The night is cold and dark, thick with fading memories and fuzzy premonitions and all sorts of things he doesn't believe in, and the bracing rush of nightwind is heavy against the castle walls, laced with names of past and future loves floating high on the breeze, crashing hard in his heart, a lullaby of innocence and regret. Now and forever, sighs the wind, on and on and on, tangible, inevitable.

(My feelings for you will never fade, she whispers above the roar of the approving crowd, her voice resonant with muffled joy. As long as I live. Her hands are cold in his, the golden ring too big on her fragile finger. He rubs them warm in his own, ducking his head with awkward bravado, wordless.)

Arthur rolls onto his back, carefully, quietly, the sheets rustling with his movement, twisting around his legs, restricting his movements. Mustn't wake Guinevere. The mattress sticks to his sweaty back; Gwen sighs in her sleep and shifts, her left arm wrapped around her ribcage, the coverlet tucked up to her neck. The moonlight strikes her face and he doesn't breathe for a moment, caught between the reality of the moment and the transcendence of the feeling, her hair fanning out against the pillow, the smiling shadow of her lips, the low whistle of her breath. He reaches to touch her cheek, his calloused hand suddenly too big, unwieldy, rough against her soft skin, her transparent intentions. He stares, disarmed, surprised by what he sees, afraid that it will vanish. She makes a small soft sound and smiles against his palm, eyes fluttering open.

"You're meant to be asleep," she says, voice melodic and quieter, more delicate than ever in the night, gently chiding.

He moves to pull his hand back, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you already waiting clumsily behind his lips, but she reaches for him, slipping her fingers haphazardly through his. They fit, but not quite; a fragile balance, a dance he hopes to one day learn.

"Don't be silly," she murmurs, a preemptive protest, the shadow of a teasing tentative smile moving across her face, and this is how they are and how they have always been and how he hopes they always will be. She has always been capable of reading his mind, of humbling the man and worrying out the truth. He will never get used to it.

"Can't sleep," he mutters, for lack of something better to say; the night is not cold anymore; on the contrary, it is far too warm, and he doesn't know what to do or where to look or if now would be a good time to smile back. There are too many things he doesn't know. He is king, and yet--when it comes to her (and it always comes back to her)--he doesn't know a single thing of value. Yet. He does have something to prove, if she will let him.

She hums a quiet no, moving closer, palm against his chest. He rests his chin on her head and breathes in, and then out, slowly, a gradual rhythm building, building on the back of the wind beating against the walls of the castle, crashing with a heavy sword-clank into the walls of his heart. On and on and on. Now and forever. Forever--until the morning light.