The Light that Never Goes Out
Title: The Light that Never Goes out
Series: (BBC) Merlin
Characters: Guinevere, Merlin
Pairing: Past Arthur/Guinevere, implied Merlin/Arthur, but overall gen
Rating: G
Warning: Canon character death; this takes place post 5x13
Summary: She cannot allow herself to cry - not when there is a kingdom to protect.
Notes: This has been done three thousand times at least, I'm sure, but I've been sitting on this since I finished the series so.
I.
He would tell her, in the quiet moments together, when there was no one else around to hear, when there was no one else to see him but her - that sometimes the weight of the crown was too heavy. He would bear it, he would always bear it, as long as he was able, but sometimes, he said, a smile touching the corners of his eyes when he looked at her, cheek pressed into the pillow, sometimes it was almost too much. She would touch his face in those moments, brush aside the soft hair at his brow, smooth her fingertips over the worry lines. And she would tell him, in those moments, that she would be there to help him, that her shoulders could carry more for him - and they would be together to bear it.
Now she understands just what he meant, when his expression softened and he’d told her it’s no good to bear it alone. The crown sits heavy on her head. It isn’t the first time she thinks this - and it won’t be the last time, either. But the weight now is different than it was before. Not necessarily heavier - but she’s more aware of its full weight, the full extent of the responsibilities standing on her shoulders.
It always did, but now the weight is almost unbearable. But she will bear it. She will bear it all, to live the life she must - to do what she must.
That is something she can do, and does so willingly.
She does not let herself cry. There will be time for that - later. When there is not a kingdom to save and protect and construct. When there are not memories to live up to. Only then. Then she can cry.
II.
“Are you there?” she asks, looking out over the water, not speaking to the departed husband but the man who is left behind. Sometimes she wonders if she should be angry, should find reason for selfishness - that he can grieve freely, out on the waters, while she is holding a kingdom together. But there’s no room in her heart for that, only room for the sympathy that widdles away at her grief. There is only room to miss the friend who has departed along with her husband. Immediately she knows she will forgive Merlin this. Every time. His burdens are far greater than her own, she thinks - as she’s come to understand it. There’s still so much she doesn’t understand - and Merlin has not returned to Camelot.
She stands at the shores of Avalon, to pay her respects to the husband she lost - and the friend she wishes to see again, as well.
She closes her eyes, and waits for an answer that does not come. She’s quiet at the shore, then, hearing the sound of the water and just focusing on that - feeling that deep, jagged edge of pain and fear (what can she do without him by her side) and deep, great sadness (that he should not be here), and that sweeping determination that she will make his sacrifices worth it - that she will make Camelot strong, she will make Albion prosper, and she will not squander the sacrifices and accolades he made for the kingdom.
She does not let herself cry, though, because there is not time for that. There is still so much to do, and she must be strong. He would want her strength. And she takes a deep, shaking breath, and lets her features smooth out when she opens her eyes again, looking out over the water - looking out at the distant fog that veils this world to the next, that veils her from her husband.
“We are friends,” she offers, quietly, and it’s because they’re friends that she understands why Merlin does not appear, even though she knows he is there. The guilt must be eating him raw and she wishes there was something she could do for him, even when the mourning gnaws away at her own heart. She breathes out. “And I understand… and it’s alright.”
She’s quiet and the only response is the wind.
“Should… you wish to return to Camelot, you will always be welcome there.”
She looks out over the lake, mourns for the man she will never see again in her lifetime, for a body she can’t even say goodbye to.
She turns to leave, but not before she thinks she hears there is no Camelot without him.
III.
She sleeps more than she used to, but it isn’t a peaceful sleep. Her hand reaches for someone who will never be there again. Often she awakens to find her hand curled tight into the pillow beside her.
And her heart is heavy in her chest before her eyes fully open. She knows, before she’s even fully awake, that what she seeks will not return for her. Still she cannot hope for it. There is still that brief moment when she awakens before she remembers, and she reaches out to touch him, to see him, to hear him-
And he will not be there again.
IV.
Sometimes, she is unsure if what she does is right. She cannot imagine loving another, and she knows that without an heir, without another husband, the kingdom will go to another. But she isn’t sure what would upset and betray him more - that she should take another husband or that she should not and let the kingdom fall away. She knows the answer, but her heart is heavy and it hurts to imagine finding another husband, to produce an heir that will not be his.
Returning from that last battle, her hands pressed to her belly, hoping - always hoping, as she had for years before this, that perhaps there would be something there now. Perhaps there would be one last remnant. Perhaps she could do this last thing for him, and have that solace.
When her monthly blood arrives, she wishes she could weep, hunched into herself - alone in her chamber, her face pressing to a pillow that still smells like him but fades every day further and further away from her. But it doesn’t come, and she can’t allow herself that moment, either. Now is the time to be strong.
Further and further.
V.
It isn’t until ten years later that she sees Merlin again. She returns to the lake every year, to pay her respects, and for those ten years she knows that he has run from her, guilt and grief weighing him down until he cannot see past his sadness. And she can see that sadness in his eyes when she finally sees him. And while her hair has lost some of its luster, and there are more worry-lines etched into the corners of her eyes and mouth, he has not aged a single day - it is as if he has stepped out of the past, and the rough, raw pain of it all bombards her yet again. That reminder of times past, of friends lost, of things that cannot return - and yet he is there and breathing, looking as if he has always belonged at this lakeside. He stares out over the water and does not look up as she approaches, although he must know that she is here. He would not have forgotten that she returns every year. That he is here now means that he is ready to see her again - to talk. Or to not talk at all. She moves to his side and slowly sits beside him.
They say nothing to each other, but after a long moment, she reaches out and takes his hand, and he curls his fingers together with hers, the slightest shadow of comfort to two people who cannot be consoled.
“I’m-” he begins, the apology already breaking across his lips.
She shakes her head and squeezes his hand, pressing her forehead to his shoulder and taking in a shuddering breath.
“Thank you,” she says instead and she feels the way the words scrape down inside him, because he stills and his breath hitches into silence. This is what she’s wanted to say for years and years - across the years, for the rest of her life. Thank you - for looking over him, for loving him, for caring for him, for protecting him.
And she lets herself cry, looking out over the lake.
Series: (BBC) Merlin
Characters: Guinevere, Merlin
Pairing: Past Arthur/Guinevere, implied Merlin/Arthur, but overall gen
Rating: G
Warning: Canon character death; this takes place post 5x13
Summary: She cannot allow herself to cry - not when there is a kingdom to protect.
Notes: This has been done three thousand times at least, I'm sure, but I've been sitting on this since I finished the series so.
I.
He would tell her, in the quiet moments together, when there was no one else around to hear, when there was no one else to see him but her - that sometimes the weight of the crown was too heavy. He would bear it, he would always bear it, as long as he was able, but sometimes, he said, a smile touching the corners of his eyes when he looked at her, cheek pressed into the pillow, sometimes it was almost too much. She would touch his face in those moments, brush aside the soft hair at his brow, smooth her fingertips over the worry lines. And she would tell him, in those moments, that she would be there to help him, that her shoulders could carry more for him - and they would be together to bear it.
Now she understands just what he meant, when his expression softened and he’d told her it’s no good to bear it alone. The crown sits heavy on her head. It isn’t the first time she thinks this - and it won’t be the last time, either. But the weight now is different than it was before. Not necessarily heavier - but she’s more aware of its full weight, the full extent of the responsibilities standing on her shoulders.
It always did, but now the weight is almost unbearable. But she will bear it. She will bear it all, to live the life she must - to do what she must.
That is something she can do, and does so willingly.
She does not let herself cry. There will be time for that - later. When there is not a kingdom to save and protect and construct. When there are not memories to live up to. Only then. Then she can cry.
II.
“Are you there?” she asks, looking out over the water, not speaking to the departed husband but the man who is left behind. Sometimes she wonders if she should be angry, should find reason for selfishness - that he can grieve freely, out on the waters, while she is holding a kingdom together. But there’s no room in her heart for that, only room for the sympathy that widdles away at her grief. There is only room to miss the friend who has departed along with her husband. Immediately she knows she will forgive Merlin this. Every time. His burdens are far greater than her own, she thinks - as she’s come to understand it. There’s still so much she doesn’t understand - and Merlin has not returned to Camelot.
She stands at the shores of Avalon, to pay her respects to the husband she lost - and the friend she wishes to see again, as well.
She closes her eyes, and waits for an answer that does not come. She’s quiet at the shore, then, hearing the sound of the water and just focusing on that - feeling that deep, jagged edge of pain and fear (what can she do without him by her side) and deep, great sadness (that he should not be here), and that sweeping determination that she will make his sacrifices worth it - that she will make Camelot strong, she will make Albion prosper, and she will not squander the sacrifices and accolades he made for the kingdom.
She does not let herself cry, though, because there is not time for that. There is still so much to do, and she must be strong. He would want her strength. And she takes a deep, shaking breath, and lets her features smooth out when she opens her eyes again, looking out over the water - looking out at the distant fog that veils this world to the next, that veils her from her husband.
“We are friends,” she offers, quietly, and it’s because they’re friends that she understands why Merlin does not appear, even though she knows he is there. The guilt must be eating him raw and she wishes there was something she could do for him, even when the mourning gnaws away at her own heart. She breathes out. “And I understand… and it’s alright.”
She’s quiet and the only response is the wind.
“Should… you wish to return to Camelot, you will always be welcome there.”
She looks out over the lake, mourns for the man she will never see again in her lifetime, for a body she can’t even say goodbye to.
She turns to leave, but not before she thinks she hears there is no Camelot without him.
III.
She sleeps more than she used to, but it isn’t a peaceful sleep. Her hand reaches for someone who will never be there again. Often she awakens to find her hand curled tight into the pillow beside her.
And her heart is heavy in her chest before her eyes fully open. She knows, before she’s even fully awake, that what she seeks will not return for her. Still she cannot hope for it. There is still that brief moment when she awakens before she remembers, and she reaches out to touch him, to see him, to hear him-
And he will not be there again.
IV.
Sometimes, she is unsure if what she does is right. She cannot imagine loving another, and she knows that without an heir, without another husband, the kingdom will go to another. But she isn’t sure what would upset and betray him more - that she should take another husband or that she should not and let the kingdom fall away. She knows the answer, but her heart is heavy and it hurts to imagine finding another husband, to produce an heir that will not be his.
Returning from that last battle, her hands pressed to her belly, hoping - always hoping, as she had for years before this, that perhaps there would be something there now. Perhaps there would be one last remnant. Perhaps she could do this last thing for him, and have that solace.
When her monthly blood arrives, she wishes she could weep, hunched into herself - alone in her chamber, her face pressing to a pillow that still smells like him but fades every day further and further away from her. But it doesn’t come, and she can’t allow herself that moment, either. Now is the time to be strong.
Further and further.
V.
It isn’t until ten years later that she sees Merlin again. She returns to the lake every year, to pay her respects, and for those ten years she knows that he has run from her, guilt and grief weighing him down until he cannot see past his sadness. And she can see that sadness in his eyes when she finally sees him. And while her hair has lost some of its luster, and there are more worry-lines etched into the corners of her eyes and mouth, he has not aged a single day - it is as if he has stepped out of the past, and the rough, raw pain of it all bombards her yet again. That reminder of times past, of friends lost, of things that cannot return - and yet he is there and breathing, looking as if he has always belonged at this lakeside. He stares out over the water and does not look up as she approaches, although he must know that she is here. He would not have forgotten that she returns every year. That he is here now means that he is ready to see her again - to talk. Or to not talk at all. She moves to his side and slowly sits beside him.
They say nothing to each other, but after a long moment, she reaches out and takes his hand, and he curls his fingers together with hers, the slightest shadow of comfort to two people who cannot be consoled.
“I’m-” he begins, the apology already breaking across his lips.
She shakes her head and squeezes his hand, pressing her forehead to his shoulder and taking in a shuddering breath.
“Thank you,” she says instead and she feels the way the words scrape down inside him, because he stills and his breath hitches into silence. This is what she’s wanted to say for years and years - across the years, for the rest of her life. Thank you - for looking over him, for loving him, for caring for him, for protecting him.
And she lets herself cry, looking out over the lake.