The Conqueror

“Oh my,” she whispered.

He lifted his head. Her green eyes were locked on his. He smiled.

Inside of Gwyn, something shivered free. Oh, thank-you-God, that fine, perilous half-smile. He is smiling at me again.

He pushed in further, lifted his hips and tilted himself up. A shower of sparks sprayed across her back and belly. It surged up the back of her legs. Again he moved inside her, deeper, probing into something….

“Oh, Jésu,” she cried out.

His dark head was thrown back, the muscles in his neck taut, and when he moved this time, his palm was wrapped around her hip, holding her up as he pounded into her, and her body exploded. She shuddered upwards in stunning eruptions of fire, her womb clenching and releasing of its own accord, her muscles joined with his in an ancient dance. She howled her pleasure to the sky, to his ears, chanting his name. The earth shuddered beneath her, shaking her down to her bones, and Griffyn was above her, suddenly roaring her name too, driving her onwards further until the pleasure became an exquisite pain and she screamed and reveled in the shudders of her body as it exploded again and again, wasting her.

It felt like forever they lay there, reeling. Her head was awash, whirling and harmonized. The blood was roaring in her head and Griffyn’s uneven breath was close by her ear. He was lying atop her, collapsed on her, but his weight was not oppressive, but comforting. He smelled musky and warm, and she knew a sudden, intense experience of belonging she’d never known before.

“Can you breathe?” His muffled voice drifted through her hair, warm against her neck.

She tightened her hands around his waist. He pressed his lips against her neck and said in a pleasant low rumble, “I think, mayhap, we can make this work.”

She laughed sleepily.

“When do we start having babies?”

She chuckled again, and hugged him tighter. “Yesterday.”

“Too long.”

For a while they spoke in soft murmurs, speaking of simple things, small nothings, favourite places and childhood friends. Sleep crept in and they closed their eyes, bodies entangled in their sweaty embrace, and they fell asleep that way, never moving apart.

She woke up screaming.

Griffyn was rolling for his sword before his eyes were open, but he quickly realised the sounds came from Guinevere, who was sitting bolt upright in the bed. He reached over and pulled her to him.

“Hush,” he murmured into her hair, right by her ear, a calm, intent sound to bring her back to consciousness. The screaming and flailing subsided, but her body stayed as rigid as a door post. “’Twas but a dream. Hush,” he said over and over. Finally, she looked up.

“Oh, Griffyn,” she whispered. “’Twas terrible. I dreamt of Papa.”

Freeing one arm, he pushed a grip of pillows to the headboard. He tugged her over and onto his lap, so she sat between his thighs. She leaned against his chest.

“Tell me of them.”

“The dreams?”

“Aye.”

She peered up from between a few locks of her tousled black hair, her eyes saturated with fear and sadness. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“H-he came to me,” she said, tears catching her voice. “He is always so pale, and without strength, lying there barely conscious. Like a wraith.” Her voice was becoming flat and ephemeral, her words rote and dream-like. “His face is turned towards me, his eyes open as wide as they are able, staring at me. I keep seeing those images, at his last moment, clear as if they were before me now.”

“But they are not, Raven,” he said in a firm but gentle tone. He rubbed his hand across her shoulders and arms, pulling her back. “You are here now, with me, and ’tis over.”

She looked at him blankly for a second, then nodded. “You are right. But, I keep hearing him.”

“What does he say?” he asked, soothing her, trying to calm her fluttering heartbeat against his chest.

Her eyes were bright with tears in the moonlight. She swallowed. “‘Wud guh,’” she repeated the eerie sounds. “‘Wud. Guh. Saw.”

She shook her head in confusion. “It was all so slow and laboured, I could not make the words out, just sounds. I have thought about it a hundred times, but they never mean anything.” She balled her fist and hit it lightly against the bedcovers. “Then he said ‘vayyy,’ and carried the sound out.” Her brow furrowed. “As if it were a chant or something. Then his voice trailed off, and that was the last thing he ever said to me: ‘Vay. Sal.’ Then he died.”