Gawain plays Mordred a song (Patreon)

The steadfast, monotone pattering of boots fills the silence as you and Dinadan patrol the streets of Camelot town. The shadows are longer and deeper as the sun sinks low on the sky, bathing everything in blazing light; by now, vendors are slowly packing up and taverns are coming to life. Your hand rests on the hilt of your sheathed sword – though rest would suggest an ease that your posture simply does not possess. It’s more akin to a snake coiled to strike. Dinadan’s gait, on the other hand, is the picture of relaxation, with their arms swinging leisurely back and forth as if they were but another worker, making their way towards the tavern at the end of the day.

“No wonder today’s been so quiet,” they drawl. “No one could even conceive the idea of crime in your presence. No one has any issue we might assist them with. No, they all vanish – poof – at the sight of your lovely countenance.”

You merely grunt in response, not deigning to reply otherwise to their playful mockery. It draws a pleased chuckle out of them.

As the alleyway widens into a square, you come upon a crowd densely gathered within. You tense, fingers itching as they close around your hilt. Dinadan slows down, appraising the situation – likely primed by your own apprehension.

Then the lilting notes of a lute hit your ears, accompanied by a sweet voice that replaces the prickling tension in your shoulders with an altogether different kind of anticipation.

A long smile curves Dinadan’s lips.

The crowd parts deferentially as you make your way through, throwing guarded, wary looks your way while regaling Dinadan with friendly smiles. You don’t care; not when your gaze locks with Gawain’s, brown and warm and tender. It’s like a blow to your guts – not pain, but an overwhelming sense of fondness that sweeps you off your feet, worse than any hit you’ve taken, yet one you’d beg to strike you again and again.

“Come, come,” Gawain beckons you, face split by a beaming smile. He jumps to his feet, standing up on the fountain’s ledge as he gives his audience a dramatic bow. “Thank you all for listening! You were an amazing crowd. I’ll be returning.” He ends his speech with a little wink, that sends people cheering, laughing and scattering, taking it as their cue to depart.

The three of you are left by the fountain, its bright susurrus of springing water a type of music of its own. Gawain, all dressed up in a fine mint jerkin, stands haloed by the setting sun which turns his brown curls to flaming copper.

“Mordred!” He throws open his arms and propels himself at you from atop his improvised stage. You catch him with ease, slipping one arm under his knees as his hands clasp around your neck. He chuckles delightedly. In the depths of his eyes, you can see your face reflected – with that big, dopey smile you wear, all because of Gawain.

“Well,” Dinadan stretches with a clunk of armor. “I’ll be going over to the tavern for a quick drink and leave you two love doves alone. And,” they add with exaggerated magnanimity, “I’ll fill in the necessary report for the both of us.”

You nod in gratitude, still holding Gawain. He’s in no hurry to change positions.

“Did anything happen today?” Gawain asks, leaning closer to place a quick kiss on your cheek. The patch of skin is left pleasantly tingling.

“Nothing really,” you say. “Nothing worthy of writing a ballad about, either.”

Gawain laughs. “Oh! You mean no daring rescues necessary?” he says in mock disappointment. “No stolen jewelry to be retrieved, no lovers in need of some ludicrous, elaborate scheme to get together?”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Isn’t the last one the plot of that play we recently saw? The Matchmaking Barber: Let your love grow, not your beard.”

Gawain just grins in reply. Past him, you spy a group watching you from afar, a sight you’ve become well-acquainted to ever since you’ve arrived on the Continent all those years ago. Yet their smiles and furtive glances aren’t unkind – but rather amused and curious. Gawain follows your gaze.

“Oh no – am I ruining your fearsome knight persona?”

“Obliterating it, even,” you retort and Gawain laughs again. It’s such a bright, light sound – you could listen to it over and over.

“You can put me down now,” he says and you reluctantly obey. You settle both on the fountain ledge – you, in your bulk of armor that gleams crimson in the sunset, and Gawain, one leg casually folded up as he cradles his lute. “I’ve been waiting for you, you know,” he says, running an index over the painted wooden front.

“So you didn’t just want an audience for your singing?”

“That too, of course, of course.” He studies your face with a curious glint in his eyes. “I’ve been working on a new song. I haven’t sung it to anyone else– and it’s not complete yet either. Would you like to hear it?” He sketches a smile, far more bashful than the ones before.

You nod eagerly. Gawain takes a deep breath and expels it in a small sigh like a short suspire of violin. Then he starts playing, hand expertly sliding and pressing along the neck as his other strums the cords, creating a deep, weighty melody, building up like nerve-jolting anticipation, from a dull rattling in your bones slowly turning into a strong, booming tune. The lyrics are few in between – still a work in progress, you assume – but as you hear more and more of them, warmth unspools in your chest, spreading fuzzy and golden through your body. There’s no mistake where Gawain drew inspiration from for this new song: you. The fearsome knight, that just happens to be described as having the same hair and eyes as you – the feats are, however, poetically embellished. The melody crescendos until it spills over in a triumphant strum of cords, finishing on a powerful note, leaving you dazzled and besotted.

“So, what do you think?” Gawain asks, cheeks pink.

“It’s beautiful,” you stumble over your words, and almost wince – right now, you sound very far away from the imposing image he painted of you with his song.

Gawain steals a quick kiss from your lips, which works to rouse you from your haze and prompt your gloved hands to cup his face and pull him back in for a longer kiss. His lips are soft and as sweet as a treat, moving slowly against your own, taking his time relishing the moment. When you pull back he snuggles closer and rests his head against your armored chest, lingering in that position for a few quiet moments before you leisurely make your way back to the castle together.