Chapter Text
The dawn after Guinevere's exile, Camelot felt broken.
Not quieter, exactly. The servants still hurried through corridors with armfuls of linens, guards still changed shifts atop the battlements, the people still bustled in the lower town. Life continued because it had to.
But there was something different in the air.
As though the kingdom itself had been holding its breath since Arthur had pronounced judgement and had not yet recalled how to breathe again.
Merlin had not slept.
He had spent the better part of the night sitting outside Gwen's chambers, listening to the faint sounds of drawers opening and shutting, hearing the occasional catch in her breathing whenever she thought herself alone.
She had cried quietly.
Gwen had always cried quietly. Even in grief, she possessed a grace Merlin envied.
By dawn, the room looked unfamiliar.
The flowers that had once decorated her windowsill had been gathered and left behind; the hand-sewn dresses that had once filled the wardrobe were now packed away. Along with a shawl her father had given her years ago, a carved wooden comb, secret letters from Arthur tied together with ribbon.
Simple things.
Human things.
Things that reminded Merlin that, before she had been queen, before she had been Arthur's love, she had been Gwen.
And now she was leaving.
"I never imagined I would have to pack these up," she said softly, folding her kitchen cloths.
Merlin stood near the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
He wasn't sure what to say.
Gwen had been many things.
Kind.
Wise.
Patient beyond reason.
But unfaithful?
Merlin couldn't believe that Arthur had believed it.
Not when he had seen the devastation on her face as Arthur spoke.
Not when she had pleaded her innocence with tears in her eyes.
Not when Arthur himself had looked as though every word he uttered had been tearing flesh from bone.
"You don't have to do this alone," Merlin said eventually.
A small smile brushed her lips.
"You've always been terrible at letting people suffer alone."
Merlin attempted a smile in return.
It didn't quite reach his eyes.
The silence settled between them once more, and after a moment, Gwen stopped folding altogether.
"What about him?" she asked.
“Him?”
”Arthur...?”
Merlin swallowed.
"I haven't seen him since the trial."
She lowered her gaze.
"Is he coping...?"
Merlin almost laughed. Coping wasn't the word he’d use.
Arthur had looked broken.
Utterly.
Completely.
Broken.
Merlin had seen him. He’d found him late the previous night sitting alone in the council chambers long after everyone else had gone.
Wine sat untouched beside him.
His eyes had remained fixed upon the empty seat Gwen used to occupy.
Merlin had stood there for several moments before speaking, and Arthur hadn't acknowledged him, Hadn't even seemed aware he was there.
Eventually Merlin had approached.
"Arthur."
Silence.
"You should rest."
Nothing.
"I adored her."
Three words spoken so quietly Merlin almost hadn't heard them. But they had carried more grief than any cry.
Arthur had looked up then.
His eyes were red,
Arthur Pendragon rarely allowed himself tears, and Merlin couldn't recall the last time he'd seen them.
"I trusted her," Arthur had whispered.
Merlin had wanted to tell him he was wrong.
Wanted to insist Gwen would never betray him.
Wanted to reveal everything gnawing away inside him.
The Magic, Morgana’s Enchantment, Something.
Anything.
But he had no proof.
And instinct was not enough to protect a queen.
So instead, Merlin had sat beside him.
And stayed.
Because sometimes loyalty wasn't enough to fix things. Sometimes it was simply refusing to leave someone alone in their pain.
Later in the night outside Gwen’s home, raised voices echoed through the market.
Elyan.
Merlin recognised the voice instantly.
Angrier than he had ever heard it.
"She served this kingdom for years!"
The guard standing nearby stiffened uncomfortably.
"She is innocent!"
"Elyan," Gwen called gently.
Her brother pushed into the house, fury etched across every line of his face.
"You should never have been forced to leave."
"Elyan—"
"He should have listened to you."
"Elyan."
"He claims he loves you and sends you away like a criminal."
Gwen closed her eyes.
"He is king."
"Elyan.. He is a man who's grieving."
Merlin watched Elyan's expression harden.
"No," he said quietly.
"He is a king, and kings are supposed to be better than this."
The words lingered.
Treacherous words.
Yet no one challenged them.
Because grief had settled over Camelot like fog and beneath it simmered uncertainty. People believed Arthur and Gwen would be different and that, together, they represented something kinder.
Something better.
Now whispers travelled through corridors. The king had exiled his queen, the king had condemned the woman he loved, the king had judged too quickly.
Sir Leon had spoken little during council.
Percival looked troubled.
Even Gaius, usually measured in all things, carried unease behind his eyes.
"He blames himself," Gaius said quietly to Merlin later that afternoon.
"He believes he failed her."
Merlin stared out across the courtyard.
Arthur stood alone below.
Sword in hand.
Striking relentlessly at a training post.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Wood splintered beneath the force.
"He barely sleeps," Merlin admitted.
"He barely eats."
Gaius stared ahead at Arthur, a solemn expression etched on his face.
"And the council notices."
Merlin frowned.
"What do you mean?”
He took a second.
”Arthur is loved and greatly respected; the council would never doubt him?"
That is all true, but it’s also true that a kingdom cannot be governed by grief."
Merlin now observed.
Servants whispered, Knights exchanged worried glances, Meetings ended abruptly because Arthur no longer seemed capable of focusing, Trade agreements went unsigned, and Petitions remained unanswered.
The kingdom waited.
And its king mourned.
"I can help him," Merlin said quietly.
Gaius regarded him carefully.
"You already are."
Merlin wasn't so certain.
Because helping Arthur meant watching him unravel over a woman Merlin himself had once loved.
Watching the man he would gladly give his life for destroy himself over losing someone else.
It was selfish to think it, Cruel even.
But part of Merlin wondered if Arthur would ever look at him with even half the devotion he had shown Gwen.
Whether there would ever come a day when Arthur sought Merlin first.
Not because he needed a servant.
Not because he needed advice.
Not because he needed someone to clean up the pieces.
But because he wanted Merlin there.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, and Merlin hated himself for thinking it.
Elyan spent more time outside the city walls than within them, unable to bear the sight of the castle that had cast his sister aside. The knights spoke in hushed voices, conversations dying the moment Arthur entered a room, while members of the council exchanged worried glances. Even the people in the lower town seemed subdued, whispers trailing through market stalls and taverns alike.
Camelot had lost more than its queen; it had lost the warmth and certainty Gwen had brought with her, and in her absence the kingdom felt colder, quieter, as though a light had been extinguished.
Arthur, meanwhile, was unravelling in ways few ever witnessed. He remained composed in public, shoulders squared, a weight on them heavier than his chainmail, and his voice stayed steady during council.
The facade cracked behind closed doors.
Nights became sleepless, meals went untouched, and Merlin often found him alone long after midnight, staring into dying hearth fires or clutching letters he never dared to burn. Some evenings he would speak endlessly of Gwen, of her laugh, her kindness, the future they had imagined together.
And others he would say nothing at all, sitting in silence with grief etched into every line of his face. Merlin stayed through all of it.
Because despite his usual sunny disposition, Arthur kept sending everyone else away.
"I keep expecting to see her," Arthur admitted quietly one night, his voice rough from exhaustion. "At council. In the gardens. Walking through those doors as if none of this ever happened."
Merlin lingered near the hearth, watching the flickering light cast shadows across Arthur's tired features.
"Maybe one day you will," he said gently.
Arthur huffed out a humourless laugh.
"You've always been terrible at lying, Merlin."
"And you've always been terrible."
For the briefest moment, something almost resembling a smile touched Arthur's lips before disappearing again beneath the weight of grief.
"I failed her," Arthur whispered. "A king is meant to protect the people he loves, not condemn them... and a fiancé-“
Merlin swallowed hard and cut through.
"You made the decision you thought was right."
"But it wasn't.”
Silence settled between them.
Arthur lowered his gaze to his hands.
"I don't know how to be king without her."
Merlin hated hearing that—not because it wasn't true, but because Arthur seemed to be disappearing alongside Gwen, retreating further into himself with each passing day.
And Camelot was beginning to notice.
The council chambers had become increasingly tense. Arthur's attention drifted during meetings, his eyes fixed on empty spaces while others spoke around him.
"We cannot continue like this," one councillor said sharply during a meeting. "Camelot requires a king who is present."
Arthur's jaw tightened.
"I am present."
"Physically, perhaps."
Merlin stiffened from his place near the doors.
"His wife was exiled barely weeks ago," he said, unable to keep quiet any longer. "I'd imagine most people would struggle after that."
Several council members exchanged disapproving looks.
"This is not the concern of a servant."
"No," Merlin replied coolly. "But the concern seems to be that Arthur is grieving, which makes him rather more human than incompetent."
"Merlin," Arthur warned.
"No, Arthur, ... sire. They're acting as though you've abandoned your duties entirely. You haven't. You've attended every council meeting, heard every petition and met with every nobleman who's come through those doors."
"And yet little is accomplished," another councillor muttered.
Merlin folded his arms and grimaced until Leon intervened.
"Perhaps because you're all more interested in criticising him than advising him and doing your jobs."
An uncomfortable silence followed.
Arthur looked at Merlin then, really looked at him, and for the first time in weeks there was something other than sorrow in his expression.
Gratitude.
Merlin looked away before he could dwell on it.
Later, as Arthur sat once again in his chambers, shoulders slumped and eyes heavy with exhaustion, Merlin decided he could not simply stand by and watch him fade.
Arthur needed something other than grief.
Something other than memories.
Something to remind him that life still existed beyond loss.
Merlin thought of the hunts Arthur used to enjoy, the tournaments he had once eagerly participated in, the ridiculous competitions between knights that inevitably ended with someone falling into a river.
Perhaps, Merlin thought, Arthur didn't need advice. Maybe he simply needed to remember how to laugh again.
And if Merlin had to drag the knights into some elaborate scheme to make that happen, then so be it.
After all, making Arthur smile had become a rather unfortunate talent of his.
And as Guinevere had told him, Merlin had never been very good at giving up on people he valued.