To the autumn equinox fair with Gawain

For a month now, the upcoming autumn equinox is all Gawain’s been talking about. He’s been telling you how excited he is, as if you can’t tell by the width of his smile and the rush of his words. He said it’ll be even better this year because of the musicians expected to visit; that the town never disappoints when it comes to entertainment, and that the Castle is always decked with decorations most beautiful. He took you, Nimue and Galahad out shopping weeks in advance for materials to craft your faerie masks, which he intended for you to wear at the feast that’d be held in the Royal Hall.

There’s no question to whether you’d go to the town fair, too. Gawain expects all his friends to accompany him to the event of the month. And while you’re very much thrilled to go, you have a slightly different proposal which you’ll hope he’ll find tempting.

So you flag Gawain down one evening and present your plan. You tell him that you wish to head down to the town fair, just the two of you. You’ll join up with the others later, of course – but for a couple of hours, you say with a sweet, long smile, you desire his and his company alone.

You left with a promise to meet in front of the castle and the sensation of Gawain’s lips lingering on your cheek.

It’s equinox day, and you’re walking arm in arm with him down the hill towards the town. It’s a sweet, clear, mild autumn day which Gawain deems perfect for a festival.

He gives a little sigh and leans into you; a curl of chestnut-colored hair brushes against your cheek. “Autumn is always so inspiring, you know?” he says as he eyes the golden canopy of the linden trees that flank the road.

“Don’t you say that about every season?”

He waves a hand vaguely to dismiss you. “It’s because every season has a reason to be inspiring. A different reason.”

You go on talking about seasons, their merits and Gawain’s latest poetry until you reach the town. If you thought the castle was lushly bedecked, than the festival seeks to outshine it completely. Garlands upon garlands of rusty leaves, wildflowers and cones adorn each building, draped across the facade like climbing ivy, and stretch between rows of stalls, creating woodsy archways. The deeper into the bustle you wade, the louder music grows – not just one melody, but ten different tunes swirling about you, merry and upbeat, slow and enchanting. Enticing scents waft through the air, guiding you to the food stalls, and colorful, vivid displays vie for your attention.

Gawain himself can’t make up his mind where to go first. He wants to see and do everything, but doesn’t know which direction to set off.

“You said you wanted to see the musicians,” you helpfully supply as Gawain stands at a crossroads of booths, tapping a finger against his cheek and a pointy shoe against the cobblestones. You can’t tell whether the movements are in beat with any of the tunes floating about, or a melody of his own.

“Exactly! And that’s the dilemma. Where to first?”

You tilt your head and listen. The nearest music you can hear is merry and lively, like something one might dance to. You tell Gawain, and your course is set.

There is, indeed, dancing. As soon as his eyes alight on the crowd of skipping, whirling fair-goers, Gawain spins around and thrust out his hand with a determined smile. “Dance with me!”

You take his proffered hand, gently folding your fingers around his, and bring it slowly to your mouth to place a kiss on the back of his palm. “With pleasure,” you murmur against his skin, feeling him shiver underneath.

Gawain pulls you into the dancing fray with a grin that splits his flushed cheeks. You arrived just in time for the start of a new song, when tired, heaving pairs leave for refreshments and eager, energized newcomers jump in. The melody starts slow and calm and you both slip with ease into position. Years of feasts and festivals and etiquette lessons have honed your skills, and you know Gawain to be just as skilled a dancer, and exceedingly eager to boot.

You hold out one arm and press your splayed hand against Gawain’s. Your free arms fold behind your back and you circle around each other, taking long, graceful strides as your gazes stay locked. There's a sheen of iridescent green on his lids that render the lustre of his brown eyes brighter. Everything else around you fades in a blur. The only focus is Gawain, his gaze an eddy that pulls you ever closer, keeps you ever anchored – and in the sweet depths of his eyes, you see your own enraptured face reflected.

As the song picks up, you change stances. You place a hand on the small of his back, against the smooth brocade of his pumpkin-orange doublet, while he rests his on your shoulder. Your other hand takes his, twining your fingers. Gawain leans in and so do you, till your chests brush against each other and your breaths commingle, hot against your cheek, nose filled with his rose scent, soft and green.

You twirl and sway and bound around, pulling away only to come back into each other’s arms with aplomb.

The song is over; you stay for another, then another, till you’re breathless. You leave the dancing ring, spent yet exhilarated, hands still twined.

Gawain proposes that you get something to drink, right now, before his throat grows anymore parched.

“It’s like breathing fire,” he complains of it, bouncing on his heels as you wait in line for mulled wine. “Oh, do you smell that?” Gawain sniffs the air as a small breeze billows the steam in your direction. “I think I’m drunk just on the scent of it.”

You eventually get your cups of mulled wine and wonder off at a leisured step through the fair, gawking and stalls and making banter while you sip on your drinks.

You take a long swig, eyes fluttering close as its warmth pools inside your stomach. “Mulled wine,” you say and catch Gawain’s gaze. “Almost as sweet as you.”

“So poetic,” he chuckles. He turns his head away, then halts completely. “Mordred, Mordred,” he pats at your arms and points his cup towards a booth ahead. “Look! Plushies!”

Plushies, all tenderly crafted by the seller who receives you with a warm smile and invites you to take a look. You’re sure Gawain will want more than to take a look, if his enthused expression is anything to go by.

Gawain considers all the plushies in earnest, gnawing at his bottom lip. He shifts closer to you, head cocked as he scours the display. “They’re all so adorable, aren’t they? I must get one. How about that fox? It has a playful look about itself.”

You nod, step forward and fish in your pocket for the necessary coin.

“Here,” you hand Gawain the fox with a wry smile. “Something to remember today by.”

He takes the plush and hugs it close to his chest. “You didn’t have to. But thank you.” He plants a kiss on top of the fox’s head and chuckles. “I love it.”

You walk around a little bit more, but soon find yourself winding your way to the fountain, where you manage to claim a spot on its ledge. Gawain plops down immediately, plush fox seated on his lap, and pats the spot next to him.

“I told the others we’d meet by the fountain,” he says as you sit down. The mulled wine has rendered the world around you fuzzy, and your own feet mellow. “Reckon we should just wait for them now.”

Behind you, the fountain warbles, a silvery, crystalline susurrus that you let fill the spell of silence. Gawain inches closer to you, till your thighs touch, and leans his head against your shoulder with a small, content sigh.

“Today was amazing,” he says, reaching out to twine his fingers with yours.

You nestle closer to him and close your eyes. You can only agree.