Fic: Of Recoil and Grace; everyone; PG-13 (4/4)
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
Epilogue
There is much she is thankful for. The sun sparkling through the opened windows, picking out shining thread on tapestries, dust motes floating peacefully through the air and alighting on the flushed cheeks of the heir apparent, turning dusty pink to brandished red as he kneels before her.
“Do you solemnly swear to govern the people of this kingdom and its dominions according to the statutes, customs and laws of the land?” Gwen asks, keeping her eyes trained onto Bedivere's as he watches her in calm acceptance.
“I do, my lady.”
“In such circumstance as may arise where the established custom or law is found no longer to hold true, do you promise to consider reform with grace and benevolence?
To this, he smiles ever so slightly. “I do, my lady.”
“Do you promise to exercise mercy and justice in your deeds and judgements?”
“I do, my lady.”
“Will you to the utmost of your powers, serve the people of Albion?”
“I will, my lady.”
She raises the sceptre, feeling heavy and a little wrong in her hands. Bedivere's fingers, cracked and calloused, wrap tight around its length. “And do you swear allegiance to Albion, now and for as long as you shall live?”
“I, Bedivere of the Bedrydant and Pendragon households, do pledge life and limb to its service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples.”
Gwen turns - meets Merlin's gaze only fleetingly for his smile is set but his eyes hold a convoluted mess of emotion and she will feel naught but pride in this moment - takes the king's crown from where it lies on the velvet pillow.
The circle feels heavy in her hands as she places it carefully atop Bedivere's black waves, but she holds faith that it will not crush him.
“Now, being crowned King of Albion, rise.”
He holds her gaze and his smile is tempered, a little sad, but gratified as he stands. There is applause that is enormous; Bedivere has held the approval of Albion since his performance and loyalty at Camlann nearly two decades past.
He turns back to her, and, being the big man he is, blocks her from view of the court, and she whispers, “Arthur would be proud to see you now.”
There's a flash of sadness before he nods once. Gwen dares to reach forward, grip his hand briefly in hers and adds, “My faith in you is boundless, Bede.”
Bedivere has always held a solemn dignity, and when his eyes wet brightly before he blinks away the emotion, forcing himself instead to nod once, a fond smile on his mouth before he steps aside, Gwen's heart twists.
The hall falls silent immediately as Gwen steps forward once more. There are none amongst the gathered who do not know what comes, and so as she looks at each face present, finding their grief, Gwen takes a moment to compose herself.
And though her throat burns a little, she manages a gentle smile.
“With Albion held between the palms of one of virtue, knowledge and strength,” she says evenly, holding herself tall and steady. “I abdicate the throne, and trust Albion to a new age of peace under King Bedivere's worthy and dedicated hand. I renew my pledge of life and limb to the service of Albion and I will continue to live faithfully for the kingdom as long as I draw breath.”
She will not judge whether the applause is louder as she steps from the throne, but her heart rends and soars with each face she passes, grief stricken, but proud.
*
"Why are you leaving, Gwen?" he asks quietly, as though they have not had this discussion dozens of times, in a voice low enough that no one else hears the affectionate nickname she sometimes feels is now an ill-fit. Something belonging to the young and light-hearted.
"I am old," she says gently, and adds with a soft smile, "But you are still young."
Merlin turns to her, eyes bereaved if his expression is neutral and says, "You are not old." As though speaking the words will make it so. Perhaps his world has come to such; Gwen has never learned that skill.
"You're able to ride from Camelot," he persists, an edge of desperation beneath his tone that stirs uncomfortable sadness in the pit of her belly, in the cockles of her heart. "On a saddle."
Gwen looks forward to where her horse and escort await her patiently. Not rushing. "I am able to ride from the kingdom," she agrees with a nod, "But my age is showing. I'm beginning to forget things..." She makes the pause pronounced and turns to him in what she is sure is poorly affected uncertainty. "Merlin, is it?"
"Don't jest," he moans, and his voice is as aged paper moving across brittle leather, and Gwen smiles sadly.
“It is Bedivere's time, Merlin,” she finally says quietly. “And you know there are corners of Albion I have yet to see. I am perfectly poised to act as envoy for the king.”
“You needn't leave permanently to accomplish that,” Merlin persists pleadingly. “I can transport you -
“You have your own duties to attend to, Merlin Emrys,” she interrupt gently, affectionately, shaking her head. “Bedivere needs the court's most loyal and trusted adviser - for Camelot, for Albion. Not catering to an old woman's whims.”
Merlin only stares at her balefully. For all he wears his hair in a style reminiscent of Gaius, with a beard almost reaching his belly, Merlin's eyes are those of a young man who has lost far too much.
“And if that adviser needs his oldest friend?” he asks brokenly.
Her hand extends across the space between them and she grasps his tightly. His long fingers twine between her slim ones, reaching ice white across the chestnut brown of her wrinkled hand. "You'll visit me," she says, and then thinks that perhaps she has learned how to say things and make them so, for her tone brooks no argument.
"Daily," he breathes fervently. A part of her wants to take his word as vow, insist it be so.
But she will hold her courage as the last thing if she must, and only looks around them, at the enormous crowd which keeps a respectful distance. Many of them have wet eyes, and a deep pang of remorse stirs in her chest.
Bedivere stands at the top of the stairs which lead into the courtyard, his wife gripping his hand tightly as she leans into his shoulder. They had all said their good-byes already, over wine and laughter and affection and sombre reminiscences. He keeps his distance now, and Gwen inclines her head, as the new king and his wife bow theirs.
“Smile for me, Merlin,” she implores, meeting his gaze again. “And then hug me as we used to.”
He chokes on a sob, staring at the dirt for a moment before tipping his chin up and smiling sadly, but genuinely and with love. They're slow to move, to embrace one another tightly, and Gwen memorizes the feel of his frame in her arms and how she must still rise to her tip toes to hug him properly. There's a pang across her ribs as she stretches to reach him, the reminder of a dagger wound never quite fully healed. She ignores it; Merlin's warmth is too valued to relinquish.
When they draw apart, she says, “I'll see you soon.”
“Tomorrow,” he says, and as she half rolls her eyes in false exasperation, he chuckles in a real way.
Then her escort passes her reigns, as a page pushes a stepping block beside her horse. It is easy to settle into the saddle.
“When you are ready, my queen,” her escort says beside her.
She takes one final look around herself; first at the turrets and the walls which hide rooms she knows as well as the places in her heart and mind. And then to the people; her soul. They bow and curtsy and she smiles.
Then she meets Merlin's eyes once more, and nods. “I am ready.”
She thinks, perhaps, as she turns forwards again, that there is a glimpse of brown where once there was silver, that a white beard has turned to a red neckerchief.
But then - it could also be a trick of the light, to an old woman's fading eyes.
Epilogue
There is much she is thankful for. The sun sparkling through the opened windows, picking out shining thread on tapestries, dust motes floating peacefully through the air and alighting on the flushed cheeks of the heir apparent, turning dusty pink to brandished red as he kneels before her.
“Do you solemnly swear to govern the people of this kingdom and its dominions according to the statutes, customs and laws of the land?” Gwen asks, keeping her eyes trained onto Bedivere's as he watches her in calm acceptance.
“I do, my lady.”
“In such circumstance as may arise where the established custom or law is found no longer to hold true, do you promise to consider reform with grace and benevolence?
To this, he smiles ever so slightly. “I do, my lady.”
“Do you promise to exercise mercy and justice in your deeds and judgements?”
“I do, my lady.”
“Will you to the utmost of your powers, serve the people of Albion?”
“I will, my lady.”
She raises the sceptre, feeling heavy and a little wrong in her hands. Bedivere's fingers, cracked and calloused, wrap tight around its length. “And do you swear allegiance to Albion, now and for as long as you shall live?”
“I, Bedivere of the Bedrydant and Pendragon households, do pledge life and limb to its service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples.”
Gwen turns - meets Merlin's gaze only fleetingly for his smile is set but his eyes hold a convoluted mess of emotion and she will feel naught but pride in this moment - takes the king's crown from where it lies on the velvet pillow.
The circle feels heavy in her hands as she places it carefully atop Bedivere's black waves, but she holds faith that it will not crush him.
“Now, being crowned King of Albion, rise.”
He holds her gaze and his smile is tempered, a little sad, but gratified as he stands. There is applause that is enormous; Bedivere has held the approval of Albion since his performance and loyalty at Camlann nearly two decades past.
He turns back to her, and, being the big man he is, blocks her from view of the court, and she whispers, “Arthur would be proud to see you now.”
There's a flash of sadness before he nods once. Gwen dares to reach forward, grip his hand briefly in hers and adds, “My faith in you is boundless, Bede.”
Bedivere has always held a solemn dignity, and when his eyes wet brightly before he blinks away the emotion, forcing himself instead to nod once, a fond smile on his mouth before he steps aside, Gwen's heart twists.
The hall falls silent immediately as Gwen steps forward once more. There are none amongst the gathered who do not know what comes, and so as she looks at each face present, finding their grief, Gwen takes a moment to compose herself.
And though her throat burns a little, she manages a gentle smile.
“With Albion held between the palms of one of virtue, knowledge and strength,” she says evenly, holding herself tall and steady. “I abdicate the throne, and trust Albion to a new age of peace under King Bedivere's worthy and dedicated hand. I renew my pledge of life and limb to the service of Albion and I will continue to live faithfully for the kingdom as long as I draw breath.”
She will not judge whether the applause is louder as she steps from the throne, but her heart rends and soars with each face she passes, grief stricken, but proud.
*
"Why are you leaving, Gwen?" he asks quietly, as though they have not had this discussion dozens of times, in a voice low enough that no one else hears the affectionate nickname she sometimes feels is now an ill-fit. Something belonging to the young and light-hearted.
"I am old," she says gently, and adds with a soft smile, "But you are still young."
Merlin turns to her, eyes bereaved if his expression is neutral and says, "You are not old." As though speaking the words will make it so. Perhaps his world has come to such; Gwen has never learned that skill.
"You're able to ride from Camelot," he persists, an edge of desperation beneath his tone that stirs uncomfortable sadness in the pit of her belly, in the cockles of her heart. "On a saddle."
Gwen looks forward to where her horse and escort await her patiently. Not rushing. "I am able to ride from the kingdom," she agrees with a nod, "But my age is showing. I'm beginning to forget things..." She makes the pause pronounced and turns to him in what she is sure is poorly affected uncertainty. "Merlin, is it?"
"Don't jest," he moans, and his voice is as aged paper moving across brittle leather, and Gwen smiles sadly.
“It is Bedivere's time, Merlin,” she finally says quietly. “And you know there are corners of Albion I have yet to see. I am perfectly poised to act as envoy for the king.”
“You needn't leave permanently to accomplish that,” Merlin persists pleadingly. “I can transport you -
“You have your own duties to attend to, Merlin Emrys,” she interrupt gently, affectionately, shaking her head. “Bedivere needs the court's most loyal and trusted adviser - for Camelot, for Albion. Not catering to an old woman's whims.”
Merlin only stares at her balefully. For all he wears his hair in a style reminiscent of Gaius, with a beard almost reaching his belly, Merlin's eyes are those of a young man who has lost far too much.
“And if that adviser needs his oldest friend?” he asks brokenly.
Her hand extends across the space between them and she grasps his tightly. His long fingers twine between her slim ones, reaching ice white across the chestnut brown of her wrinkled hand. "You'll visit me," she says, and then thinks that perhaps she has learned how to say things and make them so, for her tone brooks no argument.
"Daily," he breathes fervently. A part of her wants to take his word as vow, insist it be so.
But she will hold her courage as the last thing if she must, and only looks around them, at the enormous crowd which keeps a respectful distance. Many of them have wet eyes, and a deep pang of remorse stirs in her chest.
Bedivere stands at the top of the stairs which lead into the courtyard, his wife gripping his hand tightly as she leans into his shoulder. They had all said their good-byes already, over wine and laughter and affection and sombre reminiscences. He keeps his distance now, and Gwen inclines her head, as the new king and his wife bow theirs.
“Smile for me, Merlin,” she implores, meeting his gaze again. “And then hug me as we used to.”
He chokes on a sob, staring at the dirt for a moment before tipping his chin up and smiling sadly, but genuinely and with love. They're slow to move, to embrace one another tightly, and Gwen memorizes the feel of his frame in her arms and how she must still rise to her tip toes to hug him properly. There's a pang across her ribs as she stretches to reach him, the reminder of a dagger wound never quite fully healed. She ignores it; Merlin's warmth is too valued to relinquish.
When they draw apart, she says, “I'll see you soon.”
“Tomorrow,” he says, and as she half rolls her eyes in false exasperation, he chuckles in a real way.
Then her escort passes her reigns, as a page pushes a stepping block beside her horse. It is easy to settle into the saddle.
“When you are ready, my queen,” her escort says beside her.
She takes one final look around herself; first at the turrets and the walls which hide rooms she knows as well as the places in her heart and mind. And then to the people; her soul. They bow and curtsy and she smiles.
Then she meets Merlin's eyes once more, and nods. “I am ready.”
She thinks, perhaps, as she turns forwards again, that there is a glimpse of brown where once there was silver, that a white beard has turned to a red neckerchief.
But then - it could also be a trick of the light, to an old woman's fading eyes.