The Death of Arthur (2/?)
Title: The Death of Arthur (2/?)
Genre: Future!fic, Dark-ish
Pairing: Arthur/Morgana, with a healthy flavoring of Merlin friendship. Gwen/Lancelot.
Rating: PG so far. Not necessarily going to stay that way.
Word Count: 4,034-ish
A/N: Endless thanks to my lovely new beta
infernallysly!
Summary: Arthur, up and about once more, is brought up to speed by Merlin and dressed down by Morgana. Meanwhile, things in Camelot are Not Going Well.
Part One
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The next time Arthur woke, it was to the stammering introduction of a maid named Leonora, who had come to take over tending him. She begged off any questions of her mistress’ whereabouts and could barely speak two words without tripping over them, so Arthur was left with nothing but his thoughts and his injuries for three agonizing days.
On the fourth day, he was bored enough to try standing.
He had already become pretty good at maneuvering himself about in his sickbed, and he managed to sling his legs over the side with a minimum of pain. His right leg had been broken in a couple of places- trampled by a horse, by the feel of it- but he’d had worse injuries, and felt quite confident he could limp on it.
He was quite wrong.
The next day, when the pain had mostly subsided, he tried again with the aid of a broomstick Leonora had left within reach of his bedside. It wasn’t ideal, but stood on its end it did the trick, and within minutes he had made it out of his room.
Feeling triumphant, Arthur poled himself over to the window on the other side of the wide hallway, looking out over the sea. He had never really asked Morgana about her family, assuming the subject too painful. And, if he was honest with himself, at the age they’d been close enough to have the opportunity, he’d been too self-involved to care very much. Until Guinevere...
The familiar pang of an oncoming melancholy spurred him to find a distraction, and he continued down the hallway, slowly and rather loudly. He heard a familiar voice, raised, and headed toward it. Morgana had apparently returned.
Rounding the corner, he came to the doorway of a brightly-lit atrium lined with bookshelves. Merlin and Morgana sat at a table in the center, dark heads bent close together over a map. Opposite them sat a light-haired man, young, but with the weathered skin of a soldier. The unfamiliar man noticed Arthur first, and jumped to his feet.
“My Lord!” he exclaimed, hurrying around to Arthur’s side of the table. He bent on one knee, lowering his eyes. With a “tsk” Morgana hurried to him, demanding in quiet but insistent tones that he stand.
Arthur barely noticed this, of course, as Merlin - moving clumsily but quickly, as usual - had clasped his shoulders in a hug. While he appreciated the sign of affection, Merlin was gripping him so tight it felt like it might well cause internal bleeding. Arthur coughed roughly, and Merlin released him.
“You’re up!” he cried, eyes bright with joy. Arthur coughed again.
“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” he replied dryly. “Morgana tells me I owe you thanks.”
“You’ve never thanked me for saving your life before,” Merlin said, chuckling, then plucked the broomstick from his hand and offered him an arm. Arthur hesitated, then took it, too fatigued by his journey down the hallway to turn down assistance. “Don’t tell me you’ve become humble?”
With a hesitant look at Morgana, the light-haired man moved to intercept the pair, pulling a chair from the table out for Arthur.
“My cousin, Gwyddic,” she said by way of introduction. Gwyddic lowered his head in a bow, and Arthur had to suppress a laugh at the look on her face. She’d never had much taste for obsequiousness.
“Then I owe you thanks as well for your hospitality. But why do I not know you?” Arthur struggled into the chair, casting a glance over the map spread out on it before turning his attention back to Gwyddic. Battle plans…
“My father swore fealty to you when you were crowned. He has passed since,” Gwyddic replied, his voice soft. Arthur frowned.
“And why did you not come to me then?”
Gwyddic started a little, then looked to his cousin.
“My lord, Morgana-”
“Does it matter now, Arthur?” she asked, silencing Gwyddic with a look. She turned to Arthur then, clearly wishing to put the conversation to an end. Though his curiosity was immeasurable, he thought it best not to test her patience just yet.
“No, of course not. Forgive me.” Arthur turned back to the map, bewildered by its scope. It covered not only the country surrounding Brevyn, but every land that neighbored Camelot by a few days’ riding. His frown grew deeper, and he looked to Merlin.
“You’re raising an army. What for? Is this where you’ve been all this time?”
The guilt-stricken expression on Merlin’s face reminded Arthur of a more innocent time, though there was a new dimension to it now, one he was not particularly eager to probe. While Merlin looked endlessly youthful, there was a sort of wisdom in his eyes.
“Yes, I’ve been here,” he replied carefully.
“And the army?” Arthur asked again, quirking an eyebrow. He could feel Morgana’s discomfort. Perhaps now he would finally have some answers. Merlin, pensive, looked to Gwyddic and then back to Arthur.
“The army is for Camelot.” He took a breath. “For you.”
-----------------------
Guinevere, black-clad in mourning, rode past the gates of Camelot into hushed silence. She was flanked by Knights, also clad in mourning clothing: the party made a spectacular picture. Yet there were no cheers, or even whispers. There had not been cheering for years now, but the silence she was unused to.
She pulled the cowl of her riding cloak closer about her face, and desperately wished for the warmth and safety of the castle, soon at hand. A great tomb was to be erected for Arthur not far outside the city walls, on a hilltop, and she had ridden out early in the morning to oversee its construction.
Any time she spent away from court was blessed time. The Knights of the Round Table had been bickering about succession for weeks now, Lancelot once again among them.
So close to death-
She tried hard not to think of those frenetic days after the death of the King, but what she suppressed in waking hours came to her in dreams, and she had nearly given up. The effort required to distract herself was too difficult, and she could hardly justify any attempt to cut short the suffering she felt she so richly deserved.
Some of Arthur’s personal guard had died along with him, but Lancelot had expected much more of a fight. He had gathered enough soldiers to take the city, or at least hold it under siege. Mordred had revealed himself as soon as word of Arthur’s death had spread, hoping to capitalize on the fear and confusion. After a highly uncomfortable meeting between the Knights that remained and Lancelot’s men, they had agreed to unite in defense of the city. There were few among the court who had protested her execution, but Lancelot had ensured she was left alone. In Arthur’s absence, he and Kay were the closest thing Camelot had to leaders. Merlin had appeared out of nowhere to smooth things over, and for the moment, there was peace.
The thought of what Merlin must think of her burned at her cheeks. He’d barely spoken a word to her or Lancelot, at court or when they set Arthur’s body adrift in the sea. Did he blame her for Arthur’s death?
Who else could he blame?
Guinevere had been stripped of her title, but little else: she still had her rooms and servants, and all the jewels and gowns that Arthur had insisted on. No one had any time to consider her, too busy with preparations for battle. Her serving-maid, Vivien, had disappeared in the chaos, but not much else about her daily life had changed. She spent most of it mending cloaks and worrying, much as she had for the past three years.
The crying was mostly new.
A thousand emotions burned beneath the surface of her brown eyes. Grief was chief among them: memories of Arthur’s pale face, devoid of life, lowered onto a bier and then set adrift in the bay. He had wanted it that way, rather than to be buried in the earth forever. One last adventure. She couldn’t hate him. Everything he had expected of her she had failed in, and as they grew distant, Lancelot and Vivien had been her only solace. She had yearned for Morgana and Merlin, but both had been long gone.
There was no lack of guilt, of course. If she’d been able to conceive a child, things might well have been different. If only she’d been stronger: she should have borne the quiet misery of her life as Queen, and ignored the whispers of the people that she was a curse on the kingdom. But Arthur had been so cold for so long, and her feelings for Lancelot had never really faded. A life without love for Gwen was no life at all.
It had all seemed to make sense at the time: if she and Arthur no longer loved one another, why keep herself free of Lancelot? Now, of course, after everything was over, she could hardly believe that it had ever seemed so simple to her. What demon could have possibly possessed her? Since when had she been so selfish?
She could hardly decide whether to be relieved that she’d been saved, or furious at Lancelot for doing it. He couldn’t help his love for her, but she had chosen Arthur years ago. Part of her was convinced that she had deserved the fate he had decided for her, but he was supposed to have loved her… she was so sure that he had loved her too much for that.
The party arrived in the courtyard, and Gwen hurried to her chambers. She was in no mood to happen past any Knights or nobles she had known while she was Queen, as most hated her almost as much as the people did. Lancelot was there, alternately glowering at a map and pacing. His dark, handsome features were lit by the pale light coming through the chamber window, and her heart jumped a little. That they could be together like this was almost too good a thing to accept amongst all this horror.
His face softened when he saw her.
“Gwen,” he said while moving towards her, clearly relieved that she had returned safe. She allowed herself to be taken in to his arms. If not for him-
“Bad today?” she mumbled into his chest. He pulled away, looking to the map.
“We simply don’t have the men. How he raised an army that quickly, I can’t even begin-”
Gwen made a soothing noise, rubbing small circles into his back, all thoughts of her own troubles quickly pushed aside. Would it matter that she had betrayed the most-loved King in all of Camelot’s history if they all died in days? Not even to think of the people! Though they hated her, a blacksmith’s daughter could hardly bear the thought of common people suffering for noble sins. Mordred would be a pitiless ruler, if he even had ruling in mind. All the rumors they had heard of him claimed he intended to raze Camelot to the ground for the execution of his father, little matter who sat on the throne.
Lancelot returned to the table, where he sat grimly staring at the map that refused to bend to his hopes. Gwen continued to the window, looking out over the empty courtyard. There was a time when it would have been bustling with life: Knights, tradesmen, bored wives dawdling on their way home from the market. But it was winter now, and a harsh one, and those people who could were fleeing the city to the countryside. If Arthur had lived, and Merlin had been here, no threat on Earth could have driven them away.
But heroes no longer dwelt in Camelot.
-----------------------
After an hour’s discussion, during which Arthur was brought up to speed on military matters, Gwyddic excused himself to attend to other business, and Arthur was left alone with Merlin and Morgana. The latter, tight-lipped and clad in simple grey, had said little, only adding an occasional comment about how much this or that ally could be trusted to arrive in time. Merlin had been positively bursting with information as usual, and Arthur found himself speculating on how he had come by it: riding about the outlying lands, surveying soldiers, greeting dukes and kings. He would have liked to have been there with him. Why hadn’t he told him where he was going?
Halfway into an outline of military supply lines from the South, Merlin noticed that Morgana had been staring at him for the better part of five minutes.
“Now?” he asked weakly. She arched an eyebrow.
“Now seems like the time,” said Arthur, sensing he could finally pry some answers out of Merlin. Morgana had begged off telling him what he wanted to know and offered Merlin up instead; he fully intended to collect.
A moment passed in silence, pregnant with tension.
“Gwen was under a spell,” Merlin blurted out, clearly discomfited by the way Morgana was looking at him. Arthur was unfazed by the abruptness of the comment. He had played this conversation out in his head a thousand times, and thought of every possible scenario. He had known Merlin would scarcely believe it of Guinevere – he could scarcely believe it himself.
“Really,” said Arthur. “For years. And no one noticed. Not even you, Merlin?”
“I couldn’t do anything. It wasn’t that kind of a magic-”
“What kind was it, then? The sort that makes you give up any sense of duty or honor and betray your country and your husband? Why, I’ve never heard of that kind of sorcery-”
“As if you’ve been a saint!” Morgana cut in hotly. “Whatever she did, it couldn’t have been worth killing her over!”
“It was the law, Morgana,” Arthur replied, his voice growing cold. “Even a King is not above it. Was I to make an exception for her? The people were screaming for her head. They look to me as an example-”
“Murdering your wife is an example?”
“Stop!” shouted Merlin. Morgana and Arthur were both too stunned at the command in his voice to do anything but stare at him. “It’s in the past, can’t you see? Arthur, you’ve no reason to hate Gwen. Yes, there was magic involved, but there were… feelings, too and as far as I could see you were both guilty there.
“I’m well aware that I wasn’t an ideal husband, Merlin,” Arthur replied, his voice petulant and low. The last thing he’d expected now was to be dressed down for his failings. “That doesn’t excuse her. It doesn’t excuse Lancelot-”
“He saved her life, Arthur!” Morgana protested. “I know you; you would have mourned her death more than anyone and still killed her out of duty’s sake. You can’t hate him for fixing your mistakes-”
“I can hate whoever I please,” Arthur snapped. “I’ve been betrayed, humiliated, and nearly killed by the man who cuckolded me. I thought that you two, at least…” his head was swimming, and he felt dizziness wash over him again. “Would at least be…”
“It’s the strain,” he heard Merlin say, off in the distance. His vision blurred, and he could hear blood pounding in his ears.
“Look at me,” came Morgana’s voice, closer and more insistent. He fought to focus on what was moving in front of him, and he felt her fingers press at his temples again. This time, instead of blackness, everything became clearer: he could see her face now, and the pounding had subsided slightly. “Look at my eyes,” she said, her voice soothing and low. Arthur complied- everything in the world faded but the sense of her- he was feeling it in some new way he couldn’t define, as if the smell of her had faded into a feeling. A harried voice in the back of his head was murmuring something like he won’t die, he can’t die, not after all that we’ve and then, as the cool press of Morgana’s fingertips left him, was silent.
Shortly thereafter everything came back into focus. Morgana perched on the edge of his chair, hovering, still worried. Merlin looked distinctly upset.
“Are you all right?” asked Merlin, the first to break the silence. Arthur nodded, feeling more than a little embarrassed.
“I’m fine.”
Morgana pursed her lips, looked at Arthur once more, and stood.
“There’s much to be done,” she said, her voice quiet. “Merlin, can you…”
He was already at Arthur’s side, offering an arm to help him stand. Arthur pushed himself to his feet with the help of the table instead.
“Back to my sickbed, I take it?” he asked still angry, exhausted, and bewildered at the intimacy of the magic she had used to heal him. Morgana’s eyes softened a little.
“For now. This shouldn’t last, but magic can’t heal everything. Whatever happens, we ride for Camelot in seven days; if you want to come with us, you’ll rest.”
She swept out of the room, leaving Merlin and Arthur standing alone.
“Arthur, please,” said Merlin, offering his arm. He looked almost as if he pitied him. Arthur took it grudgingly, and they made their way slowly towards the door.
-----------------------
Merlin returned to see Arthur later that night. As little as he had heard, it was more than enough to set his mind spinning, and he was eager for more information. Even if magic was in some way responsible for Guinevere’s behavior, he couldn’t believe that it had all been simply a spell. He remembered well that time before their marriage, when he had been convinced that Guinevere loved Lancelot; Merlin had tried to assuage his fears, but he was sure that something had been said, at least. As he and Guinevere became closer, he had dismissed all thought of whatever might have happened between them. When Lancelot returned to the court two years after they’d been married, Arthur was overjoyed.
They had grown close quickly, almost as close as brothers. He, Lancelot and Merlin had conquered every monster and searched for every relic in Camelot for the happiest days of his life, Guinevere waiting with a smile and an expertly-planned feast when they returned. If Lancelot showed particular respect to the Queen, none paid it any mind. It was expected of every Knight to lay his life down for her if called upon, and few knew her as personally as Lancelot did.
When it had turned from that courtly homage to what it became, Arthur didn’t know. He didn’t know how many times it had happened, or why she had done it, only that everyone in the palace had known of it far before he suspected anything. He and Guinevere had grown apart, it was true, but he’d expected that was normal in a marriage, not that he had any real model to base one on. What had he done to her, exactly, that was so terrible? Most of the noble couples he knew had barely known each other before marrying, never mind loved one another. They’d been lucky. Luckier than most-
“Feeling better?” Merlin asked as he entered, waking Arthur from his thoughts. Arthur grunted in response as Merlin pulled a chair up to the side of his bed.
“The tongue-lashing was worse than the wound, as usual,” Arthur said, thinking back to the days when Morgana had still lived with them in Camelot. She usually insisted on patching his injuries up herself, mostly for an opportunity to upbraid him about his carelessness.
“She’s upset,” said Merlin, clearly unsympathetic. “This is hard on her too, you know; it’s been very hard on her, being away from us for this long.”
“Then why did she go? And how much do you know, Merlin? You’ve really been here for two years raising an army with Morgana’s cousin, of all things? How could have you even known you’d need one?”
“Arthur - for once, please - think,” answered Merlin, a hint of mirth in his eyes. “Morgana can see the future. Not with perfect clarity, but enough to save your life a hundred times over. Did you never wonder how I always knew when Camelot was threatened by magic? I’m not a Seer. We were never out of her dreams, or her thoughts.”
“You’ve been talking to her?” Arthur exclaimed, genuinely surprised. It had never occurred to him that she had been in contact with anyone at Camelot. “All this time? And you never saw fit to tell me?”
“I didn’t think you wanted to know,” Merlin countered, watching him closely. “You rarely mentioned her. And we weren’t talking, exactly, we were… never mind. What I mean is, after all the ill will Uther stirred up I didn’t think you’d welcome her back.”
This silenced Arthur for a moment, and he sunk back into brooding. Had he really given Merlin the impression that he hated Morgana? He was upset with her, to be sure: though he had never really believed that she was behind the magical attacks on Camelot, he was positive she’d tried to harm his father more than once. If she didn’t want to be there, he wasn’t going to go begging for her to return, and he’d had other things on his mind…
“I tried not to think of her,” said Arthur after a moment.
“My point,” Merlin replied, and another silence stretched out. Merlin could hardly stand a moment without speaking at the best of times, and quickly broke it.
“For God’s sake, say something,” he said, looking at Arthur.
“Say what?” Arthur asked, not meeting his eyes. “That it’s good to see you? That I could kill you for keeping all of this from me for so long? Why on earth wouldn’t you tell me if you knew what was happening? I can’t tell you what it’s been like-”
“I know,” said Merlin, hanging his head. “I wish there had been another way. I can’t really explain why, but this had to happen. Things would have been worse if it didn’t. Believe me, I tried to change things… but the future’s almost impossible to change for the better. This was the only way I could save you.”
“Save me? Morgana said you thought I’d died.”
“Well, I didn’t know exactly how it would happen; I only knew what I needed to do. When I saw your body lying on that bier-”
“That was real, then?” Arthur interrupted. So Guinevere had shed a tear for him, at least. Merlin blinked.
“Yes, but, how-?” His mouth gaped for a moment, and then he continued, slowly. “I arrived in Camelot a day too late to save you, but at just the right time to patch things up between Lancelot and Kay. Then I heard from Morgana that you weren’t dead after all and brought you straight here.”
Arthur thought for a moment, watching Merlin’s face. He had been worried, he could tell, and he hadn’t exactly seemed to side with Morgana. There was something, still, that he wasn’t being told.
“Who told you that it had to happen this way? Morgana? Did she know?”
Merlin heaved a sigh.
“Did you ever hear that old wives’ tale about the dragon beneath the palace kitchens?”
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Next time: Palace intrigue, wizard school (not a crossover, though someone really ought to write one), and the Big Bad revealed.
Genre: Future!fic, Dark-ish
Pairing: Arthur/Morgana, with a healthy flavoring of Merlin friendship. Gwen/Lancelot.
Rating: PG so far. Not necessarily going to stay that way.
Word Count: 4,034-ish
A/N: Endless thanks to my lovely new beta
infernallysly!Summary: Arthur, up and about once more, is brought up to speed by Merlin and dressed down by Morgana. Meanwhile, things in Camelot are Not Going Well.
Part One
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The next time Arthur woke, it was to the stammering introduction of a maid named Leonora, who had come to take over tending him. She begged off any questions of her mistress’ whereabouts and could barely speak two words without tripping over them, so Arthur was left with nothing but his thoughts and his injuries for three agonizing days.
On the fourth day, he was bored enough to try standing.
He had already become pretty good at maneuvering himself about in his sickbed, and he managed to sling his legs over the side with a minimum of pain. His right leg had been broken in a couple of places- trampled by a horse, by the feel of it- but he’d had worse injuries, and felt quite confident he could limp on it.
He was quite wrong.
The next day, when the pain had mostly subsided, he tried again with the aid of a broomstick Leonora had left within reach of his bedside. It wasn’t ideal, but stood on its end it did the trick, and within minutes he had made it out of his room.
Feeling triumphant, Arthur poled himself over to the window on the other side of the wide hallway, looking out over the sea. He had never really asked Morgana about her family, assuming the subject too painful. And, if he was honest with himself, at the age they’d been close enough to have the opportunity, he’d been too self-involved to care very much. Until Guinevere...
The familiar pang of an oncoming melancholy spurred him to find a distraction, and he continued down the hallway, slowly and rather loudly. He heard a familiar voice, raised, and headed toward it. Morgana had apparently returned.
Rounding the corner, he came to the doorway of a brightly-lit atrium lined with bookshelves. Merlin and Morgana sat at a table in the center, dark heads bent close together over a map. Opposite them sat a light-haired man, young, but with the weathered skin of a soldier. The unfamiliar man noticed Arthur first, and jumped to his feet.
“My Lord!” he exclaimed, hurrying around to Arthur’s side of the table. He bent on one knee, lowering his eyes. With a “tsk” Morgana hurried to him, demanding in quiet but insistent tones that he stand.
Arthur barely noticed this, of course, as Merlin - moving clumsily but quickly, as usual - had clasped his shoulders in a hug. While he appreciated the sign of affection, Merlin was gripping him so tight it felt like it might well cause internal bleeding. Arthur coughed roughly, and Merlin released him.
“You’re up!” he cried, eyes bright with joy. Arthur coughed again.
“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” he replied dryly. “Morgana tells me I owe you thanks.”
“You’ve never thanked me for saving your life before,” Merlin said, chuckling, then plucked the broomstick from his hand and offered him an arm. Arthur hesitated, then took it, too fatigued by his journey down the hallway to turn down assistance. “Don’t tell me you’ve become humble?”
With a hesitant look at Morgana, the light-haired man moved to intercept the pair, pulling a chair from the table out for Arthur.
“My cousin, Gwyddic,” she said by way of introduction. Gwyddic lowered his head in a bow, and Arthur had to suppress a laugh at the look on her face. She’d never had much taste for obsequiousness.
“Then I owe you thanks as well for your hospitality. But why do I not know you?” Arthur struggled into the chair, casting a glance over the map spread out on it before turning his attention back to Gwyddic. Battle plans…
“My father swore fealty to you when you were crowned. He has passed since,” Gwyddic replied, his voice soft. Arthur frowned.
“And why did you not come to me then?”
Gwyddic started a little, then looked to his cousin.
“My lord, Morgana-”
“Does it matter now, Arthur?” she asked, silencing Gwyddic with a look. She turned to Arthur then, clearly wishing to put the conversation to an end. Though his curiosity was immeasurable, he thought it best not to test her patience just yet.
“No, of course not. Forgive me.” Arthur turned back to the map, bewildered by its scope. It covered not only the country surrounding Brevyn, but every land that neighbored Camelot by a few days’ riding. His frown grew deeper, and he looked to Merlin.
“You’re raising an army. What for? Is this where you’ve been all this time?”
The guilt-stricken expression on Merlin’s face reminded Arthur of a more innocent time, though there was a new dimension to it now, one he was not particularly eager to probe. While Merlin looked endlessly youthful, there was a sort of wisdom in his eyes.
“Yes, I’ve been here,” he replied carefully.
“And the army?” Arthur asked again, quirking an eyebrow. He could feel Morgana’s discomfort. Perhaps now he would finally have some answers. Merlin, pensive, looked to Gwyddic and then back to Arthur.
“The army is for Camelot.” He took a breath. “For you.”
-----------------------
Guinevere, black-clad in mourning, rode past the gates of Camelot into hushed silence. She was flanked by Knights, also clad in mourning clothing: the party made a spectacular picture. Yet there were no cheers, or even whispers. There had not been cheering for years now, but the silence she was unused to.
She pulled the cowl of her riding cloak closer about her face, and desperately wished for the warmth and safety of the castle, soon at hand. A great tomb was to be erected for Arthur not far outside the city walls, on a hilltop, and she had ridden out early in the morning to oversee its construction.
Any time she spent away from court was blessed time. The Knights of the Round Table had been bickering about succession for weeks now, Lancelot once again among them.
So close to death-
She tried hard not to think of those frenetic days after the death of the King, but what she suppressed in waking hours came to her in dreams, and she had nearly given up. The effort required to distract herself was too difficult, and she could hardly justify any attempt to cut short the suffering she felt she so richly deserved.
Some of Arthur’s personal guard had died along with him, but Lancelot had expected much more of a fight. He had gathered enough soldiers to take the city, or at least hold it under siege. Mordred had revealed himself as soon as word of Arthur’s death had spread, hoping to capitalize on the fear and confusion. After a highly uncomfortable meeting between the Knights that remained and Lancelot’s men, they had agreed to unite in defense of the city. There were few among the court who had protested her execution, but Lancelot had ensured she was left alone. In Arthur’s absence, he and Kay were the closest thing Camelot had to leaders. Merlin had appeared out of nowhere to smooth things over, and for the moment, there was peace.
The thought of what Merlin must think of her burned at her cheeks. He’d barely spoken a word to her or Lancelot, at court or when they set Arthur’s body adrift in the sea. Did he blame her for Arthur’s death?
Who else could he blame?
Guinevere had been stripped of her title, but little else: she still had her rooms and servants, and all the jewels and gowns that Arthur had insisted on. No one had any time to consider her, too busy with preparations for battle. Her serving-maid, Vivien, had disappeared in the chaos, but not much else about her daily life had changed. She spent most of it mending cloaks and worrying, much as she had for the past three years.
The crying was mostly new.
A thousand emotions burned beneath the surface of her brown eyes. Grief was chief among them: memories of Arthur’s pale face, devoid of life, lowered onto a bier and then set adrift in the bay. He had wanted it that way, rather than to be buried in the earth forever. One last adventure. She couldn’t hate him. Everything he had expected of her she had failed in, and as they grew distant, Lancelot and Vivien had been her only solace. She had yearned for Morgana and Merlin, but both had been long gone.
There was no lack of guilt, of course. If she’d been able to conceive a child, things might well have been different. If only she’d been stronger: she should have borne the quiet misery of her life as Queen, and ignored the whispers of the people that she was a curse on the kingdom. But Arthur had been so cold for so long, and her feelings for Lancelot had never really faded. A life without love for Gwen was no life at all.
It had all seemed to make sense at the time: if she and Arthur no longer loved one another, why keep herself free of Lancelot? Now, of course, after everything was over, she could hardly believe that it had ever seemed so simple to her. What demon could have possibly possessed her? Since when had she been so selfish?
She could hardly decide whether to be relieved that she’d been saved, or furious at Lancelot for doing it. He couldn’t help his love for her, but she had chosen Arthur years ago. Part of her was convinced that she had deserved the fate he had decided for her, but he was supposed to have loved her… she was so sure that he had loved her too much for that.
The party arrived in the courtyard, and Gwen hurried to her chambers. She was in no mood to happen past any Knights or nobles she had known while she was Queen, as most hated her almost as much as the people did. Lancelot was there, alternately glowering at a map and pacing. His dark, handsome features were lit by the pale light coming through the chamber window, and her heart jumped a little. That they could be together like this was almost too good a thing to accept amongst all this horror.
His face softened when he saw her.
“Gwen,” he said while moving towards her, clearly relieved that she had returned safe. She allowed herself to be taken in to his arms. If not for him-
“Bad today?” she mumbled into his chest. He pulled away, looking to the map.
“We simply don’t have the men. How he raised an army that quickly, I can’t even begin-”
Gwen made a soothing noise, rubbing small circles into his back, all thoughts of her own troubles quickly pushed aside. Would it matter that she had betrayed the most-loved King in all of Camelot’s history if they all died in days? Not even to think of the people! Though they hated her, a blacksmith’s daughter could hardly bear the thought of common people suffering for noble sins. Mordred would be a pitiless ruler, if he even had ruling in mind. All the rumors they had heard of him claimed he intended to raze Camelot to the ground for the execution of his father, little matter who sat on the throne.
Lancelot returned to the table, where he sat grimly staring at the map that refused to bend to his hopes. Gwen continued to the window, looking out over the empty courtyard. There was a time when it would have been bustling with life: Knights, tradesmen, bored wives dawdling on their way home from the market. But it was winter now, and a harsh one, and those people who could were fleeing the city to the countryside. If Arthur had lived, and Merlin had been here, no threat on Earth could have driven them away.
But heroes no longer dwelt in Camelot.
-----------------------
After an hour’s discussion, during which Arthur was brought up to speed on military matters, Gwyddic excused himself to attend to other business, and Arthur was left alone with Merlin and Morgana. The latter, tight-lipped and clad in simple grey, had said little, only adding an occasional comment about how much this or that ally could be trusted to arrive in time. Merlin had been positively bursting with information as usual, and Arthur found himself speculating on how he had come by it: riding about the outlying lands, surveying soldiers, greeting dukes and kings. He would have liked to have been there with him. Why hadn’t he told him where he was going?
Halfway into an outline of military supply lines from the South, Merlin noticed that Morgana had been staring at him for the better part of five minutes.
“Now?” he asked weakly. She arched an eyebrow.
“Now seems like the time,” said Arthur, sensing he could finally pry some answers out of Merlin. Morgana had begged off telling him what he wanted to know and offered Merlin up instead; he fully intended to collect.
A moment passed in silence, pregnant with tension.
“Gwen was under a spell,” Merlin blurted out, clearly discomfited by the way Morgana was looking at him. Arthur was unfazed by the abruptness of the comment. He had played this conversation out in his head a thousand times, and thought of every possible scenario. He had known Merlin would scarcely believe it of Guinevere – he could scarcely believe it himself.
“Really,” said Arthur. “For years. And no one noticed. Not even you, Merlin?”
“I couldn’t do anything. It wasn’t that kind of a magic-”
“What kind was it, then? The sort that makes you give up any sense of duty or honor and betray your country and your husband? Why, I’ve never heard of that kind of sorcery-”
“As if you’ve been a saint!” Morgana cut in hotly. “Whatever she did, it couldn’t have been worth killing her over!”
“It was the law, Morgana,” Arthur replied, his voice growing cold. “Even a King is not above it. Was I to make an exception for her? The people were screaming for her head. They look to me as an example-”
“Murdering your wife is an example?”
“Stop!” shouted Merlin. Morgana and Arthur were both too stunned at the command in his voice to do anything but stare at him. “It’s in the past, can’t you see? Arthur, you’ve no reason to hate Gwen. Yes, there was magic involved, but there were… feelings, too and as far as I could see you were both guilty there.
“I’m well aware that I wasn’t an ideal husband, Merlin,” Arthur replied, his voice petulant and low. The last thing he’d expected now was to be dressed down for his failings. “That doesn’t excuse her. It doesn’t excuse Lancelot-”
“He saved her life, Arthur!” Morgana protested. “I know you; you would have mourned her death more than anyone and still killed her out of duty’s sake. You can’t hate him for fixing your mistakes-”
“I can hate whoever I please,” Arthur snapped. “I’ve been betrayed, humiliated, and nearly killed by the man who cuckolded me. I thought that you two, at least…” his head was swimming, and he felt dizziness wash over him again. “Would at least be…”
“It’s the strain,” he heard Merlin say, off in the distance. His vision blurred, and he could hear blood pounding in his ears.
“Look at me,” came Morgana’s voice, closer and more insistent. He fought to focus on what was moving in front of him, and he felt her fingers press at his temples again. This time, instead of blackness, everything became clearer: he could see her face now, and the pounding had subsided slightly. “Look at my eyes,” she said, her voice soothing and low. Arthur complied- everything in the world faded but the sense of her- he was feeling it in some new way he couldn’t define, as if the smell of her had faded into a feeling. A harried voice in the back of his head was murmuring something like he won’t die, he can’t die, not after all that we’ve and then, as the cool press of Morgana’s fingertips left him, was silent.
Shortly thereafter everything came back into focus. Morgana perched on the edge of his chair, hovering, still worried. Merlin looked distinctly upset.
“Are you all right?” asked Merlin, the first to break the silence. Arthur nodded, feeling more than a little embarrassed.
“I’m fine.”
Morgana pursed her lips, looked at Arthur once more, and stood.
“There’s much to be done,” she said, her voice quiet. “Merlin, can you…”
He was already at Arthur’s side, offering an arm to help him stand. Arthur pushed himself to his feet with the help of the table instead.
“Back to my sickbed, I take it?” he asked still angry, exhausted, and bewildered at the intimacy of the magic she had used to heal him. Morgana’s eyes softened a little.
“For now. This shouldn’t last, but magic can’t heal everything. Whatever happens, we ride for Camelot in seven days; if you want to come with us, you’ll rest.”
She swept out of the room, leaving Merlin and Arthur standing alone.
“Arthur, please,” said Merlin, offering his arm. He looked almost as if he pitied him. Arthur took it grudgingly, and they made their way slowly towards the door.
-----------------------
Merlin returned to see Arthur later that night. As little as he had heard, it was more than enough to set his mind spinning, and he was eager for more information. Even if magic was in some way responsible for Guinevere’s behavior, he couldn’t believe that it had all been simply a spell. He remembered well that time before their marriage, when he had been convinced that Guinevere loved Lancelot; Merlin had tried to assuage his fears, but he was sure that something had been said, at least. As he and Guinevere became closer, he had dismissed all thought of whatever might have happened between them. When Lancelot returned to the court two years after they’d been married, Arthur was overjoyed.
They had grown close quickly, almost as close as brothers. He, Lancelot and Merlin had conquered every monster and searched for every relic in Camelot for the happiest days of his life, Guinevere waiting with a smile and an expertly-planned feast when they returned. If Lancelot showed particular respect to the Queen, none paid it any mind. It was expected of every Knight to lay his life down for her if called upon, and few knew her as personally as Lancelot did.
When it had turned from that courtly homage to what it became, Arthur didn’t know. He didn’t know how many times it had happened, or why she had done it, only that everyone in the palace had known of it far before he suspected anything. He and Guinevere had grown apart, it was true, but he’d expected that was normal in a marriage, not that he had any real model to base one on. What had he done to her, exactly, that was so terrible? Most of the noble couples he knew had barely known each other before marrying, never mind loved one another. They’d been lucky. Luckier than most-
“Feeling better?” Merlin asked as he entered, waking Arthur from his thoughts. Arthur grunted in response as Merlin pulled a chair up to the side of his bed.
“The tongue-lashing was worse than the wound, as usual,” Arthur said, thinking back to the days when Morgana had still lived with them in Camelot. She usually insisted on patching his injuries up herself, mostly for an opportunity to upbraid him about his carelessness.
“She’s upset,” said Merlin, clearly unsympathetic. “This is hard on her too, you know; it’s been very hard on her, being away from us for this long.”
“Then why did she go? And how much do you know, Merlin? You’ve really been here for two years raising an army with Morgana’s cousin, of all things? How could have you even known you’d need one?”
“Arthur - for once, please - think,” answered Merlin, a hint of mirth in his eyes. “Morgana can see the future. Not with perfect clarity, but enough to save your life a hundred times over. Did you never wonder how I always knew when Camelot was threatened by magic? I’m not a Seer. We were never out of her dreams, or her thoughts.”
“You’ve been talking to her?” Arthur exclaimed, genuinely surprised. It had never occurred to him that she had been in contact with anyone at Camelot. “All this time? And you never saw fit to tell me?”
“I didn’t think you wanted to know,” Merlin countered, watching him closely. “You rarely mentioned her. And we weren’t talking, exactly, we were… never mind. What I mean is, after all the ill will Uther stirred up I didn’t think you’d welcome her back.”
This silenced Arthur for a moment, and he sunk back into brooding. Had he really given Merlin the impression that he hated Morgana? He was upset with her, to be sure: though he had never really believed that she was behind the magical attacks on Camelot, he was positive she’d tried to harm his father more than once. If she didn’t want to be there, he wasn’t going to go begging for her to return, and he’d had other things on his mind…
“I tried not to think of her,” said Arthur after a moment.
“My point,” Merlin replied, and another silence stretched out. Merlin could hardly stand a moment without speaking at the best of times, and quickly broke it.
“For God’s sake, say something,” he said, looking at Arthur.
“Say what?” Arthur asked, not meeting his eyes. “That it’s good to see you? That I could kill you for keeping all of this from me for so long? Why on earth wouldn’t you tell me if you knew what was happening? I can’t tell you what it’s been like-”
“I know,” said Merlin, hanging his head. “I wish there had been another way. I can’t really explain why, but this had to happen. Things would have been worse if it didn’t. Believe me, I tried to change things… but the future’s almost impossible to change for the better. This was the only way I could save you.”
“Save me? Morgana said you thought I’d died.”
“Well, I didn’t know exactly how it would happen; I only knew what I needed to do. When I saw your body lying on that bier-”
“That was real, then?” Arthur interrupted. So Guinevere had shed a tear for him, at least. Merlin blinked.
“Yes, but, how-?” His mouth gaped for a moment, and then he continued, slowly. “I arrived in Camelot a day too late to save you, but at just the right time to patch things up between Lancelot and Kay. Then I heard from Morgana that you weren’t dead after all and brought you straight here.”
Arthur thought for a moment, watching Merlin’s face. He had been worried, he could tell, and he hadn’t exactly seemed to side with Morgana. There was something, still, that he wasn’t being told.
“Who told you that it had to happen this way? Morgana? Did she know?”
Merlin heaved a sigh.
“Did you ever hear that old wives’ tale about the dragon beneath the palace kitchens?”
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Next time: Palace intrigue, wizard school (not a crossover, though someone really ought to write one), and the Big Bad revealed.