s trans and gay. He’s dating Gawain. He’s a buff cinnamon roll.

All trans characters mentioned above have fully transitioned with the help of magic. Outside of Camelot, magic is used to help people transition if they so choose. Inside Camelot, both magic and anything overtly LGBT is banned and punishable by death. 

tag list: @floralandrogyny @nyxnevin​ @magicalmisstemi​ @luxscribbles 

[firstofficerrose]

Can anyone tell me what Geraint's deal is? The narrative clearly thinks that he and Enid are in love, and he does save her from a bunch of guys attacking several times, but he also seems to spend the whole story yelling at her for trying to warn him that there's guys about to ambush him??? Genuinely, the guy says "dont turn around or talk to me for the whole road trip", which already seems strange, and then he does a lot of flipping out at her for saying "Hey Geraint, there's like 80 dudes here trying to kill you". Yes, she did the thing he said not to do... but consider. There's 80 knights here to kill him, and she doesn't want him dead. Her actions seem reasonable to me!

And yet I think the book thinks he's a protago ist? This dude sucks, right? Right???

I'm working from Charlotte Guest's translation at the moment, I'm waiting on Sioned Davies at the library. Not sure if there's a translation issue or if I just have bad comprehension or if I'm missing some cultural context.

[coggirl]

Morgan Todd turns up in Henry Gilbert’s “King Arthur’s Knights: the tales retold for boys and girls” (1911) and also in the Prince Valiant comics (1937 onwards). A copy of the former’s available here: http://www.public-library.uk/ebooks/11/94.pdf  Gilbert cites Mallory’s Morte D’Arthur and Guest’s translation of the Mabinogion as sources for his stories, and Morgan Tud turns up in the latter, specifically in Geraint ac Enid as the head physician of Arthur’s court where he heals Edern ap Nudd. 

I’m not sure where the OP got ‘Morgan the Fairy’ from - ‘Tud’ as an element in a name usually means land or people (e.g. Illtyd meaning ‘multitude of land’ or ‘Llandudoch’ meaning ‘parish of the people of Dogfael’) or good (as in the river ‘Tudi’, now the Tiddy, in Cornwall).

I don’t know if tumblr ate my ask but I’ll ask again : apparently there’s an obscure character named Morgan Todd (whose a dude). Apparently his name means Morgan the Fairy in welsh and is working as Arthur’s court physician. What’s your thoughts about him ?(please don’t hate him he has no characterization outside of this) and I thought you were cool with Gwen. What happened when I was gone from this Tumblr?

i hadnt heard of this character! what texts is he from? i would assume an earlier welsh source? 

and oh my god there was like a 100 anon guinevere incident but basically i do love guinevere, there are some. Things in text that i choose to ignore bc i know she was written that way due to medieval fears about women, love and power which is such a tangled web i dont even want to get into it. but if you take some of her actions in texts and apply a modern view they do come off as pretty yikes. but if we can decided the entire post vulgate isnt canon then thats not canon too ya feel. so i am cool with guinevere lol but its complicated

[gingersnaptaff]

Some background for each:

Percival/Peredur: the big lad shall we say, the one you're all the most likeliest to know. The undertaker of the Grail Quest before Galahad, thinks knights are angels, besties with Owain and Gwalchmai, @nekomaidmordred 's fave lad.

Morfudd: Twin sister to the aforementioned Owain mab Urien. A personal favourite of mine. Was one of the 'three fair womb-burdens of Britain,' also her's and Owain's mam is either a granddaughter of Arawn, Lord of Annwfn, OR Modron goddess of motherhood and fertility. Either way, pretty impressive!!!

Bendigeidfran: Often called Brân he's the full brother of Branwen and Manawydan and half-brother to Nisien and Efnisien. Also, A GIANT!!!! That alone should make u think 'holy shit' but he also fought in a war against Ireland when he'd heard his sister was being abused by her husband, King Matholwch, so like ejdjdjdjdjf

Dylan Ail Don: @dullyn 's pookie. Lleu Llaw Gyffes' brother. If you love the sea this boi is for u. Has his rock at the Menai Straits. Blonde and bubbly - I'd imagine - sadly he was also murdered by his uncle, Gofannon in a hammer incident so like >.>

Enid: Long-suffering wife of Geraint. Another fave of mine. Literally the only reason Geraint was alive at the end of his tale and he STILL TREATS HER LIKE SHIT. I'll marry her myself if I must. Had a sapphic relationship with Queen Gwenhwyfar. (It's inferred, okay.)

Next round will be on Tuesday! (I know u only have a day to vote and that's cuz I was DUMB)

[gingersnaptaff]

Quick shitpost for you all but ut'd what I think a few of the Arthurian characters would drink at Christmas. With thanks to @gwalch-mei for being my partner in crime and listening to me ramble again.

Arthur: u would think it'd be like whisky or something cuz u know refined, elegant, a very sophisticated drink befitting a king. WRONG. Twenty-four white Russians and then advocaat and lemonade.

Guinevere drinks red wine, cuz ots classy looks like the blood of her enemies and she enjoys holding the goblet and looking like a bad bitch. Just don't tell her her teeth are black pls.

Morgan actually has the whisky because she's tired of her brother's tomfoolery waiting for fuckin miracles and delaying her eating pigs in blankets.

Cai and Bedwyr have Guinness and IPA's respectively because they are doing beer 52 and have become inundated with beers. Bedwyr likes trying new beers and Cai thinks of it as a couple thing. (He does not tell Bedwyr he hates Guinness)

Lance has like a sea breeze. Only one. Spends the rest of the night on water.

Owain and Morfudd get into a drinking competition with the Orkneys (other than Gawain. He's snogging Bertilak in the corner and going on about minty fresh breath)

Gaheris has on sambuca shot and fuckin goes catatonic. Mordred finds him passed out the next day on a bean bag. Lynette has to carry him home. Luned has to carry Owain home but like the crow army helps.

Morgause has baileys. Classic, easy to drink, everybody gets into fights over the last of it.

Agravaine has a dark and stormy cuz he liked the name but it does make him 'look like a knobber' in Mordred's words

Isolde has mead cuz it's sweet and gets u drunk QUICKLY she will need it because Tristan WILL do karaoke later.

Gareth has jagermeister I think. Or like a tequila sunrise.

Dagonet's drink of choice is like a fuckin cocktail with loads of whipped cream on it. Fruity, but also feels like it shouldn't work.

Galahad's is just water but he does the whole blood of Christ thing.

Percival's is either a dark welsh beer, OR a bloody mary but without the vodka.

Tor's is a whisky slammer.

Palomides has an Irish coffee.

Same with Clarissant but she's having like something with irn bru in it to freak her brothers out.

Also, Myrddin and Gwendydd have a bottle of apple schnapps between themselves. Do NOT mention Gwenddoleu at any point in Myrddin's earshot or he WILL cry.

Geraint's is a fireball but mixed with red hot chilli that Guinevere gave him as a prank. He goes so red that she thinks he's actually on fire. Enid is caught between 'holy ahit, my husband's dying!' And 'omg, I gotta kiss the Queen.' (She doesn't drink if ur wondering.)

Culhwch: really strong braggod (honey mead.) He too passes out only to be found on top of the ramparts the next day with a pig hat on his head. Do not ask.

Olwen has a v floral drink that other people are like, 'This is straight-up perfume.' She doesn't dispute it. Like would u? Her dad would kill up.

Edern has something v dark and bitter. He's the Knight of the Sparrowhawk like he has to. (When people aren't looking he swaps it for a cocktail and drinks it while furtively eyeing Geraint.)

Lionel and Bors have three whisky mac's each and then proceed to switch to water to ape Lance. He has to take them home.

[gingersnaptaff]

Thinking about how under the Laws of Hywel Dda (old Welsh law) a woman could divorce a man and take half his stuff (including brined cheese - best not to ask.) So, now I'm imagining Gwenhwyfar and Enid divorcing Arthur and Geraint respectively, and Gwen taking half of Arthur's worldly possessions, which would include both Caledfwlch (Excalibur) and Cafall (Arthur's dog), AND half of Cornwall in Enid's case.

(All this to say that, yes, I defo think Gwen and Enid had a lesbian sleepover in 'Geraint ac Enid.' Gwen was probs pushing for Enid to divorce Geraint. I KNOW it.)

[gingersnaptaff]

hi sarah!! from my main blog (ugh).🖤

Hi b!!!!!! Here's Gwen/Enid for u and I hope u love it! This is sort of a follow on from Cain's prompt so I hope that's okay!

‘When Geraint thought his flesh was whole, he came to Arthur and asked for permission to leave.’ - Geraint son of Erbin

Once Arthur had informed her of their cousin's recovery, Gwenhwyfar had done two things: plastered the most joyous smile on her face that she could muster, and, after their conversation had ended, immediately sought Owain to ascertain whether her husband was truthful. Of course, she could've had her ladies do so, for they were most adept at querying almost all of the knights, but this, she knew, would require a Queen's touch.

       And, perhaps, her wrath.

      “Owain!” She hailed him from across the field where he and Gwalchmai stood chatting companionably after their morning bout. “Is it true?” 

        “Is what true, your majesty?” He asked, his brow wrinkled in confusion. The wells of his eyes, dark as Annwfn, studied her intently, and Gwenhwyfar's resolve crumbled a little, the knife edge of it blunting.

       Her eyes swinging between the two men she babbled, “Is it true that Ge - that he means to leave us? That he's recovered?”

        His mouth hanging open like a panting hound's, Owain blinked at her owlishly. Words sputtered from the spigot of his lips, half-mumbled droplets of sound that belied his astonishment, and she quickly turned to Gwalchmai instead, “Well?” she snapped.

         A grimace twisted the normally handsome visage of the Hawk of May, and he ran a gauntleted hand through his tawny curls, the autumnal sun flaming them to rust. “Ay,” he announced with a weary sigh. “He means to leave in a few days, once winter is upon us. Morgan Tud decreed that he was well enough.”

          ‘Morgan Tud, of course, it would be his doing,’ she bitterly reflected, her hands curling into fists by her sides. 

        The urge to storm to the medical tent and screech at him until her throat grew raw stifled her, its inferno all-consuming. How dare he simply acquiesce to his wishes without a thought for what it might mean for Enid. For the despair and abuse, she would once again be forced to endure at his hands.

      And how could he even countenance tearing Enid away from her queen’s embrace after all she had suffered?

     It felt akin to a sick joke. A taunt. His flesh had been made whole again, yes, only for him to immediately fracture the scant happiness his wife had found for herself hither.

       God, she could've clawed his eyes out for that. 

       Once again, he would tear her away.

       Once again, he would drag her over mountain and hill and mud, all to satisfy the suppurating wounds his teulu had inflicted all those moons ago.

      But had Morgan not been made privy to the exploits of husband and wife the second he had laid eyes upon his battered body within the cloistered walls of the medical tent? Furthermore, how had he not been brought low by seething rage from all that had been recounted about their journey the way the rest of the court had been? 

        Why, a few nights ago Gwenhwyfar had watched as Peredur, normally the gentlest of knights, had spat his name into the hissing flames of a brazier as mouth curved into a sneer. “May he rot,” he had said. “I thought he was an angel when I first saw him, a knight like all the others. But he's nothing more than a devil, black-hearted and cruel.” 

        His words rang true. That thin veneer of easy camaraderie that had come so naturally to her and G - and him had long since fallen away, replaced by horror.

       ‘He's not fit to be a knight anymore than he is her lord husband,' she gritted her teeth, anger and despair warring within her at what she had put her dearest Enid through. ‘And I consented to their match.’ 

      “G -” Owain caught her dagger-sharp glare just before he said his name, his gasp sharp. He cleared his throat then, rubbing at the back of his neck. “He seeks to ride again, though I know not where.” 

        Gwenhwyfar hummed. Blood roared in her ears.

        Throughout the jumbled thoughts that assaulted her, and growing steadily fiercer and fiercer was the urge to avenge herself upon him. It burned hotter, brighter, taunting her like the dawn star that hung in the sky just out of reach.

         A tantalising vision, yes, but one she could not bring to boil. 

         Instead, her heart lurched violently within the confines of her chest. A lump rose in her throat and she could barely force herself to speak. “If that is what he has wished for, then we cannot deny him.”

        Gwalchmai and Owain nodded in agreement. Both, however, appeared fairly disgusted, and she did not know whether it was because of her reaction or because of… his looming departure.

         “You know as well as I,” Gwalchmai said at last, his green gaze meeting her grey one. “That Lady Enid-”

           “Will accompany him. Yes. I am all too aware of that, cousin.” Gwenhwyfar choked out. Tears stung her eyes but Owain's recriminating expression stung her more.

          “He’ll drag her behind him,” he spat, his voice a venomous hiss. His eyes hardened to jet, and his chest heaved with such passion that Gwenhwyfar would’ve thought him in love with Enid if she did not know where his proclivities lay. 

        “I know,” she seethed, her body shuddering. Her fists tightened, whitened, and her nails bit into the meat of her palms until they stung. “I know.” 

       Those words hurt to say. Bile scorched her throat. She took a shaky step forward, almost swooning, and pressed her lips together in an effort to keep the rapidly unravelling thread of her composure together. 

       Owain sighed lowly, the lingering tenseness in his shoulders softening a little in the face of her unspoken despondency. “I bore him love once, but I know his rage, Gwen. It’ll eat him alive.” 

        “Can you not beg him to cease? Or to soften his treatment of her? For the love of you that lingers within his heart-”

        Owain's throat worked. His dark eyes caught the sun, sucked her down into their fathomless depths. “There is naught I can do,” said the erstwhile Lion Knight, his lips crumpling into a thin, apologetic line. “He has not listened to me since he squired. Doubtless, he will not bring himself to do so now.”

       With a hollow laugh, she turned to Gwalchmai. He had remained silent throughout her and Owain's exchange, merely content to listen and divest himself of his gauntlets, but, in the face of her questioning glance he stiffened, straightening to his full, rather imposing height, and awaited her piece.

         “Can you not implore him to stay longer?” she asked, slowly uncurling her fists and stretching her fingers. A prickle of pain followed, clearing her head of rage. An odd numbness settled over her as she awaited his deliberation, although her heart still clamoured in her ears. Its frantic, uneasy thump matched the ‘thok-thok-thok!’ of Cai and Bedwyr's training swords that echoed throughout the wood. 

        For a moment Gwalchmai ignored her and opted to regard the two men, her husband's most staunch companions. A little way down they stood, bare-chested and perspiring, within a makeshift ring of cutdown tree trunks, darting towards each other and clashing their sticks. Ginger and black blurs they were, while their gait carried nothing but light-footed ebullience.

       Her mouth dried. The lump in her throat hardened. Tears blurred her vision, casting the world into a wash of colour.

       ‘Can't any of you do something? Won't you? You are his kin, his allies, his brothers-in-arms! You should be doing something!’

      Their laughter rang out. It was a flicker of warmth amongst the otherwise steadily cooling breeze, and Arthur's booming chuckle soon joined them. 

     She watched as her husband, clad only in a dirtied crimson tunic and checkered trews, embraced them. His face glowed with joy. His dark head bent towards Cai's ginger head and Bedwyr's mousy one while his lips moved rapidly. Then, they laughed again. 

      For a moment, Gwenhwyfar imagined that that was her and Enid, unbothered by all that had come and all that would soon be upon them. 

      But slowly, sorrowfully, she came back to herself. Mournfully, she remembered how she had left Enid slumbering in the warm womb of their tent that morn, with a quick kiss pressed to the tip of her nose, the way they'd done back when Gwenhwyfar was merely Queen of Rhos, and Enid her lady-in-waiting.

       And now, they were to be rented asunder once more. 

       Her guts twisted, her stomach lurching. All she could do was stare, unseeing. 

       Once their chuckles had ceased, Arthur threw his arms around his foster brothers and the three moved further off into the treeline. Gwenhwyfar had to squint to see them. 

       Soon, they were consumed by the forest's dark maw. 

      The rushing of a river scythed through the chilly air. Autumn's amber-tepidity would soon turn to winter's bitterness. 

      And, slinking with it like a serpent amongst the grass, Enid's departure.

     Gwalchmai’s voice shattered her out of her reverie, “Gwen…” 

   Gwenhwyfar's eyes slipped off them. Although she feared she knew his answer, she blinked away the burning salt of her tears and nodded hastily. “Ay?”

      He did not speak. The pallid cast of his face was enough indication.

      Gwenhwyfar swallowed down her remaining protestations. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded once and said, “I should go to her. She deserves to hear it from me.” 

        With that, she turned on her heel and marched across the muddied field to her tent.

----

The tent was warm when Gwenhwyfar entered. Her ladies milled about, jokes and laughter on their lips as they sat around the smouldering brazier in the centre of the tent, although every so often their eyes would flick to the bed where Enid lay, still dozing, cocooned by a mountain of furs. Contentment emanated from her being. The darkness of her unbound hair spilled across the pillows and she huffed softly. 

     A fond smile settled on Gwenhwyfar's face. She turned to her ladies, and espied Luned’s mousy brown hair from where she was by the card table, half-clad by darkness. “How has she been?” 

        “She’s been asleep ever since this morning, Your Majesty,” came Luned's reply, her ice blue gaze affixed on her slumbering sister-in-law. Her heart-shaped face and plump build mirrored that of her brothers and such a resemblance to him in that moment would've unnerved Gwenhwyfar, if she did not know that their demeanours were as different as fire and sea. 

        “Good. That's good.” Once she had unclasped her cloak, she collapsed into one of the seats that were clustered around the brazier and ran a hand through her windswept hair, detangling some of the knotted strands to distract herself. “Has she - Has she suffered any night terrors?”

       Luned's eyes briefly flicked to Enid before she shook her head. “When it looked like she would, we calmed her. Angharad gave her Milk of the Poppy just to make sure.”

       Satisfied, Gwenhwyfar smiled before she stood up and made her way over to the bed and gingerly sat down on the edge of it, so as not to wake her beloved, and then placed her hand atop the bedcovers, just above Enid's heart.

       Enid's cheeks were flushed a beguiling pink. She huffed again, a little discontented sound that made Gwenhwyfar and her ladies giggle quietly. Her hand crept across the covers, blindly searching for her lady's while a furrow marred her brow, and Gwenhwyfar chuckled as Enid’s fingers finally brushed against her hand. 

      A delighted moan came from the sleeping woman’s lips. A smile settled on her face. “Gwen…”

      “Fy enaid, wake up,” she murmured against the shell of her ear once she had leaned down, the curtain of her hair shielding them from the curious eyes of her ladies. “You can’t laze about all day or whatever will the court think?”

        Pouting, Enid cracked one bleary eye open and brought her hand up to cup Gwenhwyfar’s cheek. “You’d snarl at them until they stopped.” 

        Gwenhwyfar made a show of tutting. “Would I now?” she lowered her face so that their noses touched, and tried to banish the brass-bright amusement that shot through her words. “You seem rather certain of that, cariad. Shall I inform them of the Queen of Cornwall's tardiness and see what gossip makes their tongues wag?”

      Enid held her gaze. There was a look of such fierce indignation on her rosy face that Gwenhwyfar had the sudden urge to laugh. Oh, she hadn't seen that for quite a while. Not since…

      The night before she'd left for Cornwall.

     “Maybe,” she coyly replied. Her dark eyes smouldered like coals in the sun’s faint glaze. Before Gwenhwyfar even knew what was happening, Enid had caught her hand and tugged down the rest of the way, her merry, lilting laughter pouring into her ears. “But I'd much rather have my lady in my bed rather than with that prattling lot.”

     Gwenhwyfar laughed despite the ache that embedded itself within her. Enid's scent - lush meadowsweet and castille soap - cloyed the air. The arrowhead of her gaze sharpened, narrowed to her lover, while the flint that had encased her heart was banished by the kindled fire of adoration, and grew more and more aflame when Enid kissed her, slow and sweet. 

       Gwenhwyfar responded, her kisses harsh and unyielding, while her hands reverently mapped Enid's curves. She had filled out these last few months to Gwenhwyfar and Morgan Tud's relief. No longer was she skin and bone, stick-thin and gaunt from the torturous months spent on the road. No longer did bruises darken the skin of her wrists and arms. Her eyes, too, were bright, as captivating as the dusk.

      Gwenhwyfar sighed against her lover's lips. She drew away, swallowing down a scream. 

       Enid sat up, alarmed. “Gwen? What's wrong?”

       Unable to bear the look of despair that would surely follow the words she was about to say, she turned away, opting instead to stare at the glowing coals of the brazier. Her ladies glanced up at her with widened eyes, waiting. 

      “I received some… news,” she choked, “this morning.” 

       Enid laughed. The furs and bedcovers rustled and the bed frame creaked. “And?”

      The late afternoon light crept across the tent walls. A second later Gwenhwyfar jolted as a hand touched her shoulder. 

    She did not turn around. She could not acknowledge her. Not now. She must do her duty. 

      She must…

      “And… Oh Enid, you mustn't think terribly of me! I couldn't bear -” her breath hitched. “I couldn't bear that!” 

       “I don't understand,” Enid quavered. “Why would I even think that of you? Gwen, fy annwyl, what's brought this on?” 

     Gwenhwyfar sighed. It trembled upon the too-silent air. Outside, the men were laughing gaily. Slowly, she turned back to face Enid. “The news I received has to do with your… with your husband.”

      Her face crumpled. “God forgive me!” She sobbed, her head in her hands. “God forgive me, I didn't mean to wish for his death! I - I never thought-”

   Gwenhwyfar burst out, "He isn't! He isn't dead, although I wish he were for all that he heaped upon you alone! No-” She took another deep, raspy breath and gritted her teeth to alleviate the fierce heat that had settled within her. “No, he's alive.”

     Enid sniffled, wiping her nose on the furs. She rubbed at her blotchy cheek and croaked, “Oh.”

     Gwenhwyfar hummed as she sat on the bed again and drew Enid to her, nestling her in the crook of her shoulder. Her skin was soft, warm from weeping, and she pressed a kiss to her cheek, a dainty butterfly of a thing. “Ay.” She shut her eyes and sent a prayer up to Heaven. “He is well enough to travel, or so the King informed me this morning. He wishes to depart in a few days.”

    Enid sniffled. Her breaths grew shallow as she waited. Her mouth downturned. 

     “You are to go with him,” Gwenhwyfar whispered grimly, her entire being recoiling at the very idea. “Travel with him once again. He insisted.” 

      A wavering keen left Enid's lips and she threw her arms about Gwenhwyfar's neck and drew close in an effort to muffle her screams, the line of her body crumbling into Gwenhwyfar’s.

       “I know, I know, fy enaid,” Gwenhwyfar cradled her for a few moments while her ladies clustered about them, whispering soothing words and stroking Enid’s dark hair, sorrow stark on their faces. “If I had my way, then I would send him on alone and tuck you away in my breast so that you would be safe.”

      “Can't you?” she wept into the curve of Gwenhwyfar's neck. “Won't you? I don't want to go!” 

       Gwenhwyfar swallowed, clutching her to her chest as if she were a precious trinket. Tears were falling down her face now, and the last levee of her regal composure threatened to shatter.  “You know as well as I that my hands are tied, genethod melys. I cannot go against Arthur.”

     “But he'll listen to you!” 

      “Not in this, I fear. He is eager to depart. We've tarried here too long, you see, and he wishes for an end to the Cylch. He did not wish to move while you and Geraint -” she growled, aggrieved at her slip up- “your husband rested.” 

      A sharp whimper left Enid's lips. Her tear-filled eyes met Gwenhwyfar's and stared at her until she lowered her head demurely and eased herself from Gwenhwyfar's grip. 

     Gwenhwyfar let her go, watching as she sat back against the pillows, and placed her hands in her lap, “I see.” Her chest heaved as she fought against her tears and Gwenhwyfar's heart twinged so viciously at the sight that she thought it would cleave in two. 

    “Enid-” 

    “Don't!” 

    She sighed, gingerly reaching to cup her lover's cheek, and smiled when she did not flinch. “Fy enaid, listen to me: I love you. I do. I know you must go-”

    “You're making me!”

     “I know,” she pressed a kiss to Enid’s nose and smiled broadly at her lover’s answering giggle, despite the fierce look that hardened her expression. “I know, and you are right to feel aggrieved. You should be. God knows, if it were me in your position then I would feel so wrathful that I would cleave his head from his shoulders with his own sword.”

    Enid’s eyes glittered. “I wish you could.”

    “As do I. The joy it would give me…” she breathed. “But, alas, we must be separated once more.”

     Enid’s lips thinned. Fiddling with her bare ring finger in lieu of her wedding band she murmured bitterly, “I suppose I ought to be content.” 

     Claws of indignation dug into Gwenhwyfar’s heart, threatening to pluck it out as easily as the first summer berry off a stalk. “No,” she hissed before taking Enid into her arms once more and pressing a hard, wanting kiss to her lips. Enid followed her - as she always did, as she always would - melding her lips to hers, her body fitting against Gwenhwyfar's as easily as a ring upon a finger. 

     ‘By God,’ Gwenhwyfar thought, her trembling hands wrapped around Enid's waist, as she lost herself to the yielding softness of her lover's lips. ‘I wish I had a ring to pledge to you.’

     Her chest burned. Ached. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, searingly hot, and more dribbled over her fingers. 

     Enid sniffles shattered the all-encompassing silence. Her shoulders shook with repressed sobs, ones that Gwenhwyfar could not hope to quell with kisses no matter how desperately she tried.

     A broken sob tore from Enid's lips. Her breath whispered across Gwenhwyfar's cheek. She could do naught but kiss her harder, until her lips burned.

     Upon hearing the noise, her ladies turned their faces away to glance this way and that at the dark walls, each studiously avoiding the others' gazes. Out of the corner of her eye, Gwenhwyfar surveyed Luned leaning over to feed the brazier more coals. 

      All the while, Enid's moans thickened in the air and her ears. Each was the sweetest sound Gwenhwyfar had coaxed from her since they first kissed during her wedding two years past, and made all the more sweeter now that their long-feared parting was within sight.

    Her skin was warm beneath Gwenhwyfar's hands, the honey-heaven scent of her intoxicating. Laughter warmed the distinctly icy air that heralded winter’s coming, and Gwenhwyfar was not sure whether it was hers or Enid’s that gave her the greater amount of joy.

     When they broke apart, Gwenhwyfar's head spun. A tiny ribbon of spit connected them. She wiped it away with the tip of her finger, admiring the raspberry flush that had unfurled across Enid’s cheek.

     “You’re a covetous mistress,” came her lover’s watery reply, a dazed look upon her face. 

     Gwenhwyfar smirked, “Indeed. Only for you though,” she replied before adorning her Enid’s forehead with kisses,�� tiny jewels that made her summon up a few frail giggles. She shuffled further onto the bed, careful not to hurt her dearest lover, before she laid her head against the bolster and stared up at the ceiling. 

       The moonlight's grey gauze fuzzed through the silk and set the rings on her hands to winking. The bloodstone of her engagement ring from Arthur smouldered with fire, as did the molten gold of her wedding ring. Another - blue sea glass flanked by creamy pearls - rippled with the waves like the tiniest of tides on the pointer finger of her left hand. The great dome of her coronation ring flashed upon her right ring finger, while a small ring of a silver moon and waves sat upon her porridge finger. 

     Surveying them the way her husband would his lands, she absentmindedly  twiddled with them all for a moment just as Enid glumly said, “I suppose that was your goodbye?” 

      “Not for a few more days,” Gwenhwyfar said as she sprawled out next to her. “We have time.”

    Eyes glassy with tears, Enid’s throat worked. “Alright,” she said, before she bowed her head once again.

     The brazier crackled. Popped. Gwenhwyfar breathed deeply. Her mind was caught between consoling and crying, berating either Arthur or him. Her right hand ghosted over her left, twiddled with the ring on her left pointer finger. Carefully, reverently, she slipped it off. Then, she cleared her throat. 

     Flinching, Enid’s head snapped up.  

     “Take this,” Gwenhwyfar pressed the sea glass ring - Dylan's ring, given to her all those years ago - into her lover’s palm before she even had time to protest. “You’ll have something of mine then,” she sought the honey-blonde of Luned’s head out of the gloom and continued, “Get me a chain, would you, Lun?” 

       Standing, Luned smirked, before she strode over to the dressing table. Tinkling cut through the black, and quick as a flash Luned reappeared, a fine silver chain gleaming in her hands like a ribbon of starlight. Gently she deposited it into Gwenhwyfar's hands and sprawled out in her seat again.  

        “Will it do?” she drawled, sounding a little like her brother in the smoothness of her speech. 

         “It will.”

          After she had strung it on, she placed it around Enid’s neck and clasped it. The ring hung between her breasts.

          “I can’t have it,” Enid burst out, clutching at the ring as if it scalded her. “I can’t! What if he sees it? He'll tear it off me, I know he will!”

        “Between me and God, he will not!” Gwenhwyfar hissed, her anger bettering her, before continuing more softly, “It is yours. If he does so then he is more of a fool than I thought! Fy enaid, you're mine. If that fool - forgive me, Luned, for I know you have the unfortunate luck of being related to such a man - thinks he can dare covet what is mine then he will be sorely mistaken.”

      With a hum of delight, Enid snuggled into her. Gwenhwyfar pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, and murmured just as the first droplets of rain spattered onto the tent's roof: “Rest, Enid. I'll be here when you wake.”

        To her great relief, Enid softened in her arms and slept.

[gingersnaptaff]

💗 slow kiss or gentle kiss etc with enid/gwen plzz

CAINNNNNNNN I'M FUCKIN CRAZY ABOUT THEM SO HERE U GO!!!! This is after Geraint and Enid have met up with Arthur and the court and once Arthur's tent has been 'moved closer to the road' to allow for Geraint to be seen 'in his present state. (Injured, obvs.) Also, it's when Gwenhwyfar's maidens have taken Enid to her tent, so yeah. Hope u enjoy it!!!!!! :D

A note: A queen couldn't have a teulu (like a household army if u like.) but the king could. However, she had the right to circuit the lands separately from the king. Also, I guess this is Welsh-ified again.

ANYWAYS, here u go!

'I disliked being distracted from my thoughts. I was thinking about the woman I loved best.' - Peredur in Peredur ap Efrog

The tent was warmed by braziers, their orange-black coals smouldering brightly within its dark, silken interior. The sultry air was welcome after many months out in Wales’ mountainous regions, where the air was as bitter as a blow upon the cheek and as sharp as Enid's husband's demeanour.

She had suffered, that was true. Yes, that was true. How many nights had it been sleeping beneath a blanket of starlight, frozen out by her lord? How many days had blended together until she did not know when one began and another ended?

And how many months had it been since Ger - No. She could not bring herself to acknowledge him, not by his name, at least - her husband had dragged her through woods and hills and mud, all so he might satisfy his long-festering doubts about her unfaithfulness.

A lump rose in her throat. Not one of sadness - for she had cried that out until her body had hollowed into a husk - but of something else she dared not name. A wavering sigh left her lips, and she turned to see the ladies processing out of the tent, whispering and laughing, their duties done for the evening.

That brought a frail smile to Enid's lips. The lump in her throat ached.

Warm furs now swaddled her. Her belly no longer panged from feral hunger. She’d been scrubbed until her skin flushed rose until the hot water had scummed with grey, and now she lay in her lady’s bed naked as a newborn.

Her travelling gown, that tattered, muckied flag her husband had decreed she don, lay discarded upon the carpet-strewn floor. If she craned her neck enough then she would see it.

A teasing nip on the shell of her ear startled her out of her fugue. “You should burn it, fy enaid,” her lady murmured, her voice mellifluous with singing amusement.

Enid turned to meet her lady’s gaze. Her eyes glimmered in the dark, the grey of them shot with fire. Quickly, she shook her head, swallowing past the lump in her throat. The words she wished to speak - those she truly wanted to utter - lay dormant on her tongue.

Another kiss was her lady’s response, this one pressed to the sensitive skin below her ear. “Can’t or won’t?” she queried once she'd drawn away.

Enid shuddered. “I can’t,” she said at last.

Her lady smirked. Propping herself up on one shoulder to see her better, she sighed. Her breath was warm against Enid’s neck. Its cloying prickle made the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. “He has no claim to you here. And you know as well as I-” and here her voice hardened - “That he must listen to me. He can't touch you. He won’t. Arthur will be dealing with him as we speak, you know, or, at the very least, reprimanding him.”

“Did you tell him to?” was out of Enid’s mouth before she could stop it. At once, she stiffened, expecting a rebuke, her muscles quivering with doe-meek terror.

At this, her lady nodded her fiery head in agreement. Laughter left her lips and her freckled shoulders shook, “Ay.” She reached out and tucked a strand of Enid’s dark hair behind her ear, her soft fingers brushing against the weatherbeaten skin of Enid’s cheek.

“You shouldn’t have-”

“Why not? It was cruel of him to do as he did.”

Tears pricked Enid’s eyes. She ducked her head, a sob tearing past her lips, renting apart the otherwise still contentment of the air. “I - I know,” she gasped, not even fighting against her lady as she gathered her into her arms and pressed her against her chest as though she was liable to shatter. “But I - I had to follow him. I had to.”

An animalistic growl left her lady’s lips. “When was the last time he touched you in such a manner as I, Enid?” she probed, the iron ore of her demeanour shattering. Tenderness imbued her tone with honey and Enid let her eyes flutter shut and her body slump into her softness.

“Weeks. Months. I don't -” she sniffled. “I don’t recall. I was forced to travel any road G-” She could not utter his name. It burned within her gut, crumbled to ash in her mouth. “He did.”

The flint of her lady's eyes tempered to steel. A tinder of anger burned within them, liquid pitch and wrathful.

Once it caught, it would consume.

“If he were not injured,” she hissed, her mouth a white slash in the umbral black. “And propriety did not forbid it, then I would have Manawydan tear his head for the indignities he wrought against you.”

Caught between surprise and shock, Enid flung herself out of her lady's arms and clutched at the furs with calloused fingers. “Lord Manawydan?! Your majesty, I-”

“He is most aggrieved. Pryderi, too. What Geraint forgets is that I have a Teulu too, not unlike my husband's," the axe blade of her breath ghosted across Enid's neck. “And they would do my bidding.”

“Your majesty,” Enid laughed, half-scandalised. “Are you inferring that my husband is disobedient?”

“I do not suggest. I know.” Her lady calmly asserted as she drew Enid back to her, nestling her against her chest. Rosewater and candied ginger clung to her skin. Queen Morfudd had surely spent the night before with her then. Only the Lady of Eidyn would wear such a decadent perfume.

Enid's brow furrowed. She fiddled with the fur coverlet listlessly, her eyes glued on how it glowed sumptuously in the light of the brazier. “How?”

With another tinkling laugh, her lady sat up. The furs pooled around her middle to reveal the lovebites that Enid had nibbled on her freckled shoulders during their bout of passion and with it the rosy flush their exertions had imbued her with.

Enid’s mouth dried. Her eyes lovingly traced the graceful line of her lady’s neck, the copper waterfall of her unbound hair as she canted her head to try and rid her face of a troublesome strand, and the swell of her breasts as she exhaled.

“He has always been so ill-mannered, ever since he was a squire,” her lady sighed after a moment of contemplation, the noise mingling with the susurrations of the breeze outside.

Enid raked a hand through her hair, tugging on the strands until her scalp ached. Her heart clenched, sharp and searing. “I-”

“Oh, genethod melys,” her lady said kindly, cupping her face with her hands. “I do not say these things to wound you, you must know that. But…”

Enid blinked up at her. “But?” she prompted softly, tilting her head. She smoothed a hand over the furs, revelling in their luxuriant softness, and took up the trefoil-hued hand of her lady. “Gwen, tell me.”

Gwenhwyfar swallowed. A whistle-like laugh left her lips, akin to a caged songbird's trilling. “When you were away,” she choked out, her eyes glazed with tears. “I demanded news of you. Every day, I went upon the ramparts and looked across the hills in an effort to spy your coming, and every day I saw nothing. Only grey mists and green hills. I'd enquire of the guards if they'd sighted you, and the knights if they'd any news of you - a missive, a sign, some sort of indication of your state - and every day the same answer left their lips: “No, your majesty, we've nothing. Nothing.” I'd-” Her breath hitched, her chest heaved. “I'd feared that you'd perished. And I did not - would not - know whether it was by a brigand's hand or his.”

For a moment, Enid only stroked the back of Gwenhwyfar's hand comfortingly. She did not weep, although a wry smile twisted her lips.

“I would've sent word to you,” Enid said with all the inferno of a solemn oath, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the lawn-soft skin of the inside of her wrist. The sweetness of roses and the sourness of sweat lingered there, as captivating a perfume as those low-lying fields of Queen of the Meadow that bloomed near her father's estate during summer. “I wouldn't have left you.”

Gwenhwyfar's heartbeat grew frantic beneath her lips, the rhythm a pulsing tide that syncopated with Enid's own. Warmth besieged her in her cheeks and chest, a glowing coal of adoration.

Silence shrouded the tent. Their breaths mingled as they snuggled together, while the braziers crackled and popped, their orange glow dissipating. Shadows elongated across the tent's silken walls as the first sparse patters of rain fell upon its sloping roof, and the twilight elongated, enmeshed the lovers in its gloam so that Enid did not know where she began and her lady ended.

What was it that Peredur had once told her all those years ago when he'd caught sight of her daydreaming in the gardens at Caerleon? Ah, that was it: “Well, it's simple. You're thinking of the lady you love best. I'm the same although s’not the Queen.”

At the time she had scoffed, protestations falling from her lips with all the alacrity of one on trial. But now, she reflected, there was some truth in his words.

‘Peredur Baladr Hir, when I see you again, I'll have to thank you.’

Cocooned in this space, her body feather-light and buoyed by joy, Enid nuzzled the freckled hollow of Gwenhwyfar's throat until she stiffened and sighed above her, “Would you?”

Enid hummed, “Yes.” Her eyes fluttered shut again as exhaustion knitted itself to her being and bones in a longed-for blanket. Gwenhwyfar crowned her with a kiss. Around a yawn, she asked, “How did you come to be here?”

“The Cylch,” Gwenhwyfar said, matter-of-fact, as she stroked Enid's hair. “T’is the time for circuiting. Arthur wished to see his land and I hoped to catch a glimpse of you somehow. It was Gwalch who persuaded him hither.”

Enid's chest tightened. ‘Bless Gwalchmai,’ she thought, sunlight syrupy in her veins. ‘And his golden-tongue.’ Only he would have the wherewithal to sweet-talk his Lord and King until he acquiesced to his wishes like a reed buffeted by the breeze. How quickly had Y Brenin Mawr capitulated to his cousin? How speedily had the party set out upon their circuit about the lands?

And… And how long had Gwen waited for a morsel of knowledge about her? Had she grown starved and gaunt, unable to feast on sweet kisses and teasing touches? Or had she remained calm and composed right up until the moment Enid and her husband had ridden into camp on their used-up steeds with Lord Cai swearing a blue streak at their side?

She pressed her lips together, admiring Gwenhwyfar as she leaned back upon the mound of pillows, the haze of the braziers limning her with amber.

And… ah, there it was. The Queenly mask had once again affixed itself upon her lover's countenance, straightened her posture into a sturdy iron rod, sword-sharp and feline-faced. “Arthur was anxious too, cariad. He took note of just how much your absence affected me. He ordered scouts out a few days ago, although I suppose there'll be little need for them now.”

“I'm glad of that,” Enid said, pressing a kiss to Gwenhwyfar’s throat and revelling in the reverberations of the hum of agreement this action greeted her with.

“As am I,” A fond smile split Gwenhwyfar's face and Enid found herself laughing for the first time since she had been forced to accompany her husband upon this perilous journey. Once she'd recovered, or at least her hilarity had lessened, she stroked the soft flesh of Gwenhwyfar’s shoulder, her eyes drawn to the faint scar of a glancing hammer blow that lay there. She traced it reverently, flinching a little when Gwenhwyfar grasped her hand and pressed a kiss to the tips of her fingers.

“It's in the past, Enid,” she bit out, her voice husky with unshed tears. “T’was a… gift. Dylan’s uncle was kind enough to bestow it on me.”

Enid nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You can’t change anything. And… I should be the one who is sorry. I gave you leave to marry him.” Bitterness seeped into her tone, as fetid as groundwater, and Enid shuddered as she snarled, her hands wringing at the blankets as if they were Ge- his neck.

Something blazed in her chest at seeing such protectiveness from one so formidable. She expected it with men, in a way. Her father had done his best to shield her from Lord Edern when he’d been The Knight of the Sparrowhawk. Certainly, she'd become inured to it throughout her honeymoon with… him. She had keened for it over the course of the journey, undoubtedly so, praying to God for some paltry wisp of security so that she might feel anything but bereft.

Alas, he had only bestowed upon her stone and sorrow.

But now, seeing Gwenhwyfar, her queen and lover, doing so intoxicated her with the same steady heat as the braziers, the same candied spice as the enduring remnants of ginger that clung to her lady’s skin.

Without thinking, without even feeling really, she closed the gap between them, threw her arm about Gwenhwyfar’s neck, and kissed her, long, and loving.

Gwenhwyfar hummed against her, as sultry as any cat's purr. Honey mead clung to her lips, sweetly tart, while her hands sought the curve of Enid's back, tracing the delicate hills and valleys of her spine. And all the while Enid let herself be held, cherished, treasured, allowed her lady to coax soft, indulgent kisses from her.

God, a day ago she’d ached to have been touched in such a manner. Supplicated herself upon the ground and begged to be tender-heartedly treated by the one who loved her best. Kind words fell from her lover’s lips, interspersed with syrupy-soft kisses, those that quicken the breath and muddle your brain until you can do naught but follow, and Gwenhwyfar did not draw away until Enid's breath grew sufficiently shallow. Until her lips burned.

Enid’s heart quivered in her chest. Her head whirled, the disorientation, the brain-fogging light-headedness making her slump against her lover. Gwenhwyfar's touch was soft, reverent, as her hands draped over Enid’s shoulders, and she bent her head to nuzzle Enid's nose. “Rest now,” she said, stroking Enid's cheek with her thumb, “I'll be here when you awaken, I swear to you.”

Enid nodded in response, her eyes fluttering shut.

The ghost of Gwenhwyfar's kiss lingered on her lips.

[gingersnaptaff]

I forgot to post this when I'd finished it but this is Enid x Gwen part 4: Geraint dies edition. This takes place after Geraint and Enid eventually return to court. I don't think I have anything else to add apart from there is a graphic description of Geraint's dead body so pls don't read if it squicks you out!

‘And when [Geraint] saw Enid he fell from his horse to the ground as if dead.’ - Geraint son of Erbin

The sun warmed the corridor. The dull tinkle of laughter drifted up from the gardens, although the closed windows muffled its vibrancy. The queen and king were in the gardens, if Enid was not mistaken, for she would've recognised the mellifluous laugh of her lady anywhere.

She smiled. It was lovely to be back at Caerleon at the height of summer after all that had occurred on the strenuous journey she had undertaken with her husband, despite the fact his dark moods and speech marred it.

It was even more wonderful to see her lady again. To be held in her arms during the quietude of the early morning hours, to kiss her body, to feel the silken softness of her skin…

Gwenhwyfar had etched herself into her heart, well and truly.

But she simply had to retire. Her head throbbed. The summer sun had always bested her, ever since she was a child, and the stabbing pain that currently beset her temples and lurked behind her eyes was a testament to that.

Shielding her eyes with a hand so as to block out the fierce glare of the sun she came to stop outside her chamber door.

Oh, that was odd.

The door was ajar.

Her husband had not informed her that he was out in his normal brusque, oafish way: prowling towards her like a rabid hound, tugging on her hair to bestow unwanted kisses upon her neck as he shackled her in an iron grip, laughing as she fought to free herself.

She knocked.

The door squealed in protest.

She frowned. “Husband?”

Lilies stank the room out. Thick, cloying, their oppressively fetid musk barely disguised the stench emanating from within.

Enid's hand trembled as she pushed the door further open.

Overwhelmed, she slouched against the wall, gagging. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she dimly registered the thunk of the tapestry she'd upset as it landed on the floor. It rolled away with a tink, its golden threads winking in the firelight.

For a moment, her thoughts whirled. Slowly, they began to coalesce together into a blob. Over the thunderous thump of her heart she barely acknowledged the sharp screaming that echoed around the room.

Who was it? Why? Gracious God -

She sucked in a breath. Released it. The screams ceased. Oh.

Oh.

Her chest heaved. Her throat, raw though it was, worked, and a shaky little, “God,” left her lips. Without thinking, she clutched at her abdomen, still mercifully free of his child thanks to the tonics her queen procured for her, and shrank in on herself.

“I - I never-” she stood on shaky legs and made her way over to him. His head was caved in. Mercifully, he was face down upon the rug so she could not see the terror that surely contorted his visage. Bits of brain matter, that fleshy, pink pulp, bloomed over the blue walls of their chambers, while the rust of dried blood coagulated upon the carpet.

Discarded near him lay the twisted wreckage of a fire poker. Crimson marred the handle.

She gagged again. Her stomach almost rebelled, lurching sickeningly, as she took in the bloody smear on the bedcovers and ceiling. It was no mere attack. A frenzy, that's what it was.

Somebody who had an axe to grind had committed such a grave, craven offense. She ought to've been rending her cheeks, weeping like a good little wife, yet she felt cold. Icy.

Somehow, just barely, she summoned the strength to walk over to the door and out into the corridor.

Her lungs ached as she inhaled. She held her breath for a moment, letting the coolness of the air soothe her battered throat, before releasing it. The sun warmed her. A sparrow’s trilling laugh cleaved through her terror.

He was vanquished. Slain. Gone. Beaten bloodied by an assailant, just as he'd done to so many others.

A grisly end, but a fitting one.

Repeating the slow, steadying pattern or inhaling and exhaling for a second time slowly brought her back from the brink of stunned horror, while the third gave her the necessary push to call out for aid.

A second later, her lady strode down the sun-dappled hallway.

This shocked Enid. Their rooms were near each other - as near as they dared to be without raising suspicion, anyway - and her queen had always responded to the sound of her voice, whether it pleaded for her touch in the dark of night, or when she laughed in the gardens in the hazy afternoon. But she had been out in the gardens with her husband. How had she-

‘Be grateful anybody heard your wailing at all,’ she berated herself. ‘When you sound like the death call of a stag.’

She smiled thinly. Accepted her mind's rebuke as easily as she would her husband’s snipey comments.

Besides, if there was anybody who knew how to aid her, it was Gwen.

She rushed forward, taking her queen by the hands. “Gwen - oh, Gwen, you have to come quickly!” she babbled, wincing at the flicker of pain twisting her lady's face from the force of her grip.

“Fy enaid, whatever is the matter?” Perplexity sanded her lady's voice of its normal rich contralto, while the small frown twisting her lips made Enid feel positively wretched.

The sweetness of honey emanated from her. Candied ginger, too. Yet, there was another perfume beneath that; a stronger undercurrent, a citrusy tang that made her recoil. A hand flew to her mouth as she battled the urge to puke.

“It - It's -” she took a trembling breath, jolting as her lady took her in her arms. The harshness of her grip unintentionally reminded Enid of her husband's, the way his fingers would claw at her shoulders every time he demanded his dues-

She shut her eyes. A shudder rippled through her. The phantom press of his hands did not abate. She took another deep breath, “He's dead.” The words came to her as easy as breathing. She had no love for him. Not after all she'd endured by his hand.

Her lady nodded. One of her freckled hands stroked the crook of Enid's elbow, the gesture inordinately comforting.

“He's lying on the floor of our chambers. By the fireplace. I - I didn't notice anything amiss at first until I pulled the door open. He's just lying there, crumpled like a doll, Gwen!”

Her lady nodded again before brushing a tendril of hair away from her cheek. The touch comforted her and she all too willing melted into her, allowing her warmth to suffuse her body. The August sunlight flamed her hair to fire, silhouetted her in honey, while the brocade crimson silk of her gown was soft beneath Enid’s cheek. “All will be well, fy enaid,” she soothed. “Now, show me him, won't you?”

There was a glimmer of something in her lady's eye, though try as she might, Enid could not decipher it. Once she'd untangled herself from her lady's hold she ducked back inside her chambers and beckoned to the body.

Her lady kicked it with her foot. “Good,” she coldly announced before spitting on it.

Enid nodded. Her hands wrung the fine silk of her gown, her mind afire with catastrophizing. What would become of her now? Would she be branded the murderer, or would the courtiers content themselves with another? Would she be ordered to remarry or cast aside without so much as a by your leave? She was no fool. Vultures circled about for even the most minor of infractions.

And this… oh, by Heaven, not even her lady’s love could shield her from this.

“I’ll be put to death, won’t I?” she sobbed, breaking down entirely, and stepped towards the bed to clutch at one of its finely-carved posts. “T - They'll think I did it. His majesty will order me beheaded.”

“Now, no such thing will be done,” her lady immediately rebutted as she moved to comfort her. Stroking Enid’s tangled hair as gently as she could she continued with a slightly icier edge, “God wished for his death and he sought it out. Did it come by your hand, Enid?”

She swallowed. Her hands trembled in the folds of her gown.

“I see. No, you needn't say anything for your face is answer enough: I know you did not slay him.” Enid swooned at that. Relief blazed hot in her blood. “Arthur will understand, and he is not so cold-hearted as to order the death of our cousin’s grieving wife, nor her remarriage.”

“Diolch,” she murmured roughly.

Her lady cupped her cheek, her grey eyes gleaming in the sun that filtered through the shuttered windows. The action brought to mind the way he'd done so three night's past, although his eyes reviled her rather than adored. His breath had stunk of ale. He'd raised his hand-

She flinched. Stiffened. “Please,” she whimpered, screwing her eyes shut. “Don't.”

Yet the white-hot sting of the clout on her ear never came.

That same citrusy tang enveloped her, crept into her nostrils. Frantic apologies filtered into her ears, each a slow, sludgey trickle of sound. Her lady's palm, stinking of iron, burned through the cold sweat that made her gown cling to her, while tears dribbled down her cheeks.

She had not even realised she was weeping. The blind terror that assaulted her had made her abandon her senses. She gulped, ready to wail out another apology, just as her lady growled.

At that moment, Enid was almost beside herself that her husband had perished in the attack, if only because she'd been denied the pleasure of her lady disembowelling him.

Her heart squeezed at what she saw. Baring her teeth, her lady's hands had curled into trembling, white-knuckled fists, while the normally sedate grey of her eyes hardened into flint. “That bastard,” she growled as she gathered Enid against her again.

She did not protest. Simply wept into her chest.

Her breath tore from her lips, harsh, fast pants. “He - He always used to do it. Whenever I spoke against him during our travels he would slap me. Towards the end, he convinced me that it was my fault, that I needed discipline.”

“Oh, fy enaid,” her lady's lips brushed her temple, as soft as a butterfly. “It was his distemper and self-loathing that made him behave towards you so cruelly.”

But Enid did not hear her. She picked that particular scab of remembrance until it festered, tearing it open. “He - he said I was uncouth and ungrateful. That he'd pulled me out of poverty but could just as easily put me back-”

“Enid, Enid, calm yourself!” Her lady’s tone was soft yet steely as she stroked the curve of her back. Her grey eyes examined Enid with a tender concern that made her heart spasm wildly, and she clung to her as tightly as she could. “He is gone. He cannot hurt you ever again, and, as the gods are my witness, nobody else will either,” her invocation was resolute. “You have my word. I would see you safe and contented here with me for the rest of your days.

Enid sniffled wetly. Lily pollen dried her mouth. Their too-sweet citrus scent grew rancid in her nostrils. It made her guts twist.

Confusion and exhaustion battled within her body, although she knew she could not slumber where her husband's corpse resided. But… How did the fugue of lilies cling to him so strongly? Their intensity had not lessened.

If anything, it had only grown, loaming about the room like an ash cloud. It was strongest near her. All-encompassing.

Her head ached.

Wishing desperately to clear her mind, she inhaled Gwenhwyfar's scent again. That which had always grounded her - and should've - instead made her retch.

“You thinking, fy enaid,” Gwenhwyfar's tone was fond as she stroked the furrow between her brows. “What about?”

Enid peered up at her. The words came to her slowly. “I… How did you know where I was? When I screamed?”

“I heard you.”

“The windows were closed.”

Her lady laughed choppily. “Enid,” she said. “What's brought this on?”

“Where were you?”

“The gardens.”

Blinking, she peered through her eyelashes at her lady and inhaled her scent: honey, candied ginger…

Lilies.

Her mouth dropped open. Her stomach swooped. A chill crept up the length of her spine, as though she'd been thrust into a frozen pool.

“Fy enaid, really? Do you think so little of me that I'd hurt you?”

Yet throughout all the discombobulation one fact remained: ‘She loves me.’

“Enid,” Gwenhwyfar's voice cracked. “Look at me. You know I wouldn't.”

She met Gwenhwyfar’s gaze and smiled.

What need had she to be afraid of the woman who loved her best? The lady who ruled her heart and body above all others?

None!

Whatever she had inflicted upon him was justified. An eye for an eye as The Book said.

Gwenhwyfar had taken that to heart.

And then she'd appeared at Enid’s side like a flame-clad phantom, a beacon of peace.

“You murdered him.” It was not an accusation, merely a statement. Laughing giddily, gloriously, she tugged her lady to her and kissed her until her lips buzzed, positively effervescent. “I should've seen it sooner.”

“I did what needed to be done. I could not stand aside while he tormented you. You may be patient, cariad, but I would not have that be trampled on by the likes of him.”

Enid smiled broadly. “Thank you.”

“I struck him and I would do so again if the second had not killed him. A shame about the carpet, although the walls can be washed. And I apologise for the scare. I had hoped that Luned and Owain’s company would've been enough to keep you occupied. I did not account for your accursed migraines.”

Gwenhwyfar’s callousness washed over Enid like a spring rain. An exhausted laugh left her lips. The last dregs of strength drained from her body. “Did his majesty countenance you smashing yours and his cousin’s head in?”

Gwenhwyfar beamed so proudly that Enid felt the wild need to kiss her again. She was close enough to do so. Close enough that Enid finally saw what has long been disguised by the crimson of her gown.

Blood.

It speckled the bodice of her gown like dewdrops. More dashed her sleeves, each a fine ruby drizzle.

She should've been repulsed by it. Horrified. Yet a fierce warmth filled her veins, as thickly sweet as honey. The act was protection. Had not all looked upon him with unveiled contempt that day they'd wandered into the clearing where the court’s pavilions had resided? And had not both Gwalchmai and Owain gasped when they'd seen her emaciated and bruised state once they'd aided her down from her horse?

Any man or woman could've struck the blow. But only her queen had.

Draping her hands on her shoulders, she pressed her lips to Gwenhwyfar's before she'd even registered what Enid intended to do, and kissed her.

Their teeth clacked together. Enid didn't care. Couldn't. Not when she was free, not when Gwenhwyfar’s tongue was plundering her mouth. Her hands entangled themselves in Enid’s unruly chestnut curls, searing her scalp, yet the pain was sweet, thrilling.

Lilies surrounded her again. Sweeter now; their astringency no longer as head-bludgeoning, she drank it down, letting it entwine with the iron of her husband’s blood.

All the while, Gwenhwyfar made such pretty little moans. They made her preen madly as she kissed a path down her lady’s cheek, following the curve of her jawline, and down the freckled column of her throat.

“Enid,” she whimpered, tossing her head back.

A soft chuckle left her lips once she made a show of nipping at her lady’s clavicle.

Gwenhwyfar shivered beneath her. Her breath tore from her lips.

A second later there came a knock on the wall.

“Gwen?” Cai’s husky voice called out. “Are you in here?”

Enid squeaked, springing back as though she were a mouser cat. All warmth evaporated, replaced by a cold, gut-twisting dread, and bowed her head, content to gaze at her bloodsoaked shoes.

Gwenhwyfar, however, merely smiled serenely, appearing utterly composed, even if her face was rose-red. “Yes, Cai.” she answered, her eyes twinkling.

He strode into the room. Dressed in a brown woollen tunic and checkered blue and grey trews that made the red of his hair all the more striking, he smiled the second his eyes alighted on the queen. “Arth's been looking for you. He thought-” He broke off and took in the carnage with an oddly unconcerned look. “You did it then.”

“Ay.”

He grinned, dark eyes blazing. It was as sharp an expression as Enid had ever seen. She did not think him a cruel man - rash, yes. Fiery, always - but, at that moment, she saw how it lurked within him. Gesturing to the body, he said, “Do you need a hand?”

Gwenhwyfar's smile turned cat-like. Feral. She raised her chin pointedly, “Aid Lady Enid in standing, won’t you, Cai? Take her to my quarters and send Gwalchmai to assess her wounds. The attack has left her… rather bruised.”

Cai’s smirk turned wolfish. “Of course. Shall I send Bedwyr here to dispose of-”

“No,” Enid interrupted forcefully, uncaring of their bug-eyed looks. “I’ll deal with him.”

Gwenhwyfar gasped out, “Enid, why bother yourself with him? He's naught but worm meal!”

An odd liquidity settled in her limbs. She straightened up, and breathed deeply, easy and unhurried. “I know. But I will be the one to drag his corpse to the walls and watch Sir Owain's ravens feast on his carcass. That alone will give me the satisfaction your actions afforded you.”

Appraisal settled itself upon Gwenhwyfar and Cai's features and they caught each other's eye. “If that's your will, my lady,” Cai declared. “Then I'll go and discuss it with Owain. Although I daresay he'll say yes.”

Enid dipped her head in thanks and watched as he turned on his heel and out the room. His steps thudded down the corridor, getting further and further away, until the squeal of a door cut them off.

Gwenhwyfar, in contrast, was silent. She had turned to stare out of the window, resting her forehead against the closed shutters. Dust motes swayed around her. Chinks of light seeped onto the walls, a sickly yellow that reminded Enid of tallow. “Do you truly wish to parade him in that manner?”

“It isn't parading,” Enid said as she closed the space between them and wrapped her arms around her lady’s waist. “Merely… settling an old score. He embarrassed me when he was alive. Can I not do so to him once he no longer draws breath?”

Gwenhwyfar heaved a sigh. “I don't want you to be pained-”

“I won't be, annwyl. I swear. I must do this though, or I'll never be free of him. I can't let his spectre haunt me for the rest of my days, Gwen.”

“I see. Of course. I can't stop you from doing that.”

Enid squeezed her waist and nuzzled her neck. Lilies still clung to her, although their scent was softened by Gwenhwyfar’s inherent sweetness. She pressed a kiss to her collarbone and sighed.

“When it's done I'll come straight back to you. I won't leave again. I'm yours, wholeheartedly.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

Laughing, Enid smiled against her queen's neck. Soon, Cai would come, bringing Owain and with him, would be the sainted peace that Enid had so long craved.

But, for now, she let herself cling to her lady for a little while longer, as rusty raven calls split the summer air.

[gingersnaptaff]

Caught a cold so I really think I need to be put down but like I also think that I can make a list of Welsh Mythology and Arthuriana characters who would give u lemsip/cold meds based on vibes. From best to worst:

0. Morgan Tud. Arthur's chief physician.

0.0. Olwen. Her flowers contain cold meds.

0.0.0. Luned. Giving me cold meds straight off the bat.

1. Manawydan. A mouse might try and steal it but he'd whack it in a glove and try to hang it. And then give me cold meds.

2. Rhiannon. She chose out above husband for leaving Pryderi behind when he was stuck to a golden bowl, I think she'd gladly give cold medicine to somebody.

3. Branwen. She's very resourceful. Probs has a whole cupboard dedicated to cold remedies.

4. Goewin. I know she has lemsip.

5. Gwenhwyfar/Enid. I put them together because in Welsh myths both are very nice, but equally they do have the power to kill imho so they would legit send lemsip and, perhaps, a lil sword so I could just cut my head off I'd they cold meds don't work out.

6. Cigfa. She'd do it but dress up in PPE first.

7. Peredur. !!!!!!!!!!!!! The flowers of Welsh Chivalry? The sweetest man alive? He's catapulting himself over to tend to me personally. (Let me dream!)

8. Gwalchmai. Again, absolutely charming lad, who cares deeply about people (his reactions with Peredur and Owain tell us as much) I know he probably makes great soup. Also the lion is a personal heater and blanket.

10. Bedwyr. I am separating the husbands but I think he'd have a secret stash of lemsip hidden in Caerleon.

11. Morfudd. Owain's twin sister, briefly alluded to in The Mab but much more famous for her love affair with Cynon, one of Arthur's knights. She's going to give me lemsip but only after I go 🥺🥺🥺 and grovel. (I'll Morfudd.)

12. Arthur. Lot of Uffington and puffing considering he's both king and - in earlier Welsh stories - Bad Man (if ur Gildas.) He'll give me lemsip but all the others would have to form a committee to persuade him.

13. Gwenhwyfac/Medrawd. They would try to slap the cold out of me.

14. Pwyll. He would try other remedies first bless him, until he sees that they aren't working. Or until Rhiannon shouts at him.

15. Pryderi. A fellow brother in booboo I think he, like me, would just go 'urghhhh' cuz u forgot to buy cold meds at the shop yesterday.

16. Bendigeidfran's head. Has no arms with which to give me cold meds. Arthur also took it out of the ground and probs horsed it somewhere so.

17. Cai. Man is the literal definition of a human lighter, he doesn’t get sick. Poor choice for trying to get cold medicine.

18. Culhwch. Failure of a man (Affectionate.) Would attempt to look for cold meds but would quickly let other people take over.

19. Blodeuwedd. Is an owl.

20. Lleu Llaw Gyffes. Is an eagle.

21. Efnisien. He's going to murder me instead.

22. Geraint. Again, will resort to murder.

23. Gwydion. Read the Fourth Branch of The Mab. I'll wait.

(I'm discounting like Arawn, Dôn Gwyn ap Nudd, Ysbadadden, Aranrhod, Cerridwen, and Taliesin. I think they wouldn't concern themselves with colds. And Gilfaethwy. But in my mind he is dead. Pryderi killed him before Gwydion murdered him.)

[gingersnaptaff]

Arthurian lads I think would do me a favour and snick off my head as I have a v bad headache:

0. Geraint - he'd refuse to but only because then he could laugh at my pain. I'd behead him if I could.

1. The Green Knight - he wouldn't even need to be like 'this is a Christmas game' I'd just let him. He'd be v good at it. Would save me a fortune in paracetamol.

2. Agravaine/Gaheris - defo hotheaded enough to do it. I'd probably have to sleep with Morgause first which I would be down for but then I'd probably get decapitated in a forest.

3. Gawain - he beheaded a maiden by accident. I'd trust him but I fear it would be wrong to do so. Think I'll stick to paracetamol, thanks Gawain.

4. Morgan - u know I think she'd be down for it if it helped with her plans honestly. I'm just going off vibes for this.

5. Tristan - I think he'd say yes but get distracted by Isolde. Tbf I think I too would get distracted by Isolde so 🤷

6. Lancelot - he would behead me but I do think he'd either cry or he'd show off my head to Guinevere and I don't want that. The crying thing I'm cool with but like I'd have to brush my hair before I got beheaded so I could look my best and that's effort I don't possess.

7. Guinevere - I think she would behead me without question. I respect her hugely and would let her do whatever she wanted. She doesn't have an air but she should be given one.

7. Percival - u know he'd refuse and just give me paracetamol instead.

8. Gareth - he's giving me paracetamol and water.

10. Enid - she's a sweetheart so she's letting me chill in a dark room also.

11. Arthur - you know I think he'd bumble his way through everything but he'd be good at not beheading me. Probably has a secret stash of paracetamol hidden in the armoury for when Kay and Bedievere need it cuz they're dealing with his shit.