#tgk

As he stepped over another puddle, from the slums to the castle, he felt his mother right behind him, new baby in her arms. A pest of a woman, to be honest, but at least she had been helpful during the delivery.

Passing through the intricate corridors, his mother hands behind him like a cloak. The familiar warmth that she'd once given him had long since fallen away, he can tell, she hates him, same as everyone else.

He turns and takes the child wordlessly, and doesn't knock on your door. He doesn't need to, you're his Queen after all.

His eyes gravitate towards you, still snug in bed, and for a moment, he thinks of Essel, fighting through the mud, delaying the inevitable.

"Good morning, my King." You sit up slowly, and if he'd been the man he was he would have gaped at your beauty. Maybe that was your secret for currying public favor, envy stirs in his chest. He wasn't any less beautiful than you.

You blink at your husband, who's face was like a storm.

"What is it? What's happened?" Your voice is soft, he hates the way you say those words, so warm and concerned.

And, the little bundle in his arms, makes a sound of displeasure. A small sound, gentle, not like a baby that had been stolen from home and carried through the rain.

Your stomach drop, and his dark eyes can see it.

"What is that?" Please no, please ... A dull pain appears in your head again, stronger than before, and your certain this is the time you're going to die.

He puts the bundle down at the foot of your bed, "This is my son and heir," You were going to be sick, and you shove it down, like you do everything else.

You slink forward carefully, taking the edge of the blanket, and sitting down, baby in your lap.

"You are to be his mother, as you've not given me a child yet." His words hit like a knife to the gut. You'd barely been married three months.

The child was beautiful, dark hair, and ten fingers. He was clearly Gawain's, but the beauty came from the mother too. That much you could tell.

She must be stunning, whoever she is

Oh god, he was new - too new. Had he really yanked the babe away from some poor woman? There was a woman out there in the city in mourning from a pain your husband had caused.

You'd married a monster.

He'd come back different from his quest, that much you knew, but you pushed it down. You had made a case to your father that Camelot would prosper with the financial support a wedding would solidify, and now he's done this to you.

He'd done this to all of you.

"Who's child is this?" Your voice is soft and low, tinged with panic, and he could almost laugh. What a fool you were to think you could be enough for him.

"What does it matter now? It's mine." You tear your eyes from the boy, settled, a little too calm for your liking, to burn a hole in your husband with your stare, "Ours, I mean," he corrects quickly.

So callous.

"Do you understand, my Queen?"

You gather yourself up on your haunches, and slap him right across the face. You sleep with your rings on, and leave a small scratch on his cheek. It's hard to think of a time where you would have licked it clean, tried so hard to make it better.

No more.

For a moment, you see him ruffled, dark hair mussed across his face. He loses his equilibrium and takes a moment.

"I understand how difficult this must be for you, but you will raise our son, and if you strike me again, there will be hell to pay."

You laugh in spite of yourself.

"I'll raise your son, I'll keep him safe from you, but you will never know my touch again." He winces a little at your words, grateful his collar is high enough to hide his swallowing. A good King would never compromise, especially for the likes of you.

"You can't do that." What he wouldn't understand is why you had to make this so difficult.

"My father will withdraw all financial support and your people will rise up and tear this castle apart, and you along with it."

"I'll survive." He doesn't know you well enough anymore, to know that you're bluffing.

"You'll survive - all through history, as the boy king, and the failure."

He moves slowly, intending to take his son back. You, apparently, couldn't be trusted with the privilege of rearing his child.

Morgana had raised him, and he'd turned out fine!

You're faster, taking his son back into you arms. Snatching the babe in the blanket, but somehow gentle, like a mother.

"Look at me and know your son is in safe hands." You prayed that Lady Morgana was waiting in the wings, as she so often was, and you wouldn't have to send someone to fetch her.

You would have to kill him somehow. Or be stuck in the trap of waiting to see which one of you would die first. What agony.

Gawain exhales deeply, through his sharp nose, before taking a large step away, slamming your door behind him.

The second the door meets it's frame, the baby stirs, it's grief and cries blending with your own.

In spite of himself, he waits outside your door to listen. In one foul blow he'd ended things between the two of you, all for the sake of keeping the green out.

But the green was already deep inside of him, he'd known it ever since he'd run from the chapel.