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Arthur might have been prepared to die, but none of them had been prepared to lose him. Gwen keeps her chin up, her mind busy. She holds herself together with hot baths and layers of fabric, the occasional cup of spiced mead and, when all else fails, screaming into her pillows.
The first Samhain after his death is a muted affair, despite the decent harvest and fine weather. She hosts a feast in the castle because there has always been such a feast, and she understands the importance of keeping certain traditions in the face of greater change. After the third round of toasts, however, she excuses herself and heads to the ramparts for some air.
She is leaning on the parapet, looking out over the city, when she hears someone approach. Steady footfalls—not heavy, but with no attempt at stealth—and the muted slap of a leather scabbard on mail armor. Time was, it might have been Arthur. Or Elyan. Even Gwaine. But now…
"Do not fret, Sir Leon, I am not planning on jumping. Far too much to do before winter sets in."
"My lady, you should not jest—"
"Should I not?" Gwen looks over her shoulder, attempting a smile. She fears it is not a particularly nice one and hopes the flickering torchlight will be kind, else obscure it altogether. "I thought the court wished for a merrier queen."
"That's not what…" Leon trails off, shaking his head, and comes to stand by her side. "Lord Walther is a drunken fool. I should never have mentioned it."
"Yes, you should." Gwen lays a hand on his arm. "Please, you are one of the few I trust to always speak the truth, no matter how unpleasant. That is worth more to me than propriety."
She glances up at him, noting his grimace. She wonders if he, too, is thinking of all the lies that upheld Arthur's reign, of the secrets—finally revealed by Gaius when Merlin failed to return—that they are still keeping from the full council.
She pats his arm, then withdraws her hand and returns her gaze to the city below. The sheer number of bonfires this year is staggering. She is not the only one left behind with no grave to visit, worried over lost or restless souls. The dead, however, are not the greatest of her worries.
"What news from Percival?"
"Still no luck in the villages, but he is leaving word—and coin—as he goes. If Merlin passes through anywhere within Camelot's borders, in any of his guises, we will hear of it."
"Where could he be? I don't care how powerful he is, he can't have simply vanished! And I know he would never—" Gwen breaks off, fist balled against her lips. Abandon us, is what she was about to say, but it is not the full truth, not anymore. Merlin would never abandon Arthur, true enough, but Arthur is gone.
After a long moment, Leon clears his throat. "He may be keeping off the roads, sleeping rough. No doubt he is grieving, too. And Gaius fears he might be lost in other ways."
"What do you mean?"
"He is worried that Merlin blames himself. That he may be too ashamed, or frightened, to return without Arthur."
"But that's—" Ridiculous is what Gwen wants to say. But she cannot, because it isn't.
There are only a handful of people in Camelot who know Merlin's true identity, and though there are others who may be sympathetic to the old ways, they have been hiding—just barely surviving—for so long, she cannot imagine they are eager to stick their necks out for a former servant who has been sitting pretty at Arthur's side all these years, eating from the palace kitchens and thumbing his nose at Uther's ghost.
It will take more change, more work—more time—before a powerful warlock might live openly in the heart of Camelot. Still, such reform would be easier if said warlock were actually on hand to advise her.
"But this is his home," she says at last. "He will always have a welcome here. I hope he knows that."
"We will find him, my lady. Then you can tell him yourself."
Gwen sighs. "Until then, we must carry on. For Arthur, and for the people of Camelot."
"For Arthur and Camelot," Leon echoes.
Gwen turns from the parapet, offering Leon her arm. "Come, let us go find Gaius and Hunith and see if they are up for some dice or nine men's morris. No one should be alone on such a night."