Fic: Of Recoil and Grace; everyone; PG-13 (3/4)

[kepp0xy]

Part One | Part Two



"Gescildan," Merlin corrected, stepping past Marie, her hair bound in bright pink ribbons as she made the twin tails float about her head to her gap-toothed delight.

Renfar met Merlin's gaze from beneath a pronounced brow, seeming more contrite than the occasion called for. "Dan, deh-ahn," Merlin continued, more gently under his student's baleful stare. "You've got to almost bite out the last syllable, or the spell will be useless... Or, at least, a lot weaker."

"Gescil-dan," the young man repeated, eyes so narrowed it was difficult to make out the flash of gold, his face so tense Merlin wondered if he might loosen the hair from his head with the strain.

It wouldn't have been the first time.

Just as he was about to suggest Renfar take a break, Renfar tried again, and a shimmering yellow appeared between them.

Merlin grinned widely as Renfar's face broke into an enormous smile - until he gave a great laugh of pleasure, instantly dissolving the weak shield to nothing again.

His face dropped, he muttered, "Damn -

But Merlin took gentle hold of his wrist as he raised his hand to try again. "You know you can do it now," Merlin said, leaning on the measured tones Gaius had used on him many times. Equal parts soothing and commanding, reassuring and limiting. "Have some water and bread before trying again - Don't argue. The physician will have my head if another of you faints at lessons."

Merlin winced for emphasis and Renfar's shoulders dropped. "All right," he agreed sullenly, heading towards the food room off their practice hall.

"I'm no magician," Leon said quietly behind him and Merlin jumped. He bloody hated when Leon did that. "But that shield didn't seem particularly strong... At least, it was more transparent than yours have ever been."

"It was his first time," Merlin replied, half patiently and half reproachfully. "And it's ... There's more motivation to produce something more powerful when people are in danger."

Leon nodded slowly, before tilting his head, a frown wrinkling his brow. "Or to give cause for freezing entirely."

"That won't happen."

While he and many of the other knights had been quick to accept magic as a tool not only of evil, Leon still had difficulty recognizing strength beneath the often somewhat scrawny exteriors of the magic users who now resided in Camelot. It was little shock that many of the knights looked at Heric when battle times came; Merlin glanced wryly at the well-muscled magician, presently fawning over the stem of a wilting rose, eyes flashing gold above large lips mumbling.

Leon's conciliatory nod accompanied by the lingering and doubtful frown was no surprise to Merlin, but it was a renewed irritation.

So with a sigh, Merlin gestured for Leon to follow him to the entrance way. "Six of them, working together, can create a nearly impenetrable shield to encompass the entire palace," he said lowly, not expending much effort in concealing his exasperation with the tired argument.

Levelling Merlin with a stare, Leon shrank a little as Merlin frowned unrelentingly. "You have told me that before," he finally said, chagrined. "And I believe you. Truly. I apologize, Merlin."

Merlin continued to watch him, now impassively, until Leon shifted his weight uncomfortably. Then he smiled toothily and gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. "That's all right," he said sincerely. Then added offhandedly, "You're just a puffed up knight anyway."

"Whelp of a sorcerer," Leon retorted easily. Then his expression cleared; though he still appeared kind for Leon could never look any less, the set of his jaw was that of a man on court business. "I came here because Lady Amelia was asking after your progress with the forecasting spell. She is meant to present her conclusions tomorrow afternoon and would like to finalize the agricultural report before sunset."

Eyeing him shrewdly, Merlin grinned teasingly. "The Lady Amelia is not usually so organised. Nor do you normally act as messenger of the advisers to the queen's court."

Red patches appeared on Leon's cheeks and the tips of his ears went a bright pink. "I cannot speak to Lady Amelia's change in habits," Leon said, sounding a little bit choked. "But I came on her behalf only as a favour."

"Hm," Merlin said, his grin becoming somewhat lecherous. "Well. You can tell Lady Amelia that Josephine and I will go to her chambers at half past the sixteenth hour."

Leon's brows dipped and he opened his mouth to say something, before he snapped it shut again and gave Merlin a curt nod. "Half past the sixteenth hour," he repeated. Then muttered with a glower, "A mere two hours before sun down."

Merlin offered him a bit of a shrug and raised his hands peaceably. "Josephine is in the north fields until mid afternoon, completing the spells."

"Fine," Leon said, sour and resigned, turning with an automatic nod of farewell and leaving stiffly.

"Master Emrys?"

Merlin turned to the strange girl who insisted on referring to him as such no matter how often he insisted she simply call him Merlin as the rest did.

Still, he smiled at her. "Yes, Lucy?"

"Just wondering, sir. You said you'd teach me a summoning spell this week, and it's just gone noon on Thursday -

"Oh!" Merlin bobbed his head. "Of course, I did. All right. We'll get on that right away then."

The girl nodded, following him to an unoccupied corner of the hall. Lucy mimicked him as he rolled up his sleeves and instinctively flexed his fingers, letting himself skim atop the oceans of magic surging in every corner of the room, of the castle, of Albion.

He drew himself back, meeting the girl's wide eyes with a contented smile. "What should we practice summoning first?" he mused lazily.

XVII.

There was no longer any doubt. After several years of intermittent trying, with precipitously weakening surety and increasingly tenacious hope, the physician had confirmed it. Somewhere, between their two bodies, was a broken link that nothing could fix.

She had been kind; convention would lay blame upon Guinevere, but that was not the way within Camelot. They shared burden here. The physician's eyes met theirs steadily, strain and regret in the taught pull of her mouth.

Upon her departure, their hands had met, gripped tightly; their backs remaining stiff as they sat side by side.

Arthur's mind was blank, empty; a swift glance at Gwen revealed similar. He felt as though he sat at the edge of a great fall, and to do anything rash would only send him tumbling.

Her hand tightened on his, and he looked at her again. She stared straight ahead, licked her lips. Her jaw worked, her throat bobbed, but words did not pass across her tongue.

She did not appear heartbroken, but defeated, resigned. It was a look he had rarely seen on her face; hurt him more to witness this than to hear the news that caused it. He wondered, vaguely, if his expression mirrored hers.

But there was only a low ache; they had suspected. They would not share this experience in life.

But they shared so much else.

Her mouth twitched. Downwards.

He said quietly, certainly, "We'll be fine." And then he watched her, and waited.

Slowly, deliberately, Gwen turned to face him. She studied his face closely and Arthur held still, letting her take from him what she needed.

Eventually, she met his eyes again, drew a deep, steady breath, and nodded once.

"Yes," she agreed on a whisper and reached for him.

XVIII.

There was a rattling of the door handle followed by a heavy thud and an extremely annoyed, "Merlin!"

"Oh!" Merlin shouted, releasing the enchantment. "You can come in now!"

There was a very loud seeming hesitation on the other side of the door, before Arthur tentatively asked, "Are you ... decent?"

"Don't be a prat," Merlin snapped, getting out of his bed and setting the candles alight as Arthur opened the door slowly.

His narrowed eyes scanned the room, and as Merlin exaggeratedly rolled his own eyes, said suspiciously, "Why was your door locked?"

It was true that they were in allied lands, but their views on magic... Merlin shrugged. "Just... in case," he muttered, not quite meeting Arthur's eyes.

Arthur's expression turned sympathetic. "They promised you'd have amnesty. That your magic would not be... held against you," he said carefully.

"I know," Merlin replied quickly. Then gave another shrug. "Hard to shake habits, I guess."

"Right," Arthur said after a moment, a bit awkward. Then he thrust a bottle towards Merlin in a poorly conceived diversionary tactic. "I brought wine," he declared.

Laughing in surprise, Merlin took the bottle and led Arthur to the small dining table. "Why?" he asked as he uncorked it.

"Fancied a drink, thought you might be awake."

Merlin nodded, pouring generously into two chalices. "To successful negotiations," he said heartily, raising his chalice.

Arthur mimicked him, echoing, "Successful negotiations."

They drank, and shared an easy silence.

Upon pouring himself a second chalice under Arthur's amused smirk, Merlin said, "Did you see Godfrey's beard?"

"Hah!" Arthur barked, swirling his wine before downing a generous sip. "What a mess. I overheard a couple of servants say that he's not set a blade to it for five months."

Merlin frowned, disbelieving. "The curse couldn't have been that bad."

"I wonder if Helga won't near him unless he keeps half his face covered," Arthur said thoughtfully. "She always was a shallow shrew."

"The beard can hardly be an improvement," Merlin retorted, imagining again the wired field - no, forest, or maybe bramble infestation. He wondered idly if critters crawled between the strands as they would an overrun fen.

Bringing him back, Arthur shrugged. "Who can know Helga's mind? Maybe she... enjoys the sensations."

They glanced at one another in shared horror.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Their son, though... I'd like to convince him to consider training in Camelot."

"That's a risk, isn't it?" Merlin remarked, frowning a bit and leaning back in his chair. "He may accept, then report the tactics to his father. Godfrey would roll over on a peace treaty for a second helping of pork from the right host."

Putting his head on one side, Arthur made an indistinct sound. "Perhaps. Or he may come to recognise Camelot's worth and pledge his fealty and service. He is Godfrey and Helga's second son; he has no claim to anything here. And already it's clear he would have the prowess of a great knight."

"They aren't fanatical about their beliefs, I suppose," Merlin conceded slowly.

"And he seems bored here, disinterested in matters of the family, ignored on matters of the court."

"Would Godfrey allow it?"

Arthur made a face and shrugged. "I believe he would make a show of protest, but relent for the same reasons you just voiced: he would have hopes of gaining tactical intelligence."

Merlin imagined the lad: twelve, older than usual for starting knight's training, but that meant nothing if there was a natural affinity for battle. Merlin would know. For reasons pertaining to the opposite.

The boy had springy waves of unruly black hair, was in the gangly state of growth Merlin remembered well, all limbs and height and bones. A frame he'd have time to grow into under Arthur and the other knights' guidance.

He was certainly a lithe boy; dashing up the many, many steps of the royal garden after his sister's foal had escaped.

"Sir Bedivere," Merlin said, testing the words, sending them to the air for weighing. Arthur looked at him from beneath his raised brows with a slight smile.

"Has a solid ring to it," Merlin decided. Arthur nodded with an approving hm.

XIX.

There were times when he had wondered, and it took the death for him to know.

It didn't matter, as she leant over the body, her curls falling as a curtain around their two faces as she pressed a kiss - benediction or secret, he wondered - to Camelot's most loyal knight.

Gwen was not the only one who would miss Lancelot.

Arthur waited a moment longer, watched as his wife's shoulders stopped shaking before he went to her. Not for the first or last time, he wished his hand was not gloved as he rested his palm to her back.

He only spoke her name and her head rose; the regret was relieved from her eyes the instant she sought his face and a graceful kind of grief poured swiftly in its place. She was his composed Guinevere once more.

He had never loved another; Guinevere had loved twice. Arthur cast aside whatever ill will he felt, and helped her rise to her feet.

"We'll find Merlin," he said.

There was a shift in her eyes, the appreciative fondness there was pure.

Love ... For him, if he had ever had any doubt.

"Of course," she responded with a nod of her head. Affected response from years in a throne room, sat in his stead and at his side.

"We lost many good people," Arthur was saying. Where once Merlin had taken the king's ability to sound simultaneously bracing and stalwartly appreciative for granted, he marvelled at it today. "Too many... But their sacrifices are not in vain. Camelot is saved by their high acts of bravery, just as it continues to stand due to the fast actions of each one of you. We are the fewer, but we have lived in the stead of those who have passed to see victory from this unprecedented assault against us. We will rally and with renewed vigour continue with as much dignity and integrity as ever we have."

Arthur's eyes passed over the assembled mass: knight, guard and magic wielder alike as one by one, they nodded to him.

"From the round table, I ask for one more sacrifice today," he said once every citizen had met his eye. "Delay your deserved rest an hour yet so that we may meet," he finished, in a voice still firm, but with the sympathetic hint of apology beneath.

To a general, sullen murmur of ascent, the grief-laden room began to move. Gwen took a step forward from where she had been standing beside Merlin, just behind Arthur's left shoulder, and Merlin began to turn to give them privacy.

"Merlin?"

Eyes finding Alec, Merlin's heart immediately sank. The boy's face had a grey pallor beneath smudges of dirt and blood, his brown eyes enormous and wet. "I can't find Richard, Merlin," Alec said pleadingly. "He had been in the south quarter - those walls collapsed -

Merlin's arm stretched out, his hand gripping Alec's shoulder tightly. "Richard..." he closed his eyes and swallowed with Alec's first shudder beneath his grip. "He was one of the first to be brought in. I believe James was going to prepare him."

Alec nodded and withdrew from his hold, silently slipping down a servant's corridor.

A gentle hand curled around Merlin's elbow then, and he turned to face Gwen. "I'm going to find Dianne and see if I can help her with the injured," she said quietly. Merlin nodded, raising his brow in invitation for her to continue.

Her lips parted as she hesitated, and her grip on his arm tightened momentarily. "Arthur just told me - Brace yourself, Merlin, for the round table," she murmured, paling so the scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks stood stark. "It is worse than we thought."

"Gwen," he breathed heavily, slipping his fingers around her forearm. Their eyes met, then held for the space of a breath in shared grief.

Gwen cleared her throat, fingers releasing him, her arm falling to her side. With a nod, she left, disappearing down the same passageway Alec had just taken.

Merlin made his way to the round table chamber. He took a deep, steadying breath, then opened the oaken doors.

All heads turned, tender hope in the deep creases of each brow, in the over-bright shine of their eyes, as they looked to see which of their brotherhood still stood.

He felt as though his vitality had been drained from him as he took his own survey of the room. They only just numbered half.

Once Merlin had taken his seat - careful not to see how empty the chair to his left appeared with no Lancelot to smile at him in welcome - Arthur stood.

As one, each man looked to their king.

"We take a moment for our fallen brothers."

The silence was palpable, heaviness settling over the room with each eye focussed on the glistening table top.

When Arthur sat again, Merlin imagined he could feel as the knights cast aside their grief to be dealt with when time allowed. It was an ability Merlin had never felt he mastered, his shoulders still rolled inwards; death was not an easy thing for him.

"Merlin," Arthur said, forcing him to look up. "I don't believe I saw any of the Fae amongst the attackers."

"No," Merlin choked, then cleared his throat and tried again. "No. From who I saw and how it began, it seemed to be a ... A band of nomads."

"Bloody lot of them," Lamorak muttered gruffly.

Merlin winced. "Their group has a fair number, and combined with the abilities of Morgana, Morgause and Mordred..."

"... You said, from how it began," Arthur continued after a moment. "You know then?"

He nodded, directing his eyes to Arthur's collar. "Lucy was Edwin's daughter. She sought revenge."

"Edwin's daughter?"

"The physician who tried to kill Morgana and Uther the year I arrived."

Arthur stared at him, bemused, as a couple of the knights shifted.

"So this has been planned for some time," Galahad suggested but Merlin shook his head.

"I don't think so," he said quietly. "It seemed to escalate, rather than happen in a series of organised attacks."

"It also explains why Morgana was not seen until a few hours had passed," Arthur remarked darkly.

"Yeah," Merlin agreed with a stiff nod, watching Arthur now closely.

The king's eyes did a sweep of the assembled; each man sitting tall and steadfast. When he met Merlin's gaze, he lifted an eyebrow; Merlin gave a small shrug and a slight nod.

Arthur drew a deep breath, licked his lips and said, "There is still a chance for negotiations then."

"My lord!" Lamorak cried in irate dismay as Leon shook his head, lips a thin line.

Raising his hand for quiet, Arthur frowned in thought. "We would not allow crimes to go unpunished. But I would have peace, not war if it's possible."

Merlin nodded more resolutely, heaviness beginning to gnaw in his stomach at the threat of more death.

"I stand by you, my King," Galahad said. And was followed, one by one, by those remaining. Whether hesitant or without reserve, they each added their acquiescence.

XX.

She is wrapped: fur tight about her shoulders, heavy velvet blanket tucked across her lap and her dark waved tresses spilling over absolutely everything.

As Morgause moves around the chaise, fitting herself alongside her sister, Morgana turns grey eyes on her, reflecting the dull orange of the smouldering embers in the hearth. Then she smiles in welcome, lifting the edge of the blanket in a silent bid and Morgause nods, sliding forwards to fold herself beneath the heavy material, tucking her cold feet between Morgana's toasty ones.

"I'm surprised to find you awake," she murmurs.

Morgana tilts her head and withdraws slightly to wrap the fur around Morgause's shoulders, then links their arms, taking her hand tightly.

"The wind was keeping me awake," she says simply. And as though to emphasise her point, a particularly vicious gust whips across the stones of the outer wall, thudding angrily against the glass of the high windows in the room, demanding entrance, being denied.

Morgause smiles a little. "Me too."

Morgana smiles warmly in response before dropping her head to Morgause's shoulder, nestling herself to get comfortable.

"I saw you speaking with Alvarr," Morgana says after a moment. There is a hesitation which Morgause feels: a quiet ache of humiliation, before Morgana continues, "His band is powerful but they cannot be trusted."

"No," Morgause agrees gently. "I seek only to repay their care for Mordred so they have no claim of debt against us in future."

Hair tumbles in thick locks with Morgana's nod. The motion sends strokes through the material of her dress against her shoulder, hair brushes her collarbone and Morgause silently admits that she has never known a sensation more comforting.

"Erika was speaking fondly of you over dinner," she says, allowing herself to be a little coy. Rewarded, Morgana's fingers twitch slightly in her hold. "She is very taken by your intelligent fire and admires the glory of your hair."

"Does she?" Morgana asks, in a quiet voice Morgause knows she believes herself to sound nonchalant. She fails spectacularly, and warmth spreads through her swiftly.

Smiling, Morgause nods and puts her head on one side, continuing with mischief, "And Odard was quick to agree, adding that the spark of your wit was a constant challenge and delight for him."

Morgana fidgets against her; Morgause imagines the pink that must be flushing along Morgana's snow cheeks. For all her heartache and what darkness she has witnessed, Morgana retains a degree of innocence which Morgause is ever grateful for, and strives to preserve as long as she possibly can. More than willing to end whole legions of beings to guarantee it lasts.

"You could have your pick," she continues at Morgana's shy silence.

But then her sister draws a deep breath and says, both brazen and embarrassed, "There would be no cause to pick."

And Morgause laughs in delight. Even to her own ears the sound is a little strange, as though the gale outside disturbs hundreds of brittle leaves on a crisp autumn day.

If Morgana notices the oddity of the sound, she does not comment, her free hand instead slipping beneath the velvets to pinch Morgause's wrist. "Don't tease," she says tartly, but the smile on her face is plain under her tone.

Neither will Morgause have Morgana know what it is like to forget to laugh. "I hardly laugh at you, little sister," she murmurs affectionately. "I laugh only because you are absolutely correct - and what a night you would have, by not limiting yourself in any way."

"I was thinking a month at least," Morgana corrects thoughtfully. "I would require some courting, if only to subtly instruct them on my tastes."

"Very wise." Her eyes flash to the hearth; the fire rekindles and Morgana burrows into Morgause's hold, laying her cheek against her chest. Morgause rests her jaw on Morgana's head, and whispers, "And who would you tempt first?"

After a silent pause of consideration, Morgana begins hesitantly to confide plans for seduction which she has obviously been contemplating for some time.

Morgause listens.

Hours later, gentle dawn creeps in through the high windows, stealing in successfully where the furious wind failed. It finds two sisters twined with one another, sleeping deeply.

XXI.

"It's madness to do this so blindly!"

"Blindly?" Merlin snorts in an oddly gentle sort of way and glances up at her from where he gathers his things. "I've done more based on less information."

Gwen can feel the blood draining from her face, a little weak as she recognises the truth of a statement such as that coming from Merlin. All these years...

"That's no reason to go ahead now -

"You could stop me."

Gwen grimaces as though slapped. The imbalance between them, between all of them, had been increasingly apparent of late. Merlin often heeded her own or Arthur's wishes because they aligned with his, but Arthur had told her the stories of Merlin in battle; she had witnessed his protection of the throne from attackers able to breach the castle defences. There would come a day - and she believes now that it is today - when Merlin will not concede to the wishes of a friend, or a sovereign. Though the latter had never stood between them. Not really.

"How could I stop you?" she whispers weakly.

For a moment, Merlin shrinks and he appears so vulnerable before her, and as the firelight trembles, dyeing the walls and making them just as any other in Albion, she can imagine they're both young, and naive, and servants simple with demanding and sometimes ludicrous masters, together trying to stand against the madness.

But then he tips his head in a false show of deference that she is so familiar with and he is royal adviser once more, powerful beyond her reckoning, and she is merely a queen.

"You could ask, my lady," he says softly.

Gwen's hands fist at her sides, her teeth clench and she raises her chin as she holds his shadowed gaze. "I thought I already had."

"No," Merlin corrects lightly, slipping something else into his pack. His decision made, she thinks. "You told me I was mad, and I think you also used the word folly earlier." He quirks a brow at her and twists his lips, and if she had not been fearing he would vanish to his death, she may have sighed at his poor attempt at teasing.

But instead, "Please don't go."

His head stays bowed this time, and she sees his brows draw close to one another as though in surprise as his hands continue moving things, eyes trained on his pack. "The kingdom will not survive if I don't."

"The kingdom will last, as it always has done."

He shakes his head, however, and turns to face her properly. "There are things you don't yet understand."

Gwen can feel the tears prickle her eyes but she will not cry; not for Merlin, not for what they may lose, have lost.

"That is unnecessarily cryptic," she informs him instead, allowing the swell of irritation to rise up and square her shoulders.

Merlin chuckles, and stands straight before he strides to her in his jolting way and grips her shoulders. His lips dust her forehead and she feels suddenly very small, easily cast aside in the face of grander things.

"At least wait until we know more," she says, hoping reason will outweigh whatever urgency Merlin envisions lies beyond the castle boundaries.

He sighs, fingers tightening briefly on her shoulders before his hands drop altogether. "How long should I wait, Gwen? A day? A week?"

"As long as is necessary."

"Waiting may spell the kingdom's doom."

"And proceeding may spell yours!" But he only shakes his head, and Gwen's patience snaps as her hand flies around his elbow. "You are not invincible, Merlin."

He looks at her then, and for a moment she sees the fear and the understanding in eyes clear blue that she has seen shine gold too many times in defence of the kingdom, of Arthur: he knows and thinks, None of us are.

But then his eyes drop to find her grip, and his long fingers prise his arm free of her hold and he turns away from her to pick up his things.

"When Arthur returns," he begins but Gwen has had enough.

"I will deliver no farewell message," she says stubbornly. "When Arthur returns, you already will have."

His lips quirk slightly and he nods once, then is gone. Gwen allows herself to draw one quivering breath before she leaves his chambers. The day is just beginning.

The sunlight pushing through the clouds was watery, but it was still sun nonetheless.

Gwen was thankful.

Ignoring Gilbert's frown of disapproval, she declined the stable boy's offer of help, dismounting on her own.

The young boy's eyes were wide with surprise, nervously flicking between Gilbert and Gwen. But she smiled warmly, gently squeezing his hand as she passed, which seemed to startle him first, before his mouth parted in a toothy, pleased grin.

Gwen passed through the short stable where the worker horses looked hardy, their mottled coats clean and reflecting the light as they munched on hay, paying her absolutely no mind. She emerged onto Markus' lands and swallowed her huge smile of pleasure: his fields were immense, some of the largest in the kingdom, and there would be absolutely no wanting for work to be done today.

"Excuse me?" she asked a passing farmhand, reaching a hand out to stop him. “I'm looking for Markus?”

He turned, frowning impatiently before he jumped and nearly fell over in his sudden haste to bow.

"I'm so sorry, your majesty!" the lad stuttered, speaking breathlessly to the dirt beneath their feet. "I didn't recognise her highness in..." His head raised marginally as he eyed her again to be sure. When he caught her amused smile, his ears turned pink and he muttered faintly, "Trousers."

"Please stand," said Gwen warmly. Once he had straightened, Gwen smiled gently at him, trying to encourage him to calm. It seemed to have the opposite effect, his cheeks colouring to match his ears. "What's your name?"

"Thomas, sire. Uh, miss - my lady."

"A very strong name," Gwen said wistfully. "Thomas, can you tell me where Markus is?"

Wordlessly Thomas pointed behind where they stood towards the left edge of the vast fields. Gilbert had joined her now, and gave the boy a conciliatory pat on the shoulder as they walked onwards.

"One day," Gilbert murmured idly, walking a step behind her as decorum demanded but speaking quietly into her ear in friendship. "You'll warn your people before dropping in for a day of labour."

Glancing over her shoulder at him, Gwen winced to hide her giddy mischief. At the roll of her eyes, she recognised her failed attempt and smiled openly instead, looking forwards.

Careful to step around the oblivious chicken pecking for worms, Gwen said, "If I told them I was coming, there would be all kinds of fanfare -" At this, she cringed quite genuinely, though Gilbert offered an unsympathetic snort behind her, grumbling, "As there should be, my queen."

Gwen ignored him. "Which defeats the point," she continued, pausing to seek out Markus from amongst the workers in his fields. "I am here to work and to help, not call attention to myself, becoming a distraction.”

Snorting again, Gilbert followed as she walked to the smallest man of the bunch with thinning, grey hair. His build was of strong stock, however, and his commanding voice boomed clear and cheerful over the toiling backs of his workers.

"Markus?" Gwen asked, laying a hand on his shoulder when her call of his name was not enough.

He turned quickly, barely an inch taller than her, and swiftly bent into a low bow.

"Queen Guinevere," he said jovially when he rose, eyes sparkling as someone dropped a shovel with a loud clack at the declaration of her name. "Dianne said you'd come. I bid you welcome."

Gwen spared a fast, amused, glance at Gilbert, who looked skyward in a put-upon manner.

"Thank you for allowing me to help," she replied sincerely.

"Don't thank me yet, your highness," he said with a chuckle. "Dianne told me not to treat your majesty any different than the rest. Begging your pardon, my lady, but while you could put me in the stocks for my insolence, my Dianne could do the worse and so I'll be following her direction."

Gwen found herself laughing - then suddenly bashful as she noticed the farmhands around them watching her with warm smiles of indulgence.

"I can easily imagine," Gwen said finally and Markus' smile grew. "And I wouldn't expect, or ask, for anything else, Markus."

He then offered her a dirt blackened hand which she accepted without hesitation, following him to the vegetable patch.

The earth crumbled cool and damp between her chilled fingers, the occasional worm whipped its sticky tail as it lay in her palm, and hours later, that was how Arthur found her.

"Imagine my surprise," he drawled behind her, casting a weak shadow over the raised row of dirt she worked at. She did not stand immediately, but finished pressing a tiny pod into the ground before raising to her knees and turning to look at him, squinting against the hazy sunlight.

"When I returned to the castle," he continued as she moved to her feet, "Only to hear my Queen was in the eastern fields. Working. ... Toiling, even."

Gwen smiled as she dipped into a perfunctory curtsy, which Arthur grinned at in amusement, eyeing her trousered legs with interest.

"I cannot imagine it, sire," said Gwen lightly. "My King would not be surprised in the slightest." She paused and put her head on one side, looking past his shoulder thoughtfully. "Though he may have been slightly put out that his wife was not there to welcome him home."

"I waited two hours, Guinevere," he admitted, pained, his bottom lip puffing and jutting in a childish pout.

"How restrained of you," Gwen murmured indulgently, smiling slightly.

She did not miss the shadow which passed behind his easy expression then, and her stomach turned cold and dropped. But they would not speak of it now. A few hours of ease would not do any damage; the benefits far greater than any possible damage caused by delay.

So she reached her hand to him, and his fingers slipped between hers.

"I assume you've come to assist in the planting," she said after a moment, peering up at him from beneath her lashes.

His eyes widened, lips thinning a bit and Gwen persisted with a slow blink of her eyes, "Surely you aren't too tired for a little gardening."

With a sigh, he fell to his knees when she did and Gwen passed him a handful of seed pods.

"Gently," she admonished when he carelessly jammed one into the soil. He glanced at her, half grinning and half contrite but the shadow had moved on, and for the time being, Gwen returned to her work.

The sun and its weak warmth was beginning to sink when Arthur finally murmured, “Negotiations were a pretence."

And without stopping her movements, Gwen whispered, "War, then?"

He sighed, and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, forlorn. "I believe so."

Lifting her knee to plant it in the soil, thigh pressed tight to his, Gwen slid her hand down his forearm, slipping her fingers across the back of his hand to wrap tight between his. His fingers closed down over hers, and she drew a line against the side of his palm before his hand began to move again. With fingers still knit, they worked that way, Gwen hiding her fear in the rich soil as Arthur hid his.

XXII.

It started as a slight itch moving up her calf, infiltrating her dreams and making her twitch in the space just before consciousness.

But the itch turned into a delicate drag. Something a little cool stroking inchingly, stuttering, up the back of her bare thigh, tickling and coaxing her towards a waking she was disinterested in, more than content to wallow in the lingering satisfied lethargy of the previous night.

Gwen tried to move away from the sensation, throwing her leg over the rise of the blankets beside her, unable to prevent a sleepy twitch of her lips with Arthur's amused snort. When the tool of his distraction persisted, stroked over the swell of her bum, Gwen gave up with a soft sigh, twisting to roll to her back.

Arthur chuckled out an admonishing, "Careful!" and Gwen saw as he quickly pulled a green length of something out of the way.

"What was that?" she asked groggily. She squirmed to press against him as he settled back down next to her, propped up on an elbow, and opened her eyes when he dangled something above her face.

Gwen laughed in surprise. The lush green of the vine with its deep purple and red flowers looked nearly as vibrant as it had on the day it bound their hands and symbolically made them as one before the kingdom. "That isn't a toy," she teased, even as she reached up to finger the delicate petals, trapped in a stasis that would likely outlast them.

"Merlin would probably disagree," Arthur said, a little sour, as he drew the garland away, laying it carefully on the table beside their bed. "I'm sure it's one of the first tricks he teaches his students."

"Perhaps," replied Gwen, indulgent, studying the bright and colourful line the garland painted across the dark wood of the table. Then she looked up at him, askance, and he smirked.

When Arthur ducked his head, Gwen tipped her chin up willingly, anticipating the light dusting of a good morning kiss. But Arthur's mouth fully enveloped hers, his tongue making quick work by slipping between her lips, greedily tasting and generously teasing and leaving her panting, her blood surging at his unexpected fervour when he pulled away.

And the cad looked nowhere near as flustered as he'd left her.

Far from. He smiled, with a display of high self-satisfaction as he observed her, something she had not seen often recently, and then said, "Sixteen years."

"Ah," she breathed after taking a long pause to calm. Gwen used her toe to prod his shin. "That explains last night."

Arthur's expression shifted to one she hadn't witnessed in years - his eyes slid to the side in poorly affected innocence, his brow dropped and an elongated "Nooooo..." escaped the corner of his mouth.

Without thinking of it, Gwen raised her hand, using her thumb against his forehead to smooth the false wrinkles of consternation and leave only those he had earned with time. Warmest blue found brown, and he smiled widely down at her, crows feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Silly, she thought as her heart fluttered in response.

"What explains it then?" she asked, voice remarkably light given the low heat swooping in her belly.

Expression melting from fond to mischievous, Arthur moved as though to kiss her again but Gwen's hand flew between them. With her finger pressed across his mouth as he hovered above her, she murmured, "Don't kiss me like that again unless you plan to follow it through."

Amusement, desire, darkened his eyes and around her finger Arthur mumbled, "Is that an invitation, Guinevere?"

She slid her head to an inquisitive angle as her fingers slipped between his ribs and the mattress.

"More a veiled demand," she corrected softly, nudging his side with her fingertips until he rose and rolled above her.

The soft, warm sag of his growing paunch settled against the increasing cushion of her own and Gwen raised her hands to cup his face, before sending them back, stroking past his forelock.

Silver slipped with gold between her knuckles as she carded her fingers through his hair, and Arthur only watched her quietly, waiting. When she met his gaze again, unable to keep the small smile from her lips, he grinned slightly.

"Christopher told me of a celebration in the Rising Sun tonight," he said unexpectedly. "In our honour."

Gwen nibbled her bottom lip as she thought. "I can be available by dusk, I think. Will you be?"

"I'll rearrange things to guarantee it." Arthur's fingers then brushed a line across her throat, and his leg shifted, edging hers farther apart.

Sending one of her hands to settle at the back of his neck, fingers just brushing the hair at his nape, Gwen looked out past his ear, asking innocently, "You said it was Christopher who told you of the celebration?"

"Yes," Arthur said carefully, movements slowing as he grew wary. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering who reminded you this year," said Gwen mildly, gliding her nails lightly down along his back, relishing his slight tremble, to rest her palm flat at the base of his spine.

And where he had been readjusting above her, nestling and rubbing and starting to light off sparks all across her body, Arthur stilled. "No one reminded me," he countered stoutly.

"No?"

"No."

"Only..."

His hand, which had resumed a teasing crawl down her side, stopped at her waist and he gently shook her as she let the pause lengthen. "Only...?"

The smile she had been biting back blossomed fully at his insistence. "We were wed," she began gently, rubbing her thumb along the corner of his jaw, "Sixteen years ago on Tuesday."

She swallowed down his wince with a chuckle, a smile on her lips that she ensured he shared before his next breath.

XXIII.

"There was a time," whispered Freya into the night. Merlin brushed his chin over her head to show he listened. He had been convinced she slept; he had done his utmost to exhaust her. "When you told me we would be together. It sounded like a promise of forever."

He shifted at this, tightening the circle of his arms, taking time to recognise each point where flesh met flesh, how soft she was, how heady her scent.

Intuition told him it would be lost to him soon.

"Yes. I meant it then." Young, impulsive, and so, so alone in a horrible Camelot of hunters, cages and chronic ungratefulness. And she had been a reflection of himself, in more desperate need than he had ever seen, and he loved her from the first.

The point of her nose - a little chilled as the cool, lake-scented night air billowed into their room: Freya's preference endured by Merlin's grace - drew a line from his chest to his chin and made him shiver.

"Will you mean it again?" she whispered against his jaw, breath shallow, breezing warmly across his face and throat.

Before he could answer, he felt the gentle surge of Freya calling upon her magic: exactly like the burbling, tumbling cool of a fresh spring stream.

Then he was swallowed in her entirely - the room fell away from them and there was the close warmth of a sun-warmed pool, an ethereal blue light... And Freya.

"You are so beautiful," he breathed without thinking and she smiled with all the guile of a fawn before her mouth closed on his.

When they surfaced some time later, Freya let her magic recede and Merlin closed his eyes against a wave of regret.

"You are at ease here," she observed mildly, allowing his hands to float across her body, memorizing it, as she continued, "You could build a home. With me."

"My lady," he murmured painfully - then smiled sadly with her wince. "It is your chosen title."

"I did not choose it," she retorted, a little defensive and uncomfortable. "It is far too grand for me."

"Vivianne disagrees," Merlin persisted, drawing a finger across her forehead as though tracing a crown. "It suits you," he insisted.

Freya watched him with a frown, but he only smiled back benignly and finally she dropped her head with a reluctant smile of her own.

When she looked up again, her eyes grieved and Merlin's heart clenched in agony.

"You are to leave me," said Freya simply. In the way those who understood the fates often spoke; for a moment, Merlin hated it.

"It is not our time," he replied mournfully.

"It was not then," she whispered. "And if not now, it won't ever be," she concluded in tones so desperately firm it burned him as she never ought to. She was not of fire.

So he begged, "Don't say that."

Freya's hand rose to cup his cheek. She drew a breath as though with purpose to speak, but simply let it go again without so much as opening her mouth.

Her lips were soft and fluid on his and when she withdrew, she made no comment on his tears.

"There are hours until dawn," she said gently, pragmatically. He didn't know if it was Avalon or death which had lent her such patient acceptance.

"Show me more of what it is to be Merlin the Freer," Freya invited across his lips.

"I believe the final matter," Hera said, flicking through her sheaf of parchment to withdraw a particularly dirty-looking one. "Is the dungeons. They near overcapacity."

Gwen looked up, startled. "I was not aware they were becoming quite so full," she said, a little reproachful. "How many are now imprisoned?"

"Thirty-six, my lady," Hera said, consulting the parchment again.

"Thirty-six," Gwen breathed, her lips pursing in dismay.

"Those are only the newly imprisoned," Hero corrected without sympathy. "Combined with those already serving a sentence, the number is fifty-three."

"The problem is not space," Gilbert added quickly at Gwen's increasingly pronounced frown. "But rather, with winter months approaching, heating all the cells will be impossible."

"An immediate death sentence," Amelia said quietly, wincing.

A grim silence fell. With the start of the war, most of Camelot's people had been drawn towards one another in a show of solidarity to the kingdom; taking care of each other and taking special measures not to add undo pressure on Camelot's limited resources. Gwen would see it herself, with overwhelming and warm pride, when she could spare the time to go to the market to break her fast, and similar tales were innumerable from Gilbert and Dianne on those days she could not.

But there was a faction who were not so gracious. They had been a constant thorn in the court's side, speaking out against Arthur's trust in Gwen. Because she was a servant. Because she was a woman. Because her father had been put to death as a traitor to the throne decades ago.

Their troublemaking had escalated with rumours that the war was the worst Camelot had yet faced under Arthur's reign.

Gwen supposed she ought to be thankful their crimes were thus far limited to theft.

"Can we not put more of them together in the cells?" she asked, hardly believing it might be that simple.

It was Dianne who shook her head. "Most are doubled as it is, my lady," she said in her crisp manner. "To put more together would result in much higher chance of disease and my hands will be full come the cold season. I'd rather focus my efforts on those loyal to their queen and respectful of their fellow citizens, if I may be so bold as to say it, your majesty."

Offering Dianne a tired, appreciative smile, Gwen inclined her head to the physician. "Wise as ever, Dianne."

"And you, too kind, my Queen," Dianne replied, holding Gwen's gaze unfalteringly.

Gwen shook her head, "I'm really not being kind at all."

Hera cleared her throat. "If they cannot share cells, we must somehow lessen the number being held."

Nodding, Gwen said, "There may be nothing else for it. We will arrange trials."

"But my lady," Amelia said, looking startled, "You hardly have enough time now to do all you must. What hours can you lend to lengthy trials?"

"Those otherwise spent sleeping," Gwen said gently, smiling humourlessly.

"I don't think that can be necessary," Gilbert interrupted quickly. "I suggest we part now and consider other options before we meet again tomorrow."

She was fairly certain there would be no better alternative, but Gwen acquiesced to her advisers nonetheless. "Tomorrow, then," she said, standing.

"Where would you go now, my lady?" Amelia asked, moving to Gwen's side as she stepped around her chair.

"The archives," Gwen replied quietly, fighting against a wave of anxious exhaustion. "Would you accompany me, Lady Amelia?"

Amelia inclined her head with a small smile, "It would be my pleasure and honour, my Queen."

Passing a page on their way to the castle bowels, Gwen requested their suppers be sent to them in the archive chambers.

It was routine now: any time Arthur left for battle - which had been a blessedly rare occasion - Gwen took to re-familiarizing herself with the treaties and standings of the kingdoms of Albion.

She was decidedly not considering how this time felt different from the rest; more grave, more final.

There was no reason Camlann should lead to anything besides Camelot's victory - Albion supported it.

They settled, side by side, and though Amelia had no reason to look beyond Camelot's borders, she took a tome Gwen had finished one week past and began reading immediately.

Gwen was ever thankful. It made the task less lonely.

The candles were burning low, flickering on mangled wicks. The detritus of dinner was scattered a little messily. Amelia had fallen asleep, head laid across her open book and ginger tendrils escaping onto the treaty Gwen presently struggled through.

Her eyes were so heavy, but this was the last of the Pellinor documents and if she could only finish it tonight -

The door flew open and a flustered page rushed in.

Amelia woke slowly as he ran to a stop beside them, gasping and holding out a dirtied, wrinkled, folded bit of parchment to Gwen.

"Missive, Queen Guinevere," the boy panted. "Delivered in Master Merlin's way."

Wave after wave of terrified intuition rolled through Gwen as Amelia's green eyes flicked between her and the parchment.

Finally, Gwen reached forwards, and managed a thanks for the page.

The parchment had been torn from something hastily, crumpled in a sweaty palm. The coloured ridged outline of a landmass suggested it was the corner of a map of some kind, a spidery set of lines adding weight to the assumption.

Unfolding it slowly, Gwen drew a deep breath before reading the sole word, barely decipherable as Merlin's scrawl, written as it had so obviously been in a hand badly shaking.

Fallen.
It fell from between her fingers as Gwen wrenched back from the table, taking several urgent steps away. Her hand pressed over her mouth, she swallowed agony as she listened to Amelia pick up the message behind her.

"My lady?" Amelia asked hesitantly. "I don't understand..."

Gwen drew a deep breath, pressed her hands to her stomach to quell the hollow pain there spreading and turned slowly.

"Alert," she began, then faltered.

Choked, eyes blurring.

She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders and tried again. "Please alert the master bellman."

Eyes wide with distress, Amelia took an urgent step forwards. "Alert - ?

"The mourning toll," breathed Gwen and Amelia froze. "For the king."

Amelia's eyes filled instantly with tears, drops spilling silently as she crumbled into a messy curtsy and hurried from the room.

Alone, Gwen gripped the back of a chair and choked back a whimper.

A few minutes later, the first bell began to send out its throbbing ring.

It seemed the walls began to fold, the stones collapse beneath her feet, but as her knees cracked against their solid form, she knew it only to be her reality.

Then her vision was lost to the haze of tears and the sharp ache of grief, her heart a searing hole in the centre of her chest and if there was naught but a gaping void in her belly she'd not be surprised, as terrific sadness swallowed her by the next reverberating strike.

XXIV.

She fell.

Pain seared across her ribs as Merlin shouted, "Gescildan!"

A second dagger clattered to the ground, thrown back from the force of hitting Merlin's shield, skittering across the stones to stop at the attacker's booted toe.

Gasping, her hand pressed tight over the agonized, seeping wound, Gwen's eyes rose, up, over the riding boots, over long shapely legs shrouded in tight-fit trousers, over an exquisitely fine set of mail before finding Morgana's furious face.

Furious, glorious, showing no age.

Her entire body heaved frenetically as she squarely faced Merlin, paying Gwen no heed.

Merlin was still, his golden eyes visible even from where Gwen lay, as he watched Morgana and sustained the pearly shield between them.

"Gwen?" he asked quietly.

"I'll be all right," she murmured. She wasn't actually sure that was true - the gouge extending from stomach to ribcage was excruciating and even breathing sent sharp, heady spirals of pain through her. She had treated far too many blade-imposed injuries in her life, but had no experience personally.

Involuntarily, she moaned with the attempt to rise, collapsing back instead, head propped against the wall.

"Go from here, Morgana," said Merlin lowly, remorseful.

"You can't honestly believe it will be that easy," Morgana sneered, her expression shifting to one of cruel mocking.

Merlin sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "I had hoped."

"Vainly," Morgana snapped, "I will send you to hell for what you have done, Merlin."

"Mordred's time had come," Merlin said harshly, brow a grim line. Briefly overwhelming her physical suffering, Gwen gasped, nearly crushed beneath a wave of sorrow. Arthur... "He knew the vengeance I would exact as well as you did."

"He was still a boy!"

"He was Malice!" shouting, Merlin's hands fisted, and Gwen could just make out the twitch of his robes as he trembled under the weight of his emotion. "What had Arthur done?!"

Morgana did not answer, shifting instead, tensing and flexing her hands.

"Some time today, Merlin," she said coldly, tossing her head.

"No," gasped Gwen, and finally - finally - they both looked at her.

Crying out as she forced herself to sitting, nauseous as the motion caused a surge of her own blood pulsing through her closed fingers, she looked between them beseechingly.

"Please." A beat as she panted hard against the pain. "Enough."

“... The dagger was not meant for you.” Morgana's expression softened the longer she regarded Gwen, but after a long moment, with a hollow expression of regret, she only said, "Never for you, Gwen."

"No," Gwen breathed, but the effort to remain sitting was too much, and she slid down again, trembling, finding it more difficult to keep her hand hard over the wound.

Morgana watched her sadly a beat longer, then turned back to Merlin.

"Merlin," Morgana said.

"I don't want to kill you."

"That makes for a change."

"I've never wanted to kill you, Morgana," Merlin insisted quietly. "That doesn't mean I won't. Return to Morgause, continue your life in peace now. Let the battle end."

Gwen's eyes were beginning to blur, her vision growing fuzzy around unshed tears of pain and exhaustion, but she could see the angry grief of Morgana's expression.

Naked. Raw. Desperate.

"I can't," she bit out at last. "Eleven of your apprentices closed in on her. She took four with her before she fell."

The silence was punctuated only by Gwen's shallow breaths.

"I'm sorry, Morgana," Merlin murmured sadly.

"Morgana..." Gwen wanted to raise her hand, beckon Morgana to her; distance dissolved with shared grief, and they each knew what it was to lose one, or some, they had loved. They had also lost each other, after all.

But her body betrayed her, her hand would not lift.

Without so much as glancing towards her, Morgana flicked her wrist and power crackled, a vicious purple, bright and blinding to Gwen's over-wet eyes.

Barely a beat passed before the pearly haze of the shield abruptly vanished and Gwen laid, helpless as light and fire and ribbons of energy clashed and shrieked and shook the air, the stone -

Morgana fell, silently, tendrils of smoke the scent of cooking sweet meats rose from the heap of her body. Not a twitch or a tremble, no gasp or moan. Gwen had not seen any of the others when they had died; only borne witness to their empty shells and their lacklustre eyes and had then violently forced herself to recall the prismatic vivacity of life instead of the grey tones of death.

But Morgana - there, and then gone, and with no -

Merlin was beside Gwen, blocking her view, panting and shaking as he pried her fingers desperately away from where they had stayed plastered across her ribs.

"Merlin?"

"It's not so bad," he mumbled, pressing his hand flat over the wound and whispering something which eased the ache of her flesh. "We'll find the physician."

"Merlin?" she tried again, her voice high. He tore a length from his robes, laying it over the gouge, muttering more words until the material affixed itself to her skin.

"Merlin!"

Finally he looked at her, eyes red rimmed and shattered.

"Merlin," she begged and his face was buried in her neck, his slim form shuddering in her arms as Gwen stared at the ceiling and tried not to think of anything at all.

Part Four