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It’s been just a candlemark since the sun rose and Guinevere awoke. She sits at the vanity, tending to her hair long before the maid is due to show up. Out of the mirror, she notices a small bird fly with purpose in the direction of her window, eventually coming to a stop and perching delicately and patiently on the sill. She sighs, going to open the glass pane inwards.
“Merlin,” she says knowingly.
The bird disappears in a plume of blue smoke. In its place, her all-too-familiar friend sits with his back against the side of the window, one knee bent and his other leg dangling in her room.
“I shouldn’t have come so early,” he admonishes himself, voice gravelly from disuse. “You’ve barely had time to dress.”
“It’s fine, you know I don’t mind,” she reassures, wrapping her robe around herself. “Your missives from the last fortnight have been helpful, but I’m glad for the chance to see you.”
The smile he gives is nearly imperceptible but certainly there, a rarity in recent years compared to the bright-eyed grins that had been his signature trademark when he’d first arrived in Camelot. The years since had weighed on them all so heavily, but perhaps no one had been affected as much as Merlin, who gave nearly everything of himself in the shadows — only for his radiance and hope to be dimmed and diminished along with everything else. The man who sits before her is exhausted — and yet easily the most enduring she has ever met. He still yields to the shroud of secrecy, always volunteering for missions like this, seeking to avoid the rest of the knights and anyone in the court now that Gaius has passed on too. It’s a struggle to understand sometimes how she even convinced him to leave Lake Avalon all those years ago.
“I wish I could come bearing better news,” he says with a grimace. “I’ve spotted bandits gathering in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Only less than a dozen, but the way they’re moving, they’re going to cause trouble for travelers coming in and out of the citadel.”
“The council meets today in just a few hours. You should come and tell them what you’ve seen.”
“You know all I know and will say it in a way all the more pleasing for the councilors,” Merlin replies genially, standing from the window sill to face her. “Anyways, I’ll have it in hand before Leon can even start on the grain reports.”
“I appreciate that, but, Merlin, you are a valued member of the court, of this very kingdom,” she stresses. “What can I do to make this place more of a home to you?”
With a few quiet steps, Merlin stops before her and grasps her hands in his. His thumbs trace circles just above her fingers in gentle, unfamiliar patterns she implicitly understands are magical.
“Camelot will always be my home because of you, Gwen. And I will always protect it.”
Without another word, he vanishes before her eyes and flies through the blue mist out of the window. As he leaves, she wonders to herself how their mornings might be if not they had never become defenders of the crown and Camelot, if their hands would still find each others’ as they once did in the marketplace.
These council meetings have a tendency to last six candlemarks, but the duration of this one is getting to be excessive.
Gwen began the meeting with Merlin’s intelligence report, which was met with the usual skepticism by the councilors. Despite the laws of magic having been repealed for six years, the nobility have been hesitant to embrace sorcery, especially when its source is Merlin. It is not lost on her that what they really fear is the power that magic could grant the people of the lower towns, how a servant could now feasibly rise up the ranks to become a lord. Or a queen. One case is tolerable. The next is a threat to the way things have always been.
As Leon closes out the reports on the tax collections, the lord five seats to his right opens and closes his mouth in such apparent behavior that he seeks to be noticed with an invitation to speak.
“Yes, Lord Gregor? You look like you have something to address,” she intones pleasantly.
“Yes, I do. This matter is out of no disrespect for you, my Lady. You have brought great prosperity to Camelot since you ascended the throne. But there is a lingering question among the lords of the realm and the neighboring monarchs that may impact your authority to continue to be unquestioned.”
“And that is?”
“When will you remarry?”
She adjusts in her seat, and she cannot help when the genial, court smile sours into a stony facade. Of course, Arthur stays in her thoughts. This very castle, her own position is a constant reminder of him and his memory. Of her promise to him to lead this kingdom, their life-long home, with humility and grace, now in his absence.
“Has Annis remarried since the death of Caerleon?”
“No, your majesty, but Annis…” He trails off, looking as though any further words might indict him in her eyes.
“No, please, Lord Gregor, I am eager to hear your insights.” Gwen attempts to strike a cordial tone, but the words taste bitter in her mouth.
“Queen Annis…she is known to rule with an iron fist. She is an unusual case for her sex, but as such, she has the respect of her people, if not the same admiration that the people of Camelot have for you,” Lord Gregor haltingly explains. “It has been six years since King Arthur’s untimely passing. I say this as I think of Camelot’s future. You will need an heir to carry on your legacy, even if it is now impossible to carry on the bloodline of the Pendragons’.”
“Watch your words, Lord Gregor,” Leon cuts in firmly. “Queen Guinevere is a Pendragon by marriage. Any child she would bear would be a Pendragon.”
“Thank you, Sir Leon. Lord Gregor, King Arthur and I married for love. If I were to ever even consider a future union, it would have to be for that reason. And that’s all I have to say on the matter.”
The lord’s jaw audibly snaps shut, cowed by the dismissal of his queen. For once, Gwen has to take some vindictive pride in that.
“I think that is all the business we have to discuss today. This session is adjourned,” she declares with finality.
As members of the court begin to leave the Round Table, a startled shriek starts from Lady Godwyn, who points with a look of alarm to the window facing out to the city and kingdom below. All eyes are fixed on a beam of red light towering from the forest to the sky above some leagues away. Just as quickly as it appeared, the light dissolves as though it were never there.
Lady Godwyn appears frantic as she cries out, “That was magic! It must be an incoming attack.”
“I’d wager from the Valley of the Fallen Kings. I’ll send out a patrol right away at your order, your majesty,” Leon says.
A pit feels as though it’s formed in her stomach, her heart ready to plunge into it.
“It’s no attack. It’s Merlin. He needs our help,” she asserts, already making haste to leave the throne room. “Sir Leon, prepare the knights to ride out as soon as they can.”
“Of course, my Lady.”
Even with Leon’s ability to round up the knights, she is the first to the stables, mounting her steed in quick fashion while the knights file out to grab at the reins of their own horses. Leon approaches her, hand on the helm of his sword.
“My queen, I assure you we have this handled. I will bring Merlin home.”
“This isn’t my first time fighting bandits,” she counters, already resolved to refuse to watch the battle from afar. Perhaps it is Arthur’s influence that has shaped this decision. Or perhaps her determination to see this through comes from the years of grief and frustration that have resulted from stepping back, allowing everyone else to bear the brunt of the fight. “I have lost so much, Leon. Not him too.”
He nods once in understanding before ordering the knights to follow their path. She pushes her horse to its limit at breakneck speed, barreling past the stalls of the lower town into the fields outside the citadel and into the Valley of Fallen Kings. It does not take long to discover the bandits, who have Merlin crowded against a tree, a streak of blood stretching from his temple down his cheek. He has one arm gripping his side, the other outstretched in warning, and his eyes are shining in effervescent gold. In a moment, one of them turns at the sound of her horse and that of the other knights.
“It’s the queen!” one of the rogues shouts — and then it’s chaos.
“Protect the queen!” Leon yells, but it is barely heard over the din of the clash of swords, the guttural war cries.
Withdrawing her sword from its scabbard, she dispatches two men from atop her horse, descending it to slash at another coming from behind her steed’s flank. Before she can move to the last man, who is aiming for her chest, he collapses suddenly with a cry, revealing Merlin behind him. Rushing forward, Merlin takes her shoulders in his hands in what’s nearly a vice grip, and she embraces him in her arms.
“Gwen! What are you doing here?”
“You protect everyone. Someone has to look after you,” she explains, wiping the grime away from his face.
“Perhaps one day I’ll believe that,” he murmurs, his voice low. He stumbles in her arms, knocking their foreheads together. “Thank you.”
Unbidden, an image comes to mind of the two of them in Gaius’ quarters, Merlin on his deathbed from a poisoned chalice, her hands tending to him just as she does now. She feels the same ridiculous but insistent urge to lean just a few inches forward and kiss him senseless. And it all comes crashing down in her head. It should've been so obvious. Her oldest friend. The only one in her life who still calls her Gwen — the one person she can't bear to lose now. Who else could be the love that could not fill the void Arthur left, but occupy another wonderful space in her all too foolish heart?
“My lady, the bandits have all been dispatched or run away,” Leon calls out. “Shall we return to the city?”
“Yes,” her eyes never once leaving Merlin’s. “Let’s go home.”