Day 8 - Winter Meditations
Day 8
Title: Winter Meditations
Rating: G
Pairings: none
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I do not own this version of Merlin, nor am I making any profit from it.
Prompt: This was written for Merlinadvent 2009 Day 8, using the prompt: flame
Late at night Uther meditates on Winter in Camelot.
read story at my IJ
OR
The hall had been buzzing with talk of the Mercers' Fair at dinner. Uther will have new clothes for the festivities, of course, but it is many long years since he needed to attend the Fair to choose them. He doesn't even need to remind Job to organise it: the same tailor he always uses sets up an appointment a month beforehand to arrange the details and all Uther needs to do is have his measurements confirmed and agree to a colour scheme.
Now Job has left for the evening and Uther is restless. He wanders over to the fire in his nightshirt, pulling his oldest cloak around him for warmth, and sits in his favourite chair before the hearth prodding the fire to see the coals fall apart and the flames leap higher.
Arthur has done well over the last few days. Winter snowstorms are always problematic, penning so many people into such a confined space without relief. Arthur has kept them busy and engaged. Uther remembers winter storms of the past which resulted in duels, in brawls, in life-long emnity. He remembers unwise affairs, sudden inappropriate infatuations and reams of extremely bad poetry from which the other castle inhabitants were unable to escape.
Some of it had even been his, a fact which he hoped no-one remembers. Although Gaius almost certainly does.
He remembers bad breath, bad manners and the occasional descent into madness. The flames flicker gently, rippling before his eyes.
Uther remembers the winter of the year of famine. That was a bad year. He grinds his teeth, remembering the starving faces of his people, the look in the eyes of grieving women and bitter men after the cold carried away their weakened children and elderly parents. Spring was never so welcome as that year. The kingdom staggered from the clutch of winter barely tottering on its feet, holding on desperately until summer's abundance came around again. It was fortunate that Mercia and Aescetir had also been weakened by famine that year. They had eyed each other like starving dogs, but none had attacked.
There will be other storms this season, but this first one has been a good one, despite the fairly minor altercation between Egbert and ... what was his name again? Something beginning with D, anyway. Camelot's store reserves are excellent, its morale high.
There have been no signs of fire from the township, either. Again, Arthur has had a share in that. He encouraged all the townsfolk to clear out their chimneys before winter hit hard, sending guards around to post reminders and encouraging his men to volunteer to help a few particularly deserving cases. They almost always lose a few houses to chimney fires at this season but so far there haven't been any that Uther has heard of this year. And one such fire can so easily lead to another, the way the houses lean in on each other under the weight of snow.
Uther watches the flames in his hearth engulf a pinecone he has tossed in just to see the way it flares and hisses at the heat.
Winter in a castle is like a simmering stew. Everyone bubbles around in the small cauldron together, creating a distinctive flavour and aroma. Someone has to watch the pot, and Uther has been glad to see Arthur taking responsibility. During his teenage years Arthur was a seething hotspot all of his own. Uther sometimes wondered at his own patience as maidens languished and plotted around the boy and men conspired and admired while Arthur - the boy never stayed still for a single minute. Even last year there had been that incident with the Welsh Bard. Uther sighed. Better not to think about that, really.
Better to consider how much better this year is shaping up to be. Arthur is even getting along better with Morgana. Uther has always hoped that they might show signs of partiality, but by this point he has given up thinking that they might make a match of it. He would have settled for tolerance, but really they seem to have struck up some kind of abrasive accord this year. He's seen this happen in his fighting men sometimes: a competitive antipathy will occasionally mutate to a bond under pressure. He isn't quite sure what the spur has been for those two, but he is glad to see it, even though it may not last.
Winter also usually brings a respite from sorcery. Uther supposes that they all hole up in their dens to wait for better weather, just as rival kings retreat to their domains to plan Spring Campaigns. One more blessing of winter.
Job has left him some pastries on a dish - the ones made with dried berries soaked in brandy. Uther does favour those. He takes two back to bed with him; Job can change the sheets in the morning if there are crumbs. His sheets have grown cool while he tarried by the fire, but Uther drags his cloak about him, forbearing to shed it even under the covers. The pastries are good.
Eventually the flames flicker low and die to a dull glow, but Uther is finally asleep.
Title: Winter Meditations
Rating: G
Pairings: none
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I do not own this version of Merlin, nor am I making any profit from it.
Prompt: This was written for Merlinadvent 2009 Day 8, using the prompt: flame
Late at night Uther meditates on Winter in Camelot.
read story at my IJ
OR
The hall had been buzzing with talk of the Mercers' Fair at dinner. Uther will have new clothes for the festivities, of course, but it is many long years since he needed to attend the Fair to choose them. He doesn't even need to remind Job to organise it: the same tailor he always uses sets up an appointment a month beforehand to arrange the details and all Uther needs to do is have his measurements confirmed and agree to a colour scheme.
Now Job has left for the evening and Uther is restless. He wanders over to the fire in his nightshirt, pulling his oldest cloak around him for warmth, and sits in his favourite chair before the hearth prodding the fire to see the coals fall apart and the flames leap higher.
Arthur has done well over the last few days. Winter snowstorms are always problematic, penning so many people into such a confined space without relief. Arthur has kept them busy and engaged. Uther remembers winter storms of the past which resulted in duels, in brawls, in life-long emnity. He remembers unwise affairs, sudden inappropriate infatuations and reams of extremely bad poetry from which the other castle inhabitants were unable to escape.
Some of it had even been his, a fact which he hoped no-one remembers. Although Gaius almost certainly does.
He remembers bad breath, bad manners and the occasional descent into madness. The flames flicker gently, rippling before his eyes.
Uther remembers the winter of the year of famine. That was a bad year. He grinds his teeth, remembering the starving faces of his people, the look in the eyes of grieving women and bitter men after the cold carried away their weakened children and elderly parents. Spring was never so welcome as that year. The kingdom staggered from the clutch of winter barely tottering on its feet, holding on desperately until summer's abundance came around again. It was fortunate that Mercia and Aescetir had also been weakened by famine that year. They had eyed each other like starving dogs, but none had attacked.
There will be other storms this season, but this first one has been a good one, despite the fairly minor altercation between Egbert and ... what was his name again? Something beginning with D, anyway. Camelot's store reserves are excellent, its morale high.
There have been no signs of fire from the township, either. Again, Arthur has had a share in that. He encouraged all the townsfolk to clear out their chimneys before winter hit hard, sending guards around to post reminders and encouraging his men to volunteer to help a few particularly deserving cases. They almost always lose a few houses to chimney fires at this season but so far there haven't been any that Uther has heard of this year. And one such fire can so easily lead to another, the way the houses lean in on each other under the weight of snow.
Uther watches the flames in his hearth engulf a pinecone he has tossed in just to see the way it flares and hisses at the heat.
Winter in a castle is like a simmering stew. Everyone bubbles around in the small cauldron together, creating a distinctive flavour and aroma. Someone has to watch the pot, and Uther has been glad to see Arthur taking responsibility. During his teenage years Arthur was a seething hotspot all of his own. Uther sometimes wondered at his own patience as maidens languished and plotted around the boy and men conspired and admired while Arthur - the boy never stayed still for a single minute. Even last year there had been that incident with the Welsh Bard. Uther sighed. Better not to think about that, really.
Better to consider how much better this year is shaping up to be. Arthur is even getting along better with Morgana. Uther has always hoped that they might show signs of partiality, but by this point he has given up thinking that they might make a match of it. He would have settled for tolerance, but really they seem to have struck up some kind of abrasive accord this year. He's seen this happen in his fighting men sometimes: a competitive antipathy will occasionally mutate to a bond under pressure. He isn't quite sure what the spur has been for those two, but he is glad to see it, even though it may not last.
Winter also usually brings a respite from sorcery. Uther supposes that they all hole up in their dens to wait for better weather, just as rival kings retreat to their domains to plan Spring Campaigns. One more blessing of winter.
Job has left him some pastries on a dish - the ones made with dried berries soaked in brandy. Uther does favour those. He takes two back to bed with him; Job can change the sheets in the morning if there are crumbs. His sheets have grown cool while he tarried by the fire, but Uther drags his cloak about him, forbearing to shed it even under the covers. The pastries are good.
Eventually the flames flicker low and die to a dull glow, but Uther is finally asleep.