War's Ending Commencement

by Mara93

Pre Season 3, mildly based on early spoilers Note I have seen none of s.3 eps. The King, The Handmaiden, The Prince, The Sorcerer: They all hope for an end to war, to find what is lost, but is its ending only the beginning when she returns...

War's Ending Commencement

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This story does have spoilers for anyone who has not read them for season three. It does not have spoilers though for any of the specific episodes because I have not seen any of them…yet. I'm waiting to watch them when they're shown in the US.

Rating: Pg13 for scenes of war, mildly detailed

Thanks to everyone at FF for all your recent feedback and just for liking my stories. I really appreciate your support! A special thank you to MusoukaS for just being so nice and supportive. The Uther scenes are for you…and were so fun to write! Thanks!

Disclaimer: I disclaim. Merlin is the property of the BBC Shine

Story takes place directly pre season 3

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The war they fight to find her…

Has no end.

Only a new beginning.

When she is

Returned.

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His eyes glow golden for seconds. It is enough to be effective and yet not reveal. It aids in the battle that he still is only learning how to be part of. It makes him beyond what he pretends to be and in truth is.

This search will continue as in his soul will reign the betrayal. He did then what he had to, but truth does not make that choice any less slippery. Past his tongue is the wetness of deceit. Well intentions have no matter. The war began that moment.

It continues now as a foe threatens. He waves the sword with as much skill as he can find, and when not seen easily, when his physical limitations scream…

He allows the gold to reign.

He is Sorcerer.

.

His eyes trail downward to the dirt openings yet to be marked respectfully. They are the origins of hastily placed graves. Every time his one heir rides out on the volatile venture, he shivers for his return. It is not easy to send your own into the fires, but is necessary when the other is lost.

He aches without her, the one born of his closest friend. That man has been gone for many years, and now so is she, missing. His heart is deeply entrenched with pain for her return, but too it worries at the safety of his son, his brethren. A wife has already been lost for so many years. He cannot bear another hole in life's existence.

He holds vicious secrets within his wearied eyes. He will not share them. They are sins of the past, no crucial matter now. No one should question his judgment. This is right. Each life must be given to get…

Her back.

For this is war. War of return.

He is King.

.

She has just finished her duties of the day. Even as her arms ache from loads to hold, she gives them new burdens. Shredding away her dress of work, she replaces it with tunic and pants of her late father. Then heading outside into the cool nighttime air, she wields. This is her forge of temporary stay. By day she does the household tasks. By night she molds hot metal into its destiny of sword. Checking this one to see that it is right at the hilt, strong at the tip, she shakes her head. Not good enough. Pushing back midnight colored curl, she grasps tight with her hand to better form. With tools surround she uses intense concentration. A thought of those who this is made for comes to mind, a thought of one in particular, but quickly she sweeps it away. Her beloved kingdom is at battle. Full-fledged war.

These weapons are for the sanctity of life. She will not rest…

Until they are complete.

She is Handmaiden.

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Wiping away sweating tendrils of hair, he yells out orders. Boots scraping over walls of stone, he raises his sword high. Confronting the enemy, he slices the blade. His body sometimes complaining, he doesn't pay heed. It is with precision, not wayward waving, he strikes again. When it hits, when it connects, he wastes no time watching the blood flow. Another axis is at its heels. Another to fight through. And all the while he directs with newly learned full battle planning. One thing can be said of all this venture. He is growing stronger in it. His fear sometimes even entirely fades, before it shivers for evil seconds at his skin. He cannot allow it to haul away his motivation. He will not let it keep him from killing this next man if need be.

War is not a gentle sport. It is never giving, but always taking. And war is what he has endured and led for the last reach of over 100s of days, nearly a year. It is for one purpose that in his rare weak moments, he wonders if can be achieved. And then he remembers his king. He remembers to not let him down. To not let his kingdom down. To find her. The one who from their earliest days together, teased him mercilessly. The one he misses deep in his heart. This is his mission.

To

Bring her back…

Home.

The opportunity hisses. Grimacing tightly, goal within steel mind, he hears his victim's awareness. One last scream for life. One beg of mercy.

Driving the sword into the mortal flesh…

The trailing crimson liquid sputtering onto the metal gleam…

He gives none.

He is Prince.

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"A moment of your time Sire?"

The question is asked by a man of middle age with dark strands of longish hair. As the king's son is now so busy with the mission, this man's task is to prep new ones.

"Of course. Enter Syril."

Dressed in gleaming chainmail past a dusty brown tunic, the man nods with gratitude. "Thank you Sire."

"Well get straight to it. What is the news? Are they ready?"

It should be maybe a few dozen days before the forces return. The king tries to not hold onto that day with too much hope.

"They are gaining in strength Sire. I think with the addition of days to come, they will be better prepared."

Pushing backward the tail of his long black coat, the crowned king grimaces with dissatisfaction. "Syril, you are being rewarded handsomely for these men to be fighting machines. If you cannot handle that, perhaps I should find another."

The man looks unhappy and a bit nervous at the rough reply, but he simply nods his head.

It is a simple known truth. What the king wants…

The king gets.

Camelot has been attacked for enough fingers of one hand. Many of its walls are bruised and burned. Victims linger in the temporary healing rooms. Deaths are too abundant to count…

But the king's command is all that matters.

His own life and those of any other than the king's own, have no worth during a time of war.

"I will train them better Sire." He lowers to his knees, bows his head with solemn promise. "I give you my word. They will be ready."

"Good. See to it that they are."

The king is never impressed by kneeling. It is custom and expected. All that matters to the crowned man of solidly graying hair is that the mission is fulfilled. Lives can be lost.

As long as they are not linked to the heartbeats of those he loves.

"You may go."

The man departs, reprimanded, weary…

And focused.

Camelot is at war.

If he does not do his job fruitfully…

He will be at war for a new position.

The king's mind wheels with memory after Syril's departure. It is of the last time he returned.

Without her…

"Arthur…Son…

You did not find her?"

The boy, the man he is becoming fully now, has a scar at the side of his cheek. His blonde locks of golden sun are stained with dirt. His tunic is ripped and his stance is half wearied. Still, he raises his head with firm maturity in his voice.

"No Father. We did not find her. We only came back because once again…

The men are few.

Too many…

Dead."

The king frowns.

The son is exhausted within physical and emotional. He dare not show it though, not to the king.

And yet the king has raised the boy all alone, excepting nursemaids. He knows sometimes too well his son's moments of strength gone. Caringly he lifts arms to the boy, holds at him.

The son closes his eyes. Prince is a burden of thorns.

The embrace, though delivered with firm heart, is short, and not affectionate enough. The king is not a man of continued emotion. The son has rarely felt his embrace at all. He is accustomed to lack of feeling. He barely knows the graying haired man's touch, beyond a sloppy slap on the back.

"We must find her Arthur."

We? The son might inwardly ask, but not voice. "Yes Father. We will. I…

Will."

The father seems satisfied with that. He does not fully realize the son is near falling to the throne's chair, needing rest.

The son's need does not matter anyway. He will not collapse until he has found privacy. Until he is away from the man who raised him to be with no weakness.

"Good. I know you will Arthur. I know you will not let me down."

The son nods with a slight smile to his lips, one of hope. As he leaves the room, it fades…

Into a wayward injured grimacing walk.

The king is pleased to have his son home. The mission will continue though.

In days enough of rest, and with new troops to aid, his son will again ride away.

Fight the war…

The memory leaves the king to wring his hands anxiously.

"Come back home Arthur.

Come back home…

With who I need to see.

Bring back Morgana."

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Her days for nearly a year now have not been what they used to be. Before, along with her castle tasks, she served one woman, one…friend. She descends the palace's rounding steps with just delivered tasks. Even with her mistress gone, her moments of toil are no less, perhaps more. She has no intention of complaint though. Simply pulling back her wayward dark curls, she keeps on with her duty.

In the day it is mostly the menial. By night it is the vital. As she heads down the hallway and out the doors to the courtyard, she notices it continue as it does every hour of the day, sometimes into the dark of night.

"UP…UP…hold…UP. Strike. Strike. Strike. Learn to keep your wrist steady, to lock it when necessary and to swipe when threatened…"

Pause. One who is not learning fast enough.

"No…not like that. As I said, hold steady. Do you fear? Leave the fright at home. It will get you killed. I want to see men of ferocity. You must be like an uncaged animal, but with discipline. You must make the sword an extension of your own limb. You must be bound to it. Now again…

STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE.

Picture your enemy, filthy rat of ugly black…and STRIKE HIM DOWN.

STRIKE STRIKE…"

She listens to it continue, the heavy monotony of killing. These men do not readily know the flames of battle, and yet soon enough they will feel its tickling embers.

Beyond these already injured castle walls, hurt by sudden attacks of those who do not like having war declared on them, are those who now fight. Is…

He.

She wishes for his welfare and aches for her lost mistress.

Damage surrounds her as she moves steadily, but memory whispers of a simpler time, of girlish fun…

"Come on Gwen!"

"No, I cannot. Morgana it is not right."

The beautiful dark haired girl, with locks of silken ebony, shakes her head with dismissal.

"Oh come on, of course you can! It's been torridly hot the past days! Come take a refreshing dip with me in the stream. No one will find out."

Emerald eyes flicker with idea. "I ORDER you to."

The handmaiden stares for a short moment before shaking her head. It is just like her mistress to surprise by fighting against royal expectations and protocol so fiercely. It is part of what she loves and respects of her, even as inner conscience reminds that discipline should be followed.

Handmaidens are not allowed to show much of their personality, wants, or desires. They are meant to only serve one purpose: make life more comfortable for those above them.

Morgana is different in that way though too, rarely giving Gwen harsh tasks, and never treating her with the rudeness that someone else, is well known for.

Still, Gwen hesitates. She has much work to do at the palace. If the king ever found her cooling off in the stream, he would relieve her of all her duties and send her away.

Of course Morgana would fight fiercely against such, and most likely, win. The king adores her mistress.

"Morgana, you know I cannot."

Just turned seventeen, Morgana laughs wickedly with no ill will. She loves Gwen as much as if she were her own sister. Of course there has to be a division because Gwen works for her, but it is minimal to barely there. Morgana sees no reason she can't be affectionate for someone she has considered her dearest friend, especially since the painful days of her father's untimely demise. She does not care if other ladies treat their handmaidens differently. She knows how hard Gwen labors every moment of the day, if not so much for the work she gives her, for the duties the king puts upon her.

"Come on Gwen! You're sweating awfully through your dress! I know I was in mine! Come into the water.

Don't forget…I made it an order already. If you do not listen, I will just have to tell…

The King."

Gwen actually rolls her eyes, as still a shiver rushes through her. The king's hardness she does not relish being around. His ways of fiercely/crudely keeping order are ones she questions as she now is fifteen years old. It's something in those eyes of near gray blue steel that makes her uncomfortable.

He would never tolerate what Morgana is suggesting they do, but…

Oh, Morgana is so insistent and it is a very uncomfortably warm day.

The handmaiden looks down at her dress of burnt red orange and white with one last bit of indecision, before pulling away its apron with half defeat, half pleasure.

Morgana watches with a pleased smile, adding quickly, "I was only jesting of course Gwen. I would never put you in trouble with him."

Shucking away her dress next, leaving a sheath that covers up enough adequately, Gwen timidly enters the water, before quickening her step. Her mistress is right. The stream's tiny little waves feel refreshing against her sun dripped skin. She makes her way to the other girl, her mistress in a much finer sheath and silky slip.

"I know you wouldn't milady."

Morgana nods her head, complaint gritting out of her mouth, as finally her handmaiden is out of that dress of simple linen. "He can be so cruel sometimes, judging people unfairly just because of his obsession with magic!"

These outbursts are not rare, and yet Gwen still wonders about them. After all, he is king, and he mostly treats Morgana like she is prized possession. "You can't feel too ill about him?" Gwen inquires quietly.

Morgana's eyes flash with something obscure, before she shrugs. "He has taken me in…by obligation of course. I do not always agree with his ways, but I cannot deny either his presence sometimes means so much to me."

Gwen's expression is sober, but she carefully says nothing.

No need to, as Morgana's playful glint comes back to her emerald eyes. Lifting her hands, she swirls the water in a splashing wave toward her handmaiden's front. A wet challenge.

"Ah!" Gwen lets out at the rush of coldness before spontaneously splashing back.

Morgana reacts with laughter and a quick turn of her head to avoid the bulk of the spray.

Soon enough the girls are engaging in feisty fun…

They splash like longtime friends.

The day of sun forked heat makes it so not out of the ordinary. The shallow chilled water is soothing to parched skin.

Beyond is one who is not thinking of play. Sword buckled at his side, wearing newly adjusted gleaming chainmail fixed for his continuous growth in height, steel armor plated over his shoulder, he pushes through the pine needles and thick foliage. Heavily heeled boots scraping at the dirt path, his ears prick at the noise beyond nature. Weaving through another smattering of trees, the sound grows louder before he takes it all in.

Quickly his set expression turns to one of wry amusement, his blue eyes filling with playfulness as he shakes his head.

They are waist high in the water, but some of it is dripping from their upper bodies as obviously they have been playing around in it for some time. Feeling the sun hit hard at his temple, he grimaces as a drop of stinging sweat forms under his brow. Calloused fingers wipe it from his hot skin, the day one of those that elicits sweat too freely, the fingers so rough from hours of training.

For now he still is in the follow-up position of that training, but soon enough he will lead. It matters little though, his yet to lead stance, when those who are physically above him rarely deign to challenge. They never forget he is the heir of destiny to one day become King of Camelot.

That feels long in the future though on this hot bothersome day.

For the moment his interesting finding is foremost in his mind. He almost wants to shuck off his own clothes and join in the silly frivolity to escape the rude blaring sun.

Almost.

He opens his mouth, letting out a voice that is finally set to what it will be in manhood, all those awkward patterns of high and low fully gone, thankfully. Ups and downs of boyhood could sometimes be downright embarrassing.

"Having fun, are we?"

The frolicking girls let out a holler of surprise. Morgana recovers first, rolling her eyes as she realizes who has interrupted their fun. Sure the prince of Camelot may have golden hair and sky blue eyes, but he still can be such an irritating bother. Bringing her hands up to the top of her body with pretend modesty, nothing much for him to see, and after all, he is quite silly, she waves her hand with hard direction.

For years now she's watched men twice his age become intimidated by the boy who will one day be king, but even if his looks are somewhat appealing, SHE does not scare so easily.

"Arthur! Do you have nothing better to do than turn indecent eyes upon a pair of girls wanting to cool off in privacy?"

The chastising comment makes his teeth grit against sun blistered lips. Fie awful hot day and awful girl too. He gets enough order and command from his hard-to-please father. He doesn't need to take it from her, no matter how much the boys his age, positioning for future knighthood, strive for her attention.

Maybe he does too…well…sometimes.

Before he recalls viciously how irritating she can be.

Morgana is always with the clever lazy comebacks.

Well HE has duty.

Turning away from her, with strong ignorance he focuses instead on the girl past, with those wild dark curling ringlets. "Wasn't even looking for you anyway Morgana so don't think so highly of yourself. Came to get your handmaiden here. The king wants to see her."

He does not mention the girl's name, even if he knows it well enough because she has served Morgana for most the years of his childhood. He of course does not need to. Servants don't require any kind of acknowledgement by name.

And yet she is perhaps not the usual servant, by luck really. He knows Morgana treats her extra special as she considers the girl her friend.

Odd.

He has never considered any of the bumbling servants who have traipsed through to serve him, and skittered away throughout the years, anything close to a friend. None of them have had a sliver of a backbone and mostly proved to be downright dull.

This girl though, one thing he can say about her in the years she's lived in Camelot, she has some spirit.

Gwen, hearing the title of king, wastes no time. A tight gasp past her lips, she rushes through the water and on bare damp feet races over the dirt ground. A loose stone covered with slippery particles of nature stunts her progress, causing her to trip and fall to the ground on her stomach.

Arthur's eyes widen as the girl lands with a hard jolt, only a few feet away from where he stands.

Seeing the horrible fall, Morgana calls out angrily.

"Could you be more terrible Arthur? Scaring Gwen like that!"

She lifts at her shift to move more easily.

The prince watches the handmaiden for a second more than he means to, noticing that she does not seem hurt, just maybe embarrassed.

"Have you no manners Arthur? HELP her up!"

Arthur's ire rises at Morgana's fierce order, noticing how SHE'S barely getting out of the water as she complains about him. Always telling him what to do!

"I was going to!"

He was, really. Sure, she may only be a servant, but she at least doesn't treat him like some insolent child. Squatting down halfway, he brings out his hand. "Here…"

Gwen lifts her head fully, looks up at the offered help, with what she swears is a hint of a smile past his chapped lips.

Feeling her fingers come to press against his own, soft except for the scratches of her hours of work, not perfect, kind of like his, Arthur pulls upward until she is standing in front of him.

The prince eyes her for a moment. He knows that Morgana's handmaiden has been living near the castle for years now in a tiny ugly little house. He's passed by it enough times during sword training and hunting excursions and so he can assess well enough that it is not much to look at. Especially not when compared to the majestic castle that he lives in, including his own luxurious personal quarters.

She's wearing them now, tiny colorful flowers. They're somewhat deceptive, making her look like her worth is more than just some lowly servant girl. Her skin is darker than his own, definitely sun touched. Her face is a bit peculiarly shaped, but it's not unflattering, to the contrary somehow.

Her hand is still in his. Feeling a touch of awkwardness, Arthur lets go.

Feeling his fingers move away from hers, Gwen can't yet open her mouth to speak, fearful she will simply babble like she sometimes does in the presence of…

Ah, she has been in her lady's service for a long time now and so too has been in near proximity of the prince many times. Little have they spoken to each other than formal courtesies she has issued, and formal nods from him.

She knows enough to remember him as a young child and see the steady maturing of his appearance with each coming day. His face is defining to deep chisel. He's definitely much taller. He is almost handsome with all the gleaming strong chainmail and man-size sword hanging at his side, replacing the boy's one from his younger years.

Heat, not totally begotten from the sun, rises over her cheeks. Something not produced of the solar power above sends quivers to her stomach as she manages to speak now without embarrassing result.

"Thank you my Lord."

Quickly her mind recalls that even if he is almost handsome, he too is a bully, one who yells at his revolving servants regularly with boyish rudeness. The quiver resolutely dulls.

Arthur nods authoritatively before he notices it. Is that…anger edging at her lips and dark eyes? It surprises, making him respond hastily.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you. The king just wants to see you because…he was going to tell you to take over for one of the ill servants. That's all."

The apology is unexpected, but appreciated. She knows one day he will be king, and to her a king must have enough self worth to respect, believe in, and care for the people, without embarrassment, without cruelty. It is what will make him strong and just; at least secretly she hopes so. There have been a few times she has felt outward kindness and honest humility from him that succeeds obnoxious discourtesy. She wishes for it to grow more.

"I'm not in trouble?" She asks with a hint of fear, noticing how his eyes have softened to the bluest sky void of clouds.

It tugs automatically at his lips, a gentle smile, even with the sun's glaring.

Of the large amount of servants tending to the palace to keep it well running, this girl is probably one of the best of Camelot. He has only seen her shirk her duties once, and that was because she was sick with stomach illness.

"No. You're not in trouble."

Gwen smiles with relief.

She is standing in front of him in just her shift, but the day is hot enough to not make her shake. It's a simple shift, probably made of some raw material, not as fine as the ladies of the court would have. Of course it's not like he sees ladies in their shifts at all anyway. His eyes lower for a fast moment. It is wet…the shift…

He clears his throat, looking away quickly.

Morgana continues her complaint, his weak apology insufficient. "Sorry is not enough Arthur! You should be ashamed, scaring Gwen so! And improperly spying upon us, you're terrible!"

That makes him roll his eyes and remember why he often spends more time perfecting his sword swing than chatting up girls. At least swords don't have flapping mouths.

Arthur turns to the handmaiden flatly.

"Well you'll want to get dressed quickly and-

Gwen is already moving past him, lifting at her dress and bringing it over her shoulders, uncaring that her shift is still a bit damp. You do not make the king wait.

The prince shrugs at his task completed and, with no other indication of either girl, heads back the way he came from.

Gwen wonders. Pulling her dress's hem down all the way to her feet, she steps forward quickly.

Feeling something catch at his arm, Arthur opens his mouth firmly. "Morgana, you've had your-

Turned around to see her, the small hand shyly moving away from his tunic, he realizes it is her instead. The handmaiden.

"Yes?"

His voice is harsh and his eyes have lost some of that cloudless blue, but at least he seems to be listening. She's not sure why she had to stop him, but now that she has his attention…

"Why did you come to tell me? Another servant could have done so or a guard. Why did you deliver the summons yourself Arthur?"

"I was in the room when the king made his wishes known. That's all. Told him I'd do it myself…

Guinevere."

He says her name.

Her given one.

Kind of like how she stated his.

She stares. He is sweating from obvious sword practice. She knows that usually he takes his bath right after because she can often hear him yelling at his servant to prep the water hot enough.

Yet here he is.

"Oh."

The smile sneaks upon his face again. A curl of her dark hair is tickling at her cheek. He thinks of lifting a hand to remove it, before he wonders at the peculiar thought. Smile frozen, he gives her a simple royal nodding gesture, before turning on his heel.

Gwen stays, watching the solid form of his retreating back until the trees conceal.

Getting out of the water to dress, Morgana startlingly lets out, "You're blushing!"

Gwen shakes her head furiously. "No…it's just hot milady."

"Yes you are! You cannot honestly…" Morgana gestures to the path of the departed figure as she finishes with her blue gown.

Remembering his hold on her hand, Gwen denies it. He is still a bully. "Of course not! Our positions are too different to begin with and I know well…that you…well…"

Morgana's mouth opens wide. "OH AS IF I COULD…Gwen! He is such a silly boy! I would NEVER like Arthur!"

Gwen's look is disbelieving. "You say that milady, and yet…"

Morgana rolls her eyes, before bringing in with teasing, "I'm just sorry I even implied that you could like such an obnoxious boy! Better to make sheep's eyes at Peter."

Dressed fully now, they start heading through the weaving of trees, back on route to the castle as Gwen protests strongly. "I have never made sheep's eyes at him…Morgana!"

The other girl laughs before winking. "Well he's made them at you."

Gwen blushes. Of the servant boys, Peter is definitely one of the better looking ones.

"Now…THAT…is more my type…" Morgana gestures playfully at one of the most handsome knights training just yards away with the others.

Gwen lets out with shock, "Morgana, Sir Fredrick? He is five years older than you!"

Morgana lifts emerald eyes playfully. "So…and how do YOU know how old he is…GUINEVERE? Stupid obnoxious boy!"

Gwen has to hide her blush at the reminder, managing to counter…

Handmaidens and their ladies are not meant to converse like old friends.

But they are not the usual.

They are the best of friends.

"I heard it at one of the knights' inductions."

"Oh…sure."

"MORGANA!"

"GWEN!"

They laugh. They run past the knights with girlish giggles. They tease and taunt about good looking servant boys and much too old knights. They break all the protocol.

They are sisters…

Of spirit kindred.

Gwen breaks away from the memory, a tear tracing down her cheek under the approaching night's moon.

"STRIKE STRIKE…"

The cries of war continue.

But it is not the real one.

He fights that.

Fights it to find…

"Oh Morgana…

I miss you so."

Her.

.

.

"GET behind me!"

The sorcerer hears the fierce cry. He gladly takes the position of safety as once again he has lost his sword to a better prepared fighter. He's had many headache-producing training missions with the prince, but still he's kind of…clumsy at fighting. So much so that Arthur regularly looks out for him and uh…well unbeknownst to the prince, Merlin returns the favor.

A bellowing yell interrupts his thoughts as another dark suited man jumps out from the shadows to continue the war. Taking a swift look around, Merlin grimaces tightly as Arthur is forced to fight harder with the new foe.

This is where she is supposed to be, somewhere in this volatile thorn ridden kingdom. That is why they are here battling against an enemy that swears to give no quarter. That should be reason enough to be fearful, but the war's leader on Camelot's side is none other than Arthur Pendragon of course.

Merlin watches with satisfaction as the prince soon enough gets the advantage again. Even tired, as Arthur surely is after all these months of fighting, he swings his sword with daring challenge before pointed hair raising swipes. The enemy's not yet ready to give up though so Merlin ducks for cover as one of Cendred's weapons gets in just too whispery close to the top of his head.

Arthur volleys back angrily to prevent any flesh damage to either of them. Merlin dares lifting his eyes to the thin shredded moon above, so wispy this night it's almost like a dagger has shredded away most of its substance. Hearing the roar of battle continuing around him though, he quickly looks away and spots it. Might just be his solution allowing the prince to not have to be so much the protector for the moment.

Setting his feet to motion, his boots scraping over the rough land, Merlin makes a dive forward. He's forced to avoid the half dozen blades rising right above him in fierce battle, knowing that even the Knights of Camelot will not be looking for any wild servant to be scrambling over the ground. Just one more slide and he is close enough to touch it. Perfect. Well at least semi perfect. Still to this day the object feels kind of foreign in his hands.

"Merlin!"

The prince has noticed how far away he is now. Merlin calls back with reassurance as he juggles the long thing into control of his gripping fingers. "It's okay Arthur! I got it!"

Literally. The prince with a tight shrug (he has enough danger fighting back at him) looks away. Soon enough a man with black turban, the foe, is threatening Merlin, and yet now with no one watching that closely, he feels the advantage. Back up on his feet and lifting the sword, the thing he spotted when he dashed across the ground, the sorcerer returns.

In physical action he is always fumbling and unsure. As sorcerer he is confidently powerful. Eyes glow wickedly golden for a second, his voice hisses out the command, and the sword becomes a fiery torch.

With it burning hot, Merlin swings hard, finally feeling in control. The blade makes contact with the enemy's stomach. The man screams in horrified surprise. It rips through and…

Sorrowfully Merlin knows the blow has been fatal. The man falls backward with frozen astonishment fused on his face. Death's mortality leaves the killed avenger with eyes open wide. The sorcerer turns away from the hideous picture, the trails of thick curling blood leaking from the black tunic and the eyes that forcefully stare back…why.

His skin crawls as he remembers another face of wide opened eyes right before they closed. Long trails of ebony hair. Shock and surprise thrown at him. How could-

Morgana.

The king screams her name at night.

Morgana.

Arthur feels he did not do enough to keep Morgause from taking her.

Morgana.

The sorcerer handed her the poison, encouraged her to swallow.

Merlin falters at the awful returned image. It haunts him regularly.

She brought it up to her lips…

Choked as-

"MERLIN! BEHIND YOU!"

The fierce shout startles him.

"MERLIN!"

The sorcerer remembers the fight just in time. He counters against the threat with his usual mixture of fierce awkwardness.

Back to just the servant, being watched heavily by the prince now, he has little finesses. And yet he manages to scramble through the matchup with his life intact.

Arthur's look across the way is one of relief before the prince focuses more solidly on his own fight.

Merlin makes an effort to do the same.

War does not heed emotion. It doesn't care how troubled his thoughts are now and have been for the past year.

War simply kills.

Like he killed her.

And yet they search.

For what…

A body?

I killed her…

Merlin thinks morosely.

Sorrowfully…

I killed Morgana.

Before the peril to his own life takes over. And he once again fights to keep alive.

.

.

The king remembers her sparking emerald eyes. She is the jewel of the palace and now…she is gone.

He sometimes cannot function. He feels his mind going wild. Insane for her return.

It was years ago when he took her in, a promise to a friend who died in service to his king on the battlefield. The most painful recall is, after their return of less, hearing the girl call out of her father's absence. What happened?

She clawed at his wrists that night. She fought him viciously until her strength depleted, forcing her to shudder into his arms.

The man she wanted to hate. The man who became her protector.

Who sent her father to his…

He never meant it. Never intended it.

He feels it now, a glimpse into the mirror of the past, of a beautiful ebony haired girl inquiring so quietly.

Asking so painfully…

"Where is he?"

She is just a young girl, no more than ten. Her dark hair and pale skin already whispers of the beauty of future years. The slightly waving, but mostly straight hair is that of her father's. That of the man she asks of now.

The guards look apprehensive. They know the news the king has yet to give.

The girl, Morgana, stares. He is so quiet, too quiet. She is not sure she likes him. He seems sometimes like an awfully cruel man and he has a son who for lack of better description, gets on her nerves with his sword play and boasting. He thinks he's so fine with it and yet she has learned from the best. Her father is the fiercest knight ever to protect Camelot.

Where is he?

"Where is my father?"

The king nearly removes his crown. This moment should be intimate, not as sharp toothed as it feels. He sent him out and was nowhere near when it happened. It is only minutes ago they showed him the pierced body. He will not allow the girl to witness such a horrific thing. Years ago he made this promise. He never knew it would come to fruition. Now he must honor it. Goloris was the bravest knight he ever knew. He would risk his own life to protect Camelot and his sovereign.

And he just has.

"Morgana…"

The girl has practically been raised in the castle, in a nearby house of grand stature that most knights cannot afford, but the king has always showered upon Goloris the finest he can give. The house was his gift. The king loves his son, but this girl has always been special to him. She is so fierce like her father, so tough and…

"Where IS my FATHER?"

She asks the question loudly this time, not backing down from the king's stature. She is not easily scared of anything.

"Morgana…I am sorry."

Those are not the words she wants to hear. Maybe he is injured. It will not be the first time. It is normal in knighthood. She has nursed him before in such times, even with real nursemaids more than ready to take over the job. She always cares for him, because he is her one parent she knows of and loves so dearly. "Tell me. Where is my father?"

The king feels at the back of his lids. There are many years of dried tears hiding behind. Perhaps one day they will fully explode and he will break to his knees. He has seen much hurt. He has caused much hurt. He is now delivering the worst hurt. "Morgana…your father was my bravest knight."

His hands reach out.

The girl backs away like he is diseased. Her eyes are widened horribly. Her bottom lip, blood red through the pale white skin, trembles. "No…you…tell me. WHERE IS HE?"

She cannot agree upon any words. She cannot face the crowned man's morose look.

The king starts to bow his head, lower to his knees to be closer to the girl's level, but she does not remain near, still backing. Still escaping the bitterest truth.

"I am sorry…my dear Morgana. The wound was too deep. Your father…he loved you and-

There is an endless ringing in her ears. It is the dong of the bell that signals mourning in Camelot.

DONG

DONG

"No…" She pleads, her expression so mature for one so young.

"Morgana-

DONG

"NO." She demands.

The king starts to get off his knees. The girl is in turmoil. She is the daughter he has never had, but if he could have…

She'd be it. Goloris was his dearest friend, never afraid to tell him when he was wrong, just, loyal. He promised him if anything ever happened…

Morgana would be loved as his own.

The task is not hard at all. He has always cared for her so much because she is the child of his best friend.

His lost friend.

DONG

"NOOOOO!"

She screams. The bells are so horrible. She runs to the end of the hallway, but there is no escape. The heavy double doors are closed. The bells will not stop ringing.

DONG

DONG

She pounds her palms over her ears. She begs it all to cease. She crumbles to the floor.

DONG

DONG

"Noooooooooo…"

She begs whatever gives life.

The king closes his eyes, finally the tears finding his cheeks. He has grieved his friend. Now he must help the daughter.

Removing the crown, for it is harsh and commanding, and pulling away his cape, for it is regal and stiff, he makes his boots as quiet as can be, carefully walks to the girl.

DONG

DONG

She is shaking. Trembling into pitiful circles of no escape.

The king holds at her arms. As soon as he does, it begins. Her barrage.

"LET ME GO! GET AWAY FROM ME! LET ME GO!"

But he does not, even as her small hands hit and make contact. Even as they scrape and scratch to induce bleeding. He does not leave her. He does not stop surrounding her.

DONG

She breaks underneath hands that are too firm. She pleads up to his face because kings are supposed to make anything happen. "Please…my Lord, bring him back. Bring back my father. Bring him back to me…

Please!

Bring him ba…"

He holds her tight, brings her into his arms because he cannot bring the man back. He can only attempt comfort. He rocks her back and forth, hearing her shattering cries as his tears burn his unaccustomed skin. He cries to her cries.

And in the echoes beyond it continues.

DONG

DONG

Dong

dong…

Until it fades away to present day.

The king lowers his head. She must return.

Must.

.

.

It is quiet…

Except for the moans of the injured. He supposes those who have already fallen to their fate are luckier. At least they endure no pain.

"Sire…"

"Which ones?"

Dullness seeps through his voice as he listlessly watches the embers burning before him. He has too many nightmares now of fire, the relentless fighting king that leaves pillaged remains.

"Which ones?"

If his mood wasn't so dark he would smile at the so innocent bumbling question. If war was not their reason for being away from the castle he would laugh with wry familiarity. The servant has been with him for a few years now, better than any in the past who were within weeks or less dismissed. He must have some kind of rare talent to have lasted so long.

"Dead…which ones are dead, Merlin?"

The question is stark.

"Three…on the way back and when trying to fix up the wounds here. They were too deep."

The prince still does not turn around from his sitting position in front of the low burning embers, this one created purposely by hand without nefarious reason. His jaw lightly tenses before the mental calculations begin. Schooling was nothing he cared for, and yet made to learn by tutors his father sent for. The best. Only one really had much of a lasting impression, and so math now was his asset.

Or curse depending on how you saw counting the dead.

"That's not too many for our mission. We'll ride out again tomorrow. Face Cendred and his barbarians and any other who wants to challenge."

The words are delivered with no timbre of up or down. When war starts all are fiercely ready, angry and anxious. When war's deaths begin surmounting the battlefield is faced with dread, for no one knows what life will be next, if it will be their own. When war has become the hellish accustomed, all passion depletes and all that is left is monotone acceptance.

Merlin knows he should silence his mouth, and yet he cannot. It's been too long now. How many more deaths can Camelot endure? Every day, every night of this fight, there are too many red cloaked men of majesty slain. Eyes hang open in mortal riddance of the last horror-filled seconds before they succumbed. Maybe they go bravely as Arthur says, but is it also senseless? This war cannot go on forever.

Not for a woman who very well may be…

Dead by his own hand.

"Arthur…have you thought of it?"

"Thought of what?" The prince asks with irritation. If only Merlin would get right to the point. Instead the boy often nervously babbles for wasted minutes.

Merlin keeps hesitating.

What he is about to ask is forked with pointed hazard, much of it to himself. A single wrongly spoken word could mean mortal danger. It is the secret, one of building many, that he keeps from the prince, must continue to do so to keep intact his own life and preserve Camelot for its future. Standing under the hollow shadowed moon, the sorcerer asks the question as cautiously as he can. Perhaps if he doesn't mention her name it won't go too far.

"If maybe this is…with no…happy ending. If maybe…we're too late."

His limbs are burning from all the action of hours before, but still the prince quietly turns around. Merlin, per usual, is mumbling, but those last words are what prick at the hairs upon the prince's arms. Too late. Wrong question. Wrong assumption.

Merlin is less afraid now though than concerned, his master's face fully in view to him. The fire's flame makes it clear. The skin is pricked by lack of sleep and lines of growing burden. Time is not aging him, but battle.

"Arthur…" He whispers quietly.

Prince Arthur, as he is titled, pushes down upon the dirt ground with a slight grunt (this night he received a wound at his side, small, but bothersome enough) and rises to his feet slowly. It's partly on purpose. He doesn't exert himself too much when away from the battle, all so he can save his energy for the fight. These nights he sleeps very little, but he does allow at least his muscles to rest. As he stands fully it becomes apparent. Arthur is just a tiny fraction shorter than the servant. No matter. He makes up for it with brawn, as the servant is a scrawny scrappy thing.

It amazes Arthur often actually, like this night, how the servant somehow manages to scrape away with his life fully intact every time they go to battle. Tonight Merlin lost his sword and still he managed to get another one just in time to make a solid kill. It's just odd because whenever they do a practice round, the boy is plainly pitiful, whining and groaning. Actually even during the real fight, Merlin is so waywardly waving the sword that it's a wonder he even gets in a real strike. But he does…more than he probably should.

Odd as Merlin himself is. Odd and at times idiotic, like now, bordering on treachery even. You don't question the king. Well not if you're sane that is.

Shaking his head, Arthur forebodingly warns. "Watch what you say Merlin. We do this by the king's orders."

That should be enough, but Merlin has noticed it recently, how King Uther is completely out of sorts. It's like the loss of Morgana is driving the man into some kind of crazed state. What if the king is so upset that he's starting to give out commands that make no sense? Look at how he's sending his own son out into the heart of the battle, again and again. Each time they return without Morgana, he orders them back. It's almost crazy.

That time when the ghost of Tristan was conjured to life by Nimueh, Uther had not even allowed his son to fight by sword. Now he nearly thrusts his son into this barbed land for one reason.

None of this though, of course, can Merlin say. He still must be very cautious, sound respectful.

"I know that…Sire. It's not that I'm trying to question his orders. I just…"

Arthur sighs raggedly. Any other would stop it right there, but not Merlin of course. It's obvious he has a lot more on his mind. He's just too scared stiff to utter it. And yet Arthur is almost certain…he'll figure it out. Merlin does not have a very good sealer for his mouth. He opens it often without the kind of thought most people would go through.

Soon enough it happens as the prince inwardly predicts.

Merlin cannot hold it back anymore. Too much damage could come from the continuance of this.

"Arthur what if she is not even alive anymore? What if this is all some plot conjured up by Cendred and Morgause? What if it's a losing battle?"

The prince says nothing at first, his expression steel neutral.

Merlin stands across from him warily.

Maybe he has said too much. Maybe not enough.

It won't go away. It rings in his ears at night and no pulling of his scarf over his head helps. That creature, the dragon, Kilgharrah told him. He called her not Morgana, but the…

WITCH

Arthur's cold silence ends. He squares his shoulders with superiority. Merlin is lucky he only said this to him. If it was to his father, the boy could be put in the dungeons, maybe even flogged. Of course, Merlin would probably not be that dumb. That makes Arthur think of one apparent point. His father has inferred it enough, and even out rightly accused that his son is too weak. Arthur doesn't always get it. Why should weakness be tied into caring for the people? Ones like her, servants, are important. They keep the kingdom in prosperity. She even…

He closes his eyes for a second, willing away any thoughts of curling dark ringlets. He can't think of her now.

He needs to let his servant know that he is simply wrong. And that his suggestion is not welcome.

"Heed this well Merlin. We will not stop this fight until we have found her…

And are able to bring her back to Camelot…

Alive.

Understood?"

The prince's look is fierce. Merlin lowers his head, chastised and frightened all the same.

What if she can't be brought back alive?

"Yes Sire. Forgive me…for bringing it up."

The answer makes Arthur smirk just a bit. His youth even somewhat returns, succeeding all the gloom this war has brought. It's actually a relief to squabble like they did when Merlin first started serving him. Then he thought his life was burdened. Now he knows how easy he had it. His father has been right about one thing for certain. Being king is so much more than he once thought. Going to war has brought that home starkly. Now just for this second though, he can complain and buster about…

Merlin.

"Considering how many times I already have had to pardon you, no need to worry Merlin. Wouldn't expect anything less from an idiot like you."

"Nor I from a prat like you."

This is what he has needed. Arthur's mood lightens. His smile grows. And then he remembers. Duty is heavy. It can bring a man to his knees.

"Who…you never told me who, Merlin."

The question is unexpected. Merlin asks with confusion, having to turn, as he was just ready to depart. "What?"

"Who died tonight?"

No more lightened mood. It cannot last. He is prince. He will be king. This is his obligation. To know. Every name.

They have no time to lightly quarrel anymore. Merlin swallows at it sadly, with sickened thought. It lumps at his throat always, the names.

"Sir Petrus, Sir Thomas, Sir Victor and…Sir Fredrick."

The prince's ears lift at that last one. He stares at the servant for a second, before his face falls. Tightly he holds to the control of his emotions. It is almost as hard a battle as this war itself is. "Fredrick…ah…Morgana…"

Merlin hears the whisper. He doesn't get its attachment to her, but maybe it's something that happened before he came into service.

Arthur's eyes close. It is hard to speak the words of command, but he manages to utter them with little feeling…at least at first. "Very well…see to it that the horses are properly watered and make sure my armor looks half decent for tomorrow's ride. Camelot should look honorable next to Cendred's filth."

As he hears no footsteps, the prince opens his eyes and points. His patience is gone. He wants to be left alone. "Well go on Merlin!"

The servant asks it. "Did Morgana know Fredrick?"

Arthur wills the anger to make his voice fierce, but it is instead torn and unstable. It hurts. When it comes back to her it always hurts. He should have done more. It's all his fault. He wants to yell at Merlin.

He wants to fall into a pair of so familiar arms that he's been without for too long. Without her midnight eyes for too-

"Yes…she knew him…pretty well actually.

Merlin."

His name is delivered weakly. Merlin worries again, but knows he is being dismissed. Arthur doesn't want to talk anymore. He's a servant, and he has things he needs to tend to, what his master has ordered him to. It's a curiosity really. Sometimes Arthur can be so bullish and such the prat that he calls him. Merlin never even wanted this job when he was first 'gifted' with it by the king. Years since though, he has done it with honor and…respect…for Arthur has another side. He is brave and…a born protector. He always looks out for him, so much that Merlin now easily accepts his destiny to in return look out for the prince. To ensure that man becomes…

King.

"Yes Sire." He whispers quietly before he leaves the prince alone.

Arthur nods his head, turned around again, facing the fire once more. Perhaps he should be satisfied with those departing words, but sometimes the growing distance of rising authority can make him linger for days of old, before he slaps his mental hand upon that foolish thought. If Merlin is looking up more to him, he is still comfortable enough to call him a prat, while the former shows Merlin realizes the prince is getting closer to what he is destined to become.

At least he hopes it shows that. In his most vulnerable moments Arthur fears if he will truly be strong and just enough in his duty.

It is all in the future though. For now Arthur is once again left alone to sit at the fire, slowly lowering his legs back to that resting position. They ache some. He ignores any kind of pain when he is on the battlefield. He only allows it here in times of quiet. His mind though is ringing. That name won't vacate.

Fredrick.

Morgana.

Usually, lately, his brain is filled with strategies and plans of fight. Now though, that name brings back the past. He recalls a time of youth, before Merlin even. In that remembrance is a sword battle's challenge…

"So, ready to take me on Arthur?'

He rolls his eyes as nearby the little servant girl sits watching, hands tensely clasped. She should be frightened for her lady, even though he has no intention of taking on said lady's challenge. "Knock it off Morgana. You know I'm not going to fight you. Simply lose anyway."

"Yes you would lose Arthur." The lady turns back to the observing handmaiden, winking her eye with playfulness. The handmaiden can't help but smile too.

Arthur grimaces tightly underneath a mutely clouded day pushed through depths of the forest's surroundings.

Morgana's been living at the castle now for almost two years. She's about twelve, he's eleven, and the servant girl is ten. Morgana of course came to stay with them after her father's death, the man having been a decorated knight who he knows his father was terribly fond of. With her came the maiden who has been in her service for years he guesses, not totally sure.

"I didn't mean ME…I meant you!" He rails back at her misunderstanding, realizing belatedly it was completely intended. Looking past her, he notices again the half smiling, half tense handmaiden sitting upon a fallen log. He turns away from her, back to Morgana. A boy still, he doesn't find girls all that fascinating, more like a prick in the skin. Blech.

He'd rather use his sword against a real knight, but his father is still insisting he get better control before he fight that hard.

Shrugging now, Arthur preps to go past. Enough of this. He'd rather be with the knights even if he can't fight as fiercely as he'd like…yet.

It is as he is doing so a gleam of metal hisses surprise. He has barely a second to volley back. "Morgana!"

Even her handmaiden gasps.

But Morgana just grins with competitive edge. "What's wrong Arthur, did I scare you?"

"No!" He yells back with boyish anger.

Morgana simply laughs, an understanding of swords and how to manipulate since she first had considered thought. She smartly uses Arthur's anger to coax him.

The prince doesn't like being compared to anything cowardly. It's with reluctance, but pride wanting to be kept intact, he takes up the challenge.

The handmaiden watches their hard play/battle with tight gasps and calls of encouragement to her lady. As they come back against the log she is sitting upon though, knitting a sweater for her lady so busily, she clasps it tightly in her hands and scrambles away.

It's a fierce fight, a sort of fun one Arthur supposes. Morgana at least is not like most. She doesn't shy away from the fight just because he is the young prince. She is an almost equally matched opponent. Almost, because of course she is just a girl. He can beat her easily. Just have to-

Ah! A strong quick move by her. He has to use his wits to give back a furious enough blow.

A new voice interrupts. Arthur barely pays attention to it, but Morgana certainly reacts. She actually lowers her sword some. Arthur laughs at the girl's weakness and strikes hard…well hard enough to get in a good shot. He's just conscious enough to not hurt her.

It's with that move Morgana starts to drop the sword and the person with the new voice catches at it, giving in a solid blow. It knocks the prince's sword away from his surprised hands.

The new person has lived within royalty long enough to know what protocol should be observed, as he is about five years Morgana's senior and six Arthur's. "Pardon Sire. Just don't think you should be hitting so hard at a girl."

Arthur starts to open his mouth in reaction, but in comes Morgana's girlish laugh, the nervous one she seems to cleverly bring in when needed. "Oh Sir Fredrick, thank you. At least you have manners, unlike Arthur!"

Angered exasperation fills the prince's youthful face. "I'M not the one who wanted to fight in the FIRST place!"

"Humph." Morgana lets out dryly. "Of course not. Knew you would lose. In fact I think I won!"

Arthur rolls his eyes with disgust. Morgana is making eyes at Sir Frederick like he is something so-

"My Lord…"

Feeling feeble fingers press against his arm, Arthur turns around to see the ringlet haired handmaiden handing him his sword. In her other hand is the knitting job still. He fights back his rushing anger and lowers his hand to the sword. He feels just a bit calmer. He even finds an inch of politeness. "Thank you."

She smiles slightly and walks past to be near her lady.

The 'dangerous' moment past, Sir Frederick, with a gallant look to Morgana, and a respectful one to the prince, leaves them all.

Arthur hears Morgana sigh. He snickers at it before countering. "What did you mean you won? I WON. You dropped the sword!"

Morgana expertly sheathes the sword she had just dropped minutes before back into her belt, before coolly turning to the disgruntled boy. So easy to rile him up. So fun sometimes! "Ha, I dropped it on purpose. I would have won…fair and square. I think I bested you today Arthur Pendragon!"

"In your dreams Morgana!"

Her face shadows at that.

His own darkens too. He shouldn't have said that. When she first came to live with them, she had nightmares every single night for a year. Sometimes she'd allow his father to deal with it, but mostly she'd only take comfort in her handmaiden's presence. He remembers hearing her scream out the first month of nights. Later he'd get so used to it that many times he'd sleep through. He knows though they had to be awful. He's had his own restless nights.

At least he has a father to help him with that.

She has…

"Sorry Morgana." He actually touches at her shoulder. She is an annoyance, but also he sometimes reluctantly likes her presence. It's a bit like having a sister he supposes, and not.

Face paler than its usual whiteness, bringing out the rose of her bottom quivering lip that tries to bravely cover, Morgana nods her head. Admits something. She goes out once a month to see him, to sit at his grave and talk to the father she no longer…

"I miss him."

Her voice is suddenly weak. Arthur is often surprised by Morgana in the strangest way. She has so many stark emotions. She changes from them so swiftly it's almost frightening. He doesn't know any other kids who are such a contrasting way. Not even her handmaiden who is usually peaceful if anything and…muted he supposes. Quiet and dutiful.

Morgana seems so ready to cry now that he reaches out his hand and squeezes hers. There are no strong words though. Just.

"Yes…I know…"

Morgana allows it before she pushes at his shoulder. "Dragon-knight or lady! You're the dragon! Come on Gwen, you play too!"

Arthur laughs with wryness, but gives chase anyway. He has little doubt she's going to continue to claim she won today's fight. Of course she's completely wrong!

The handmaiden tries to protest, but Morgana just grabs at her hand, forcing the girl to run with her.

Moments later the kids are all descending to silliness and fun. Even as the handmaiden is the most reserved one about it since she is of lower class, she does fit in. The prince just as easily catches her to add to his 'dungeon'.

And so it goes back and forth. They run and give chase. Painful memories are forgotten. The sword fight is left alone until at the game's sweating end, she reminds of her claimed victory.

And he argues back defiantly how wrong she is.

While the handmaiden returns to her knitting.

Kids.

One of them such a thorn in his side.

"Morgana…"

Arthur whispers again quietly, hands tightened against each other. He's no longer that boy. He's a man now who should be sleeping, but he can't find any.

Not until…

He finds her.

"Morgana."

.

.

Another day fully over, under the wispy moon she enters her little cottage home and once again shreds away her dress. Back in her father's old work wear, rolled all appropriately to fit well enough, she scoots through her back door and commences forging.

Just as she did the night before and the one before that…

Minutes turn to hours as another sword is fully crafted.

She wipes away until its tip gleams. Then holding it and the others, she returns to the interior of her home. Stopping at the kitchen table, she lays them down, and sees it just beyond. Since that day, months ago, it has been pulled over the same hook.

She steps forward to delicately lift it away. Her skin tingles at the touch of the rough/soft blue material. Coarse and smooth, it caresses and scrapes at her cheek, just like his personality. Tough and sweet.

Too many hours ago. Too many weeks since she has heard his voice…

"Guinevere?"

Under a half buried sun, she turns to the deep timbre, knowing who it belongs to instantly. "My Lord…" She bows. His face is wearied and harshly scarred at the moment.

"Have you seen Merlin?"

He asks, holding a red tunic, a quilted gambeson, chainmail covering, and his heavy armor in his slightly fumbling hands. All the gear is very heavy.

She takes some of it from him and shakes her head. "No. I'm sorry."

He grimaces tightly, unsatisfied. "Where the…is he? I swear Merlin is the most ridiculous servant sometimes. He's supposed to be helping me with my armor right now, but of course he's nowhere to be found-

Blue eyes roll with frustration.

She cuts through, not meaning to so harshly, but his words are not comforting underneath the fading day of hissing wind. It lifts his golden locks of hair to slap against his marred cheek. "You are already leaving? But you have been here no longer than a few nights. You are too tired, you…Arthur."

He smiles with appreciation, touches at her wrist since at the back of her house they are hidden well enough. He knows this is the best place often to find her and not be watched. He knows how to enter her house without being spied upon. He comes less often than he'd like though for her welfare.

Familiar are her stumbling of words. They have the touch of home. His mouth slants with a new ease. She calms him more than anyone. "It's alright."

She shakes her head feverishly. "No it is not."

She's right, but what can he say? How do you protest the king's orders? How do you rest when one is still so solidly missing? "Maybe not, but it's what my father wants and it's…I have to find her."

He whispers the last. She feels her heart pang. She doesn't want him to go and yet she prays every night that this quest will come out in victory for more reason than just his return. "I know, but Arthur-

He sighs, breaking through her conflicting ramble. "I have to find Merlin, get him to help me with this."

It is not right for him to leave yet. He has not had enough rest. He has seen too much death. He has put upon himself the horrific duty of telling those families…

Of their loss.

He needs some peace, but she knows he cannot go against his father's orders and that this is a war…

He feels he must fight. It's an important one. It's why she makes them. It's why…

"Come inside. I'll help you with it."

She leads the way.

He follows quietly, no argument. Her home is tiny, something he once thought ugly before he fully felt embraced by its gentling atmosphere, like her so peaceful.

He looks to the window that let in the shimmering sun the first time he kissed her, and smells all the fragrant flowers she picks. He sees the foods hanging from walls and the small bed he selfishly slept in before he realized it was her only.

The house is small, but charming, warm. It is filled of her, a caress to his senses.

She walks forward, wearing her white and turquoise dress, her dark curls half pulled back, midnight ringlets fighting at the flowered bonds like they often do. She stops at the kitchen table, puts down what she holds and watches him lay down his own load. She brings her fingers up, but does not touch, simply directs. "Does it hurt still?"

He lets out a wry tiny laugh. "Not as much as it did when it first happened."

She is questioning.

He continues. "One of Cendred's men. He got a swipe at the side of my face before I could move away. I managed to strike him down though. His wound was much worse. Death usually is that."

His words are dark. She frowns heavily at them.

Raggedly he sighs. The past months, over half a year, he's seen too many blood rivers. He's felt the gush against his sword too often. It's so different when the tip meets the heart than let's say a shoulder. It's so much more swampy feeling. Or maybe he's just entered too many swampy forests. Dull heated.

"I take no joy in it."

He whispers feebly.

She nods her head with reassurance. These are battles unlike any she knows he's encountered. Cendred is a barbarian. He has already invaded Camelot aplenty, his comeuppance for the war that King Uther brought to full fruition (after the broken treaty) in his desperate search for Morgana. These battles are uglier, angrier, and desperate.

Guinevere gestures with the red tunic and gambeson. He starts to pull away his blue tunic. Helping him with it as he lifts it upward, she feels his hands suddenly close over hers. Soon enough they let go, but they are seeking something vital.

They seek her.

His shirt half off, he can't bear it a second longer. He holds at the simple linen of her dress, at her slender shoulders. His parched lips shiver against her cool skin. Eyes close heavily. He lets out a shaken breath. He needs this. Needs her.

She hears no words, doesn't require any. Still holding at the red tunic and gambeson, her fingers find the bare of his back. She tries to comfort at the battle wounds she sees there. They are not as deep as the one on the cheek, but they are the reminder. She fights to not tear into cries at it. She holds to her strength and holds to him, feeling the roughness of his scarred cheek against her chin as his face lowers fully.

His foot slides forward. The motion brings his knee to rest between the skirts of her dress. He presses into her intimately, not wanting to scare, but relishing in the closeness that goes beyond polite.

She understands, doesn't push him away. She wants him just as near.

There is no kiss. They're too afraid to give them. They're too wearied. They're too mindful of everything they're forbidden to do.

It doesn't even come against skin, let alone lips. It's enough though to just breathe against each other, to push a knee past where it should go so it touches what it's not meant to.

It's enough to not talk or whisper consolations. It's just to be in the presence, to feel, to ache and to…

He doesn't want to let go. And yet a war is waiting for his return. He wishes he were a boy who could play silly childhood games of dragons, knights and dungeons. He wishes he could chase her through the tall grasses and surrounding pines until she becomes his capture.

She remembers a time of her own when he caught at her hand after she fell during one of those hot days and tiny escapes with her mistress from castle life. He had just begun resembling a young man then, even if he still was too much a bully. His voice hit its full rich timbre of adulthood. She wishes now she could catch onto his fingers and run with him to that lake…play…her mistress returned. All well.

But the wind coming through the window, hissing that duty needs to be recalled, will not allow any of it.

She pulls away just a bit before she can feel it.

Reluctance heavy, he departs her hold.

She nods her head. Moment over.

Childhood fantasies and dreams…

Laughed away.

Mouth set, he lifts his blue shirt until it's gone and feels her bring the red tunic, then gambeson down. It's the beginning of the barrier. Next comes the chainmail. She slips its solid weight down upon his body expertly. It restricts plenty. The last of course is the armor. She quietly requests that he lean forward against the table. He does and feels her precious fingers bind it down with assurance. She is so good at this, but then her father was the best forger of swords in the land. She is not at all afraid to hold one in her hand. It's something he inwardly admits excites him. She is a woman and so much more.

The armor is soon all in place. She fights to not cry at how handsomely brutal he looks as he stands fully before her now, in complete warfare attire. Reaching backward, she finds one that she has specially crafted, holds it out. "It's not a token, but it is more of necessity. Will you take it with you?"

He glances down at the metal gleam, smiles quietly before lifting his blue eyes to her so darkly midnight ones. "Was it you who forged it?"

"Yes." She answers, half bashfully.

He smiles even more, his finger brushing so quickly against her cheek that it is barely there, before he firmly answers. "Then I'll take it."

She smiles now too, feeling his hands free hers from around the object. Deftly he brings the tip into its sheath, slides it through with no shaking. Then seeing a few more past, he reaches out for her waist. "Keep some, alright? Don't give them all to us as I'm sure that's why you've been crafting them. It's appreciated, but keep enough to protect yourself. Cendred's attacks come so quickly by surprise sometimes…never know when they'll be coming to Camelot.

You remember how to use it, right?"

She nods her head soberly. "Yes…I've known for a while. Remember I had a mistress who…"

Her voice fades. He feels the ache he is sure she feels so solidly now. "I'm going to bring her back." His voice trembles.

She painfully brings her head up and down. It's too hard to think of not just her, but also him.

"I know you will. I have faith in you. We all do."

He smiles at that, remembering her using that last phrase once to cover her feelings for him. He is glad that now, since that time of coming back from the dragon, she has been a bit more open with them.

"Just be careful Arthur." She whispers, eyes and mouth earnest, delving for his safety.

"You too." He brings back, going to leave.

At the door though he stops.

She is watching him. She shakes her head as he seems to want to return. It is too much. She does not like goodbyes. They are too final. She does not want even the heat of-

He sighs heavily. Maybe when this is all over, when they have brought her back, and when everything returns to…

Whatever semblance of normal there is left…

He can feel the moist of her lips.

"Be well Sire."

She utters.

He knows that is his sendoff. He nods and walks out her back door, whispering so quietly only heaven hears.

"You too…

My Guinevere."

She looks down at it, sees how it's left, forgotten, the blue tunic. She can rush after him, give it to his rightful hands, but she doesn't.

She just lifts it into trembling fingers and holds it to a just wettening cheek.

"Come back to me Arthur…

Please come back."

She holds the tunic now as she did that day so many months ago, feels a sliver of wetness start to form against her skin. Her minute tears. She is so heavily into the emotion she does not hear the door part that she neglected to lock. She hears nothing until the voice deeply cuts through.

"What is that?"

She looks to the door. Scrambles to cover her emotions and what is on the table, in her hands. The crown is glistening against his graying hair. His coat is full and sweeping. His stance is one she never welcomes. Her…

"Sire!"

King.

.

.

Lifting the sword, the one her precious hands gifted him with, he calls out the battle cry to his holding army as another early evening of war commences. "NOW!"

They charge forward. They race over hills and banks of drifting dirt. He holds it tightly in his grip and right before approaching gives it a swinging lift. It is his customary signal for battle. It is his ease in fighting before he focuses hard. He hears the thundering of the enemy's horses as they are in full contact. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the servant doing his best, and yet being secretly guarded by some of the knights. His servant is idiotic enough, but also brave. He makes sure he is kept safe for that courage. When he can't watch for him, he has others of his men taking heed.

The fight is heavy and full of grunts of physical exertion, beyond screams of death. His sword's shining gleam too suddenly is dulled by darkening insides of human mortality. Still he fights fiercely and pulls out the metal from each falling body. He feels tips of the enemy's graze against his chainmail and sometimes the vulnerability of his bared wrist. One finds his hand and cuts away the flesh. He grimaces tightly, a short cry, before he does the man in. Then quickly, grasping a piece of his tunic, ripping it away, he uses it to bind his hand, swiftly.

Before another threat comes in. As he presents his own.

Underneath another feather thin moon.

War is no longer awful horror.

It is even worse.

Dull routine.

As a knight of his order is ripped away from his horse, he mourns barely a fraction of a second.

Goodbye Sir Mitchell.

Your death will be avenged.

As he wishes deep in his heart, past the mental steel of his mind for only one thing,

Her holding arms.

Her gentle peace.

.

.

The long leather coat slaps against the frail door and alder wood table as he saunters in as if he is and should be expected. It does not matter the home belongs to another. She is one of his many subjects. She should bow before him.

As she does now.

It is the before though that catches his eyes. If he is not mistaken she seems to have just hastily hid something from his view.

She watches his grand stature warily as it invades her most personal dwelling.

It would be easy to despise him she supposes, but she is a woman who has never relished in greed or anger. And she believes he does not deserve any emotion from her senses. If tomorrow this man died, she would not weep in anguish or laugh with joy. Although she would pain for the son, she would feel nothing for the man. It has been this way since he made that decision, since he ordered her father's execution. She feels nothing for him.

Nothing at all.

This is the most peculiar thing when her feelings for his son are entirely to the contrary.

"Can I help you Sire?" She asks it now with a nervous tremble, before feeling inward reproach. She should not be so anxious in his presence. With resolve she stands straighter, lifts her nose to even out her position, and faces him as strongly as she can, while maintaining that royal expectation of keeping her face half downward.

It is a hard balance.

The king's curiosity grows even more. Uther Pendragon has never known what is it to be poor or in peasant service. Like his son, he was born into royalty, has always enjoyed a life of luxury. Of course along with the golden riches are the harsh loyalties. For a time he fought strongly on the battlefield, though perhaps his son has bested him in that matter without his full knowledge. He is proud of his son, but also has concerns about him. He worries sometimes the boy is too weak inwardly to rightfully rule a kingdom. It is hindrance and perhaps asset of his mother, for the boy is so much more her, than him. Even in appearance, Arthur is strongly of the maternal.

This does not lessen Uther Pendragon's love for his son, instead maybe makes it more intense and at times painful. Being in Arthur's presence is sometimes like having Igraine speaking to him again with those ethereal eyes, and that is a comfort as much as a hell.

Uther shakes himself away from his intimate thoughts, wondering why they should even come in such literally cold and infinitesimal surroundings. This place has no warm familiarity to him. It is simply the dwelling of a servant, but there is to his grudging sense something different about this particular servant.

She has been in service to Morgana for many years now, including those prior to Morgana's coming to live in the castle. Even when the two girls were young, he noticed how easily they got along with girlish laughter and shared smiles. He knows that Morgana has never ordered the girl strongly to service, simply gently requested any wants. In return the servant girl has, without complaint of any kind, been loyal to the hilt. He remembers distantly even once the girl deep with sickness and yet not stopping her duties until Morgana complained strongly enough to him that the girl needed rest.

The girl is not much of that anymore, a woman now he'd dully surmise. He has never entered her house before, never cared to, and yet now he has almost wanted to do so. The orders he comes to give could have been issued to any guard or even Gaius, but he has expressly come to give them himself.

She is no obvious beauty, the handmaiden, nor unpleasant. Her eyes are dark and obscure, larger than maybe what is considered beautiful. Her mouth and nose are slightly out of proportion. And yet still she seems to emanate some tiny spark of interest with her deeper than seeming to be imagined voice and her tight dark curls of hair.

The king cares nothing about her looks though. A matured man who has loved truly only one woman, with rumored shamed liaisons he will not admit nor deny on the side, a man of many secrets, he looks for surprises of personality in people. He has seen such in the servant that tends to his son, a boy who bumbles in speech, barely coherent at times, but also has been fiercely loyal. And he has seen too…

Signs of this kind of surprise…in the handmaiden.

When the servant woman before him was taken in place of his ward he felt so grateful. Morgana was safe. That was all that mattered. If the handmaiden was slain, then so be it. Morgana could find another servant. Of course Morgana had railed against this, practically shouting out for her rescue. Then the oddest thing happened. His son and his servant actually rode out of Camelot to save the handmaiden. Oh yes, he knows. He has never revealed that he found out, but soon after the king put it all together.

He supposes his son did it for Morgana. Seems the most reasonable explanation anyway.

Its meaning, she is an important enough servant to have rescued, the handmaiden whose father he had executed.

Orders of such are ones he's carried out plenty before, a few times with members of the family fiercely retaliating, even screaming at him. That of course led swiftly to their just punishment. This handmaiden though never reacted in such a way. Not once has she treated him with a lack of respect for his decision to end her father's life.

That could be seen in two ways he supposes. One, she is too weak to counter, too respectful of authority. Two, she is beyond such anger, filled with peace and calm.

It is the latter explanation why Uther does not fully consider the handmaiden just inconsequential. It gives more reason for the direness of her rescue.

He is so silent.

Gwen does not know how much longer she can take it.

The king clears his throat. He has been staring much too long. He has things to do and luxurious quarters to return to, after he wipes away the dust that probably is now gathering upon his finely tailored coat.

"I am thirsty."

He says it with inward reproach. A part of him nags at why such a comment has even been made. He can return to his quarters for a much richer drink.

Gwen startles at the words, before jumping to action. She moves to the counter, finds some juice and pours it, her last. It squeaks out into the grayed cup.

Unsettled, she holds it out to him. Maybe it is silly, but she does not want this man drinking from her dishware. She does not want him in her house. Keeping her fingers as far from the cup handle as possible to extend it without dropping, she feels him take it from her. Biting at her lip, she looks away as he drinks.

What does he want?

The juice is thick and slurpy, not as finely blended as the drinks in the palace. He takes one unsatisfied sip before hankering the mug down.

Gwen grimaces. He asked for the last of her juice only to leave most of it wasted. She will throw out the left over drink and rub hard at the mug until it glistens with no reminder of who used it.

Is that a frown on her face of discontentment? The king scrutinizes.

Gwen busily looks away, feeling caught in her angered disgust.

Whatever it is, it doesn't last very long. The king tends to his business. "I came to make sure that Morgana's quarters are kept in fine order. She will be returning soon and-

His voice actually falters. Gwen hears the tiny shaking and looks up with curiosity she does not want to feel. In his eyes she sees a pain that is too familiar. The grays and whites seem even more abundant atop his head. He appears for a tiny second, frail. She has never felt sympathy for him. She has never felt anything for him.

But now…

"I miss her too Sire."

The words are simply honest. There are many things about this man that she abhors, but she knows too how greatly he cares for Morgana. It is why he is leading such a dangerous war, putting his own son, his heir, at the lead.

Uther looks up. The handmaiden's expression is lined with its own loss. She loves his ward. She cares for her just as much as he does, even if he pains to not show it that outwardly.

He is more of steel than that. He is king. He must show a strong front always.

His emotions are sometimes lately unraveling so fiercely, but he cannot display its weakness.

He misses his ward, but too he aches for his son's safe return.

It's silly to feel so much in this house that has no familiarity to him, that is so tiny and wretchedly cheap, but it is here now that the ache pricks. It is here his son's youthful face stresses his heart.

There are times he envies his son's gentleness that is bonded within that of Igraine. It is where Arthur is most her. The king is respected by the peasants, the servants. They revere and fear him. But Arthur, as much as they respect, he sees it often. They care for, love him. The nights of Arthur's sickness from the questing beast, they all held solemn vigil with such mournful faces.

Arthur has fully touched them.

He does not know how, but he has seen it before because Igraine did the exact same. She would walk among them, hold their hands, thank them so graciously and still manage to be strong and vital as queen.

Sometimes he envies them both, his wife how she did, and his son, how he now, has the love of the people, the adoration. Sometimes the king wishes he was just a little more liked, rather than feared.

But it never lasts long, such weakness. It is a pleasant state he supposes for his boy, but it cannot last. He will teach his son that this fragile frail bond will have to break someday. A king cannot be enforcing with it.

King is not meant to be loved by his every subject. The king's own father sternly taught him that. Kings must make decisions that horrify, anger and pain some. It is all about the kingdom's perfect running, not happiness of all, but order and justness. A king does not need to be loved, but he must be respected. Soon enough Arthur will learn that and build stronger walls.

Uther Pendragon can see no other kind of rule.

A kinder one would fail.

Uther shakes his head with hardness.

His ramblings in his mind have softened his spirit too much. He noticed something when he first walked in. She should explain.

"What was that you covered when I entered your house?"

Gwen startles at the question.

She thinks how that entrance was without invitation, but nothing strange about that since a king can enter any dwelling without invite. He owns his subjects. Or at least most kings she surmises think that way. To her a king needs to be mindful of all, including importantly those below him so that the kingdom prospers in peace.

They should not demand entrance and ask such questions of—

Questions…his question. A troubling one. She tries to deflect, fearful of what he may have seen.

"I will keep Lady Morgana's quarters in exquisite order until she safely returns…My Lord."

The king frowns. "You did not answer my question."

He of course so adeptly noticed. It is where he is sharper than his son, and where she has to at least be impressed by. Nervously flitting her hands, she thinks of how to cover. She does not know if he too spotted the tunic shirt that is now down upon the floor.

"Vegetables…Sire. I was only…washing them…when…you came in."

The king is quick to spot a lie. Pushing past the handmaiden, he stops at the table.

Gwen holds at her other hand tensely. He could not have seen…could he? Her palms fill with wet fear.

Uther lifts the material away.

Gwen notices with even more nervous glance how the booted feet of the king are just nudging against the fallen tunic.

She shivers as hard eyes turn back to her, darkly blue. Darkly accusing.

"These do not look like vegetables."

She is caught. Backing up against the wall, she shakes her head. This could mean time spent in the dungeons. She has only been in them once, well at least the cells. She has no wish to return to them, let alone the black as night holdings where her hands will be manacled. She is needed for so many more things.

They will remind too much of her father's demise.

"No…Sire. You are right."

"And so why did you lie to me? You know that is treason."

Her throat is icy. It feels like claws are gripping at her voice. Still, she tries to keep her head up, looks him as squarely as she can muster while keeping with the royal protocol.

"Yes…Sire…of course. I just…" She takes a deep breath, forces it out. "I just know you—

There are so many clever explanations she can give, but the truth is the one she holds to. "I only want to help them…Sire…our men who go out there and risk their lives every day, all through the night, to find our…"

She whispers the last painfully. "The Lady Morgana. I only have wanted to assist and yet I know how you allow none but the royal forgers to create these."

"So how have you assisted if you know that?"

"I have snuck them in."

The king lifts one of them, the swords. It is definitely not the most appealing, not an obvious beauty, and yet it is entirely made for one thing, purpose. It is forged for the perseverance of life, not glimmer. It is meant to defend and so it does not need to be beautiful for it feels an extension of the hand, not just a tool. It is easy to caress it for war, for it can be trusted. It can be valued, lovely in its duty.

It is as he flexes the sword in his hand, the king gets an odd feeling of remembrance.

"I've held one like this before."

Gwen looks up with confusion.

"I have only started to make them for this battle, Sire."

"No…it was a year or two ago. That boy, Arthur's servant, Merlin, he told me it wasn't made by the royal forgers then either. That it was created by someone else. I defeated the dark knight with that sword, keeping my son's life intact."

Gwen realizes now. It brings another strong emotion in, loss. She struggles to not expose it, not to this man. "I gave it to him. That one, if I'm not mistaken…was crafted by my father."

Her father. The king lowers the sword and stares. It's the most emotion he's seen from the handmaiden, heard in her voice. It is pure pain.

And for some reason…

It matters.

Morgana asked him once if he was sorry for what he did? And he admitted then with weak truth…he was.

Tom never really…

Deserved to die.

Not the way he did anyway.

Clearing his throat, a strange tickle there that makes his voice feel hoarse, the king lowers the swords carefully, with regard.

Gwen notices it now with wonder. It is almost gentle how he places it back down. It is almost kind. As he lifts his eyes to hers, she turns away, backs against the wall.

"Your lie could be seen for punishment."

Gwen nods grimly. He is not done though.

"Yet it was for at least noble reason."

She peers upward, those last words surprising.

The king continues.

"Morgana's return is what matters. And if there are swords that can make that return swifter, then there is no reason for them to be hidden. Your lie is punishable and so take heed it will not be tolerated again, but your work here…

Is appreciated handmaiden."

He does not just call her peasant or servant. He does not just leave out any kind of reference, making her a thing, an it. He calls her handmaiden…

Like it's almost of matter to him. He came here himself with his orders. He has found her in a lie and yet he is actually thankful for her work. He sees her swords beyond just look, but meaning, intent.

Who is this man? Is he the same who…

Executed her…

Shaking comes to her hands. She cannot respond yet. Her emotions are too twisting, contradicting. He is Arthur's father, but she cannot feel anything for him…

Can she?

It is a too still quiet. She seems troubled and unsure.

Uther feels this compelling to bring it all clear. "Keep making them. I will see to it that they are used for their purpose."

She does not think him a kind man or a good one. She has always been thoughtful of him though when speaking to her lady or her prince. This man matters to them both, but to her it has never been that way.

So why now is she truly grateful?

And a fraction understanding?

"Thank you Sire."

Her voice is soft.

That of a servant.

And yet oddly regal.

For a second he can see her as more. But it can never be a possibility. Royalty are ordained, is inherited.

And yet…

She did not fall to her knees and beg. She didn't cry out with fear when he exposed her secret. She didn't come out with some overly explained story.

She lowers her head with respect, but too she is not so humble to have no dignity. To be a poor beggar who has no courage.

There is something in this woman not seen in Tom's simplicity. She will always just be a servant in status and will live a life of the poor, but there is something beyond in her. Something of steel, and gentleness, intermingled.

It almost makes him smile warmly.

Almost.

He is king.

That is why he keeps it to himself as with a sweep of his coat he forges through her door to leave.

Just one thing before he steps out entirely.

"Be sure to close this better. Cendred's mean have invaded too often without enough warning. Wouldn't want them to steal the arsenal."

Nor the handmaiden.

A better forger than the royal setup.

He gives her no time to respond, quietly shutting the door behind, all his inner thoughts in secret.

Gwen makes sure the door is closed tight, but he has already made it so. She goes back to the swords on the table, lifts at the one that he…

Touched.

Before setting it down with a wrinkle to her brow.

Is this the same man? Is this her king who was just here?

Is there maybe more to him than-

She shakes it all away, wiping some at her hands. His touch. His hands on the sword she forged.

She picks up the tunic, tenderly holds it to her heart. She's just grateful she can continue to forge them.

She just prays for his return and her lady's.

.

.

Outside, right before entering the castle, the king bows his head for the same.

Perhaps…

They are not

So different.

The king and the handmaiden.

.

.

In sleeping dreams are the conflicting emotions of peace and guilt. Finally they are off the battlefield and the moans of the wounded are muted. There is consequence though too. It is a time when the mind slows enough to think of fond memories...

And less fond ones.

His brown frayed jacket his blanket, and his red scarf his pillow, the sorcerer sleeps half restfully, half restless. Almost beside him is the prince, too deep in dreams, finally catching slumber as a new day is just hours away. They are master and servant, not friends. Royalty is not meant to befriend its help. That matters little to Merlin though. He still considers Arthur his friend…

And a prat.

A justifiably royal one.

As much as the man irks him, he also makes the sorcerer smile, and fret.

For a few years now he's been in Arthur's service. Vividly he can still remember the night it all started, when he saved the prince from that witch and her flying dagger. Just the next day after the king 'honoring' him with his new position, he found himself in a role that irritated and baffled him…

He hurries along through the marketplace looking for her. If he's going to have to do this, then he needs help, lots of it. Searching through the scatterings of folk prepping their stands as it is just minutes past dawn, he excitedly spies her sweeping in front of her house. The home is small, but much more than what he is accustomed to, having spent all his life before his coming to Camelot in a poor village called Ealdor, no real bed, sparse bits of furniture, and tended-to crops the only resource to supply needed food. Now, living with Gaius, he not only has a bed, a room of his own, but also an amazing view outside his castle's tower window.

"It's Gwen, right?" He asks with a bit of nervousness, but mostly just necessity. Hopefully she can be his saving grace as it's probably precious moments away from when he'll be having to enter…HIS…quarters.

Startled by the voice, Gwen jumps, but then notices the friendly smile and reassuring hand.

"Uh…just me. Merlin."

Merlin. Her face brightens at the sight of the newest person in Camelot, someone she likes having around. "Merlin, I am so happy to see you!"

He grins. Perfect.

Feeling her cheeks reddening already, sometimes so awkward among the male persuasion, Gwen prattles on. "I mean, I'm happy to have you here…well not here in my home…at my home…I mean in Camelot, I mean because-

Merlin fills with warmth even more. Her stuttering is kind of adorable. He does need to get moving along though. "Gwen, I was hoping you could kind of…uh…well show me the ropes."

Gwen, dressed in her red and white gown with her hair up for the day's duties, places the broom against the door's handle. Her Dad has already left for the day, probably setting up his blacksmith shop right now for returning and new customers.

She was just ready to leave for the castle when she heard Merlin's call. She imagines he might be a bit nervous about starting out his new position as the prince's manservant. He has good reason to. Not a single one has lasted longer than a month. She hopes it won't be that way with Merlin. Something so appealing about him, his vivid positive personality that is, along with his dark locks of hair and deep blue eyes…

Oh.

As she still says nothing, just eyes big and kind of shining, Merlin continues anxiously. "You know, for my first day of serving the prat…uh I mean…prince."

Gwen laughs at that, before taking a quick step forward. "Oh Merlin, of course I can show you everything. I've been working for the Lady Morgana for years now and have served at the castle for some time."

Merlin is glad she is not offended by his colorful naming for Prince Arthur. Okay, look, he has no desire at all to serve the man. He's just a bully and a lazy sod the way he sees it. But too he is the PRINCE, the king ordered him to this service and uh…well then he's determined to do his best at it. Just because he will be serving a prat does not mean he is going to take his job lightly or dishonor himself (or Gaius) by being horrible at it. Somehow he's going to make this wallop of a duty work.

Somehow.

Merlin grimaces inwardly as outwardly he beams. Her reaction is just right again. He knows with her help he's going to learn things quick.

Two hours of the cock's crow later...

Panting heavily after cooking the breakfast, carrying the breakfast up the endless weaving of steps, carrying down the breakfast dishes and dirty launderings, not to mention listening to the prince's bellows and hollers after they got past their kind of awkward state of mutually disliking each other, Merlin sits down on the step outside the castle with a little less positive attitude. He has just a few precious seconds of break.

It is as he rests he notices her, Gwen, carrying her mistress's launderings with such ease and familiarity. She saunters by as if she's been doing this her whole life. Still barely getting his breaths in, Merlin whistles. "You make this look so easy!"

His voice surprises her, but Gwen smiles down at the wearied looking servant. Oh dear, already tired and just a few hours into service, she hopes it's just a temporary state. She wants Merlin to last, definitely.

This morning she showed him where everything was, all the rooms, including his master's quarters, the kitchens and the places set up for the washing/drying of clothes. He seemed a fast enough learner if not a bit bumbling in some areas. He proved to her at least that he could cook a decent meal after she reminded him to add enough colorful spices. And he didn't seem that new to the laundering of clothes. Since he's told her his village was a poor one she's guessing he's done his own share of cleaning duties at home.

Good. It will help him. She really does hope he stays Prince Arthur's servant.

"Oh I don't know if I would call it easy." She carefully lays down on the short stone wall her work and sits down next to him. Morgana is a kind enough mistress who does not expect everything done at a certain time.

Merlin buries his head against his knees, mumbling. "Don't know if I'm really up for this."

Tightly Gwen frowns, before reassuring. "Oh you'll get it soon enough. I'm sure you will."

She adds with honesty. "I hope you will."

Merlin lifts his head, sees her blushing smile crossing her oval face. He can't help but smile at it too. She's really pretty like that, maybe not in the way most people look for beauty, but doesn't matter. Kindness to him is appealing and she is definitely that, and has been so helpful. He's so grateful to her.

Just this morning he was telling himself so strongly how he would not disgrace himself by doing a horrible job. Now after just a few hours he's getting ready to give up? No way. That royal prat will never get the best of him. He's going to show him just how good he can be at this, the best servant Arthur's ever had.

Even if it kills him.

"Thanks…I mean for everything Gwen. Couldn't manage all this without your help."

She blushes again, but slides her small hand against his. "I know you can do this Merlin."

He feels the brush of her fingers, sees her redden even more, start her embarrassed mutterings. Merlin moves his hand away from hers with his own bashful look and then just smiles.

Gwen turns away, but then remembers. "This afternoon…will you have at least a few moments?"

Merlin shrugs, not entirely sure if the prince will even give him a fraction more of a second of rest. Is that his voice ringing in his ear right now actually? MERLIN

Ah

Or will that voice just start irking through his dreams? Prat of a Prince.

"Don't know."

Gwen adds it in now. They haven't even been formally introduced that she knows of. Maybe that could be excuse enough. "If you manage to find some, walk a little ways into the forest. Morgana and will be there collecting some berries. It's usually me who does it alone, but Morgana wanted to join in with me today. She does from time to time."

"MERLIN!

MERLIN!"

The servant grimaces. THAT is his voice. "Oh nice. The master calls."

Gwen smiles mildly, before getting up. "Well, I have to finish my duties too. Listen Merlin, I know he can be…"

She speaks carefully. She should not be so familiar with the prince, but in some ways…

She knows him more than she wants to. She thinks of him more than she should.

"Kind of bossy…"

Merlin lifts his eyebrows meaningfully. "KIND of?"

Gwen laughs before continuing. "But if you gain his respect…I think you may just end up being the servant that lasts with him Merlin. I hope you will be. And I hope to see you later…"

He nods his head as she rushes off.

"MERLIN. Off your lazy arse and get me into my armor NOW."

The servant finally lifts his head, seeing the tight grimace from up above, hanging from his window.

Hah…if he hung out just a little more might accidentally…

Fall.

"MERLIN!"

SPOOKY. Almost like he can hear his sinful thoughts.

Hah…

"Coming PRINCE Arthur!"

Hours later...

Okay, it's not a lot of time, but he has moments maybe, like she told him to find before. He's going to take them now because after this he's been told he's going to help the prince more with his sword fighting and mace training.

Great. Just what he wanted.

Being the beating horse of the bossy whining and yet, awfully excellent fighting prince. All of that meaning…he might as well take this respite, because who knows?

In a few hours-

He might just be dead.

After all, Arthur calls himself a killing machine.

And hey…if he's gone through this many servants, probably won't mind the demise of another.

Okay so the others didn't DIE. They were sacked or…sprinted away in wretched fear.

He'll be the first to be killed.

Hah hah…hah.

"Something you find funny?"

Walking into the heavily shaded forest, he stumbles right into her, possibly the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Oh yes…the pale-as-the-moon-kind-of-beauty woman. And it as it happens, he recalls. It was in her room he pretended to be the handmaiden, until Gwen saved him that is. He has seen her of course a few times, the Lady, but they haven't talked much.

Until now.

"You came!"

Gwen calls out, smiling vibrantly.

So now does the Lady. "You're Merlin."

He nods his head, kind of bowing and kind of completely nervous. She really has this strong regality about her.

She laughs softly at his blustering reaction before extending her hand, expecting him to take it with charm. "Lady Morgana."

Merlin mumbles, still not totally comfortable around royalty, especially not the kind that looks like this amazing in velvet emerald dress that match perfectly the color of her eyes. "Lady Morgana...it is an honor."

"For me too. Gwen said you might join us." She grins back at her handmaiden. "I'm so glad you have. And I'm sure you're glad to be away from obnoxious Arthur."

Merlin's eyes widen. He looks back to Gwen with question who just smiles.

Morgana continues. "Don't look so surprised. He may be a prince, but I'm sure you've seen already how annoying he can be."

Merlin at this moment smartly keeps his mouth shut about how he fully agrees.

"Well enough of boring Arthur." Morgana goes on, leaving that topic happily. "We're so happy to have your help…"

Just a bit later…

Baskets nearly full, and sweet joy ringing from their mouths, Merlin, Morgana and Gwen are all sharing another round of laughter about palace shenanigans as they search the forest for just a few more berries.

Merlin's so into the task that he's practically forgotten the prince will be expecting him back to service.

It hasn't been that long anyway.

"Oh Merlin, I'm so glad you came with us…this has been so much fun."

"Agreed." Gwen lets in.

Merlin steps away from Morgana for a bit, talking to the servant girl as her mistress searches in another place. "You're lucky."

Gwen looks up at him as she plucks a dark berry from its bush, her fingers tinged with some of the darkness. Merlin's are full of it as he's not the best berry picker. Morgana's oddly enough have little stain at all.

"What do you mean?"

He goes on in a whisper. "The two of you…it's almost like you're friends instead of lady and mistress. How did you get so close?"

Gwen turns to where her mistress is kneeled down upon the ground, not minding of her dress dirtying a bit as she finds a ripe plush berry. "Don't know. We've been together many years. I just know if I ever lost her…I'd not know what to do with myself."

Her voice is heavy. Merlin reassures with a touch of his hand. "May that never happen. No, but really Gwen, You two are just so eased with each other."

She detects a bit of melancholy in his voice, along with envy. Gwen smiles gently. "It may happen with the two of you also. You may grow to like him."

Merlin frowns deeply. "I doubt that. Not a single THING about him to admire."

Gwen speaks strongly, forgetting for a moment her shyness, showing her strength. "And yet how well do you know him Merlin? Maybe there is more than you just first see."

He stares at her, before it comes sharply through.

"MERLIN…WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Oh oh.

The servant quickly scrambles up to his feet. Oooops…maybe he's been away from the castle a little TOO long.

Morgana too gets up to her feet and rails back at the prince right away. "Arthur, bellowing as always. It's no wonder your servants all leave you."

Arthur turns around with a bothered frown. "Morgana, this has nothing to do with you. And they don't LEAVE. They're all SACKED for INSUFFICIENT service."

He glares darkly at Merlin as he says the last part.

Merlin swallows and yet still manages to roll his eyes a little. He's not THAT scared of him.

"Merlin was only helping us." Gwen brings in with a quiet voice, but her stance firm.

Arthur surprises at it, before he looks away with disdain. Something about the handmaiden…something.

Morgana quickly joins in with the argument, standing up to Arthur strongly. "Gwen is right. I requested his assistance. You want to blame someone…blame me."

Arthur rolls his eyes. Somehow he never wins with her.

He turns to the servant. "You need to help me with my armor."

"Oooohhh…can't put your clothes on yourself Arthur? What a pity."

Merlin chuckles before the prince glares at him even stronger. He moves to his new master, touching at his jacket before he remembers…

Gwen gasps. His fingers are FILLED with berry juice. And now Arthur's leather jacket is filled with…

Arthur lifts his head, begging patience. One. Two.

"IDIOT. WASH your hands off Merlin and be back at the Castle to help me get ready for the match before the cock's next crow or I SWEAR you will spend a night in the cells."

They all watch as the prince flings his jacket to the ground and stomps off, bellowing before he is totally out of hearing distance. "AND CLEAN OFF THAT MESS FROM MY JACKET!"

Morgana snickers. Merlin looks frightened. Gwen looks the same.

"That was priceless Merlin."

It is only though as the mistress utters these words…they all laugh.

New friends.

Royal and peasant.

The lady and the handmaiden and the servant.

The sorcerer and the…

WITCH.

She stares at him. The outside pines and bushes are gone. They are inside a room that is blurring in his heavy vision sometimes. He feels so tired…so…

She clutches her throat. He knows this place, this encounter, dark and dreaded.

She begs with her eyes for him to help her. She accuses silently. She asks why he would do this. He sobs sorry. He sees her accusing hurt emerald orbs. She is gasping for breath. She is not finding it. He watches until mercy strangles his shattered soul. She's reaching. She's needing. He goes down to the floor, pleads with no real words for her to forgive. He didn't want it this way. He didn't want-

The Lady Morgana.

The Witch.

The woman he must now poison, kill, or Camelot will perish, his master will die.

Albion will never be united.

He must do this.

But it hurts. It stabs at his heart. She has been his friend. He laughed with her that first day as with Gwen they picked berries. He kept her secret of magic because he has his own. He never wanted this. He DOES not want this.

He does not want.

THE WITCH.

The dragon called her that, but she can't be…can she? Why is she immune to this spell then if she is not? Why did the knight not want to kill her?

Because she is the force. She is the soul of the spell

If she dies…

Arthur will live.

Albion will be.

He must kill her. Morgause must be stopped.

He holds her against him. She hits at his chest, begs him to tell her why. But she can't utter any words, only let out hideous gasps of near death. She is dying in his arms.

The Lady Morgana.

The witch.

His friend Morgana.

He pleads inwardly. Forgive me. I have no choice. I didn't want it to be this way, but there is no other.

She is closing her eyes. Falling to sleep.

Wait…is that how it happens? How it happened?

He looks up and around, too quiet. Too.

Her eyes open. She stares at him.

"YOU."

She utters.

He gasps, terrified. His skin freezes. He drops her like she is…

Poison itself.

But she does not fall. She rises above him.

"I WILL NEVER FORGET THIS

MERLIN."

She is the witch. Fully. He sees it now. He sees his master years into the future fighting her. She is his burden.

And with her returns...

The boy, now a dangerous man. A vicious warlock.

Mordred

Mordred and Morgana

They combine.

They form.

They deceive.

The warlock

and the witch.

"YOU WILL PAY."

She screeches.

It is a battlefield. Years away. New queen. It is Gwen.

She is now Guinevere, Queen Guinevere that is.

She mourns.

As a body is brought

back.

As…

NO

ARTHUR!

Morgana, no!

Mordred cackles.

The witch hisses.

YOU DID THIS

"NOOOOO!"

Merlin screams, flailing with his arms. His hands. The fun little memory of old has transformed into a nightmare of the future. He knows now if he ever sees her again…it will all be changed. She has united them in search, but now…if…

"Merlin, what is wrong with you?" Arthur complains from nearby with sleepy annoyance, before he notices just how pale the face of his servant is under the fire's dimly burning glow. "Merlin?"

The sorcerer pushes away from his covering jacket, gets to his feet. He shivers on a warm evening. He is suddenly bitterly cold. He stares at the man. He would have killed for him, for Albion…for…Arthur. He believes in him fully now. Sure he grates at his nerves still and they banter back and forth, but is that not some kind of building friendship?

That question doesn't even need to be answered. He cares for him plenty. They've both sacrificed for each other's lives. Gwen was right years ago. Arthur is so much more than just what he first seems. Merlin has watched him this past year grow so much stronger, wiser on the battlefield. He has seen the shortness of his tears before scratching them away. He has heard Arthur's continued call of protection for him, and felt him swipe the blade at the enemy to keep the one servant who has ever…

Lasted.

Merlin the Sorcerer. If Arthur knew his secret, would he hate him? Merlin can only pray not, for he will never hate Arthur. It is why he rode out in that boat to meet Nimueh after the questing beast's bite. It is why he poisoned…Morgana.

Morgana.

He whispers it now with sins plaguing his skin. "What if she's not alive Arthur?"

The prince hates that question, but it is stark that his servant is shivering on a night that is cool, not cold. "I told you to not speak of it again Merlin. We will find her."

Merlin wants to admit it all, every secret he holds. He feels so guilty. So dirtied. So afraid. If the future is what his dream showed…if it…because he…because…

He was warned to not let Mordred live. In the dream Morgana warned it was his fault. Is it?

Should he have let the boy die?

The sorcerer has no answers. He shivers only more.

So cold. So afraid.

Arthur clears his throat. Impatient and not so comfortable with making people feel better when obviously disturbed. "Merlin…I know this war is a frightening one at times. It's alright to be afraid."

"You never are."

Arthur laughs dryly. Bitterly. Too many deaths. No finding. Too many burnings of their kingdom. Can it take any more? "That's what you think. I've been it aplenty. I just…know how not to show it."

Merlin closes his eyes tight. It's not why he's afraid. Sure the war is scary. But the true horror is…

Never finding her.

Finding her.

Neither will ever lead to peace.

The dragon warned him.

Is this his fault?

"It's my fault."

Arthur frowns. "Merlin."

"I should have taken better care of her. You left her with me and…I let Morgause…I…"

Lies. Pinpricking lies. To cover. To-

"No. It is mine. She was my responsibility. I should have protected her better. Morgana is my father's ward…my…bane…and…well she is like a sister. I'm sorry I didn't do more."

Merlin turns around. Arthur's eyes are emotional…like they were when he saw the spirit of his mother. Something, Merlin told him, was just a created vision by a witch because…it was the only way he could have kept him from killing his own father.

The only way…

Lies and secrets. The curse of the sorcerer. Maybe that is why one day he will be known as Emrys. Maybe Emrys has seen more hell than he has.

Maybe his innocence is completely depleting. Maybe magic's good is not so easily found.

He doesn't want Arthur to hurt for her loss. He wants to tell him the truth, why he thinks they may never find her, and yet he can't. He must remain silent.

Be alone to fall into sleep of…

Haunting nightmares. Ones that from time to time…

Make him SCREAM.

Like this night.

"You tried Arthur. That's what matters." He lays his hand down upon the prince's shoulder. Arthur has taken the duty of telling the families of the dead. He has left one sword, its tip blunted, in the ground, driven it down into the dirt, into the muddied soil, the torched land, for all dead. One blade of dripping blood for each life lost.

He is his friend, even if Arthur will never say the same. Merlin poisoned the witch to save his friend. Even more important than Albion. More important than his own life.

Arthur the prat. Arthur the future king.

"Idiot." Arthur grumbles and slaps away the hand, but in his blue eyes is gentle gratitude. Merlin has lasted because he is brave, loyal and…

Merlin.

Arthur smiles at it. At him.

"I know we'll find her."

The sorcerer nods his head. A lie. A hope.

Arthur moves away, slaps at the sorcerer's back fondly, and before the light fully of morning is seen, prepares a new battle plan.

Merlin watches, before he joins, before he works too. He won't find anymore sleep.

Not until this mystery is solved.

Where are you Morgana?

Both ask.

The prince and the sorcerer.

Too…

Not so different..

.

And all.

United for one reason.

One thing.

One source.

It will come one day soon.

The year is almost fully out.

She will be found.

The prince will utter in surprised and relieved breath…

Morgana.

The sorcerer will echo.

The king will embrace.

The handmaiden will clap delight.

And she will just smile.

The lady.

The WITCH.

One rules in a way that disgusts her, but mostly she hates that he allowed her father's fall from blessed life.

He is King.

One she will not be as gently kind with because friends must become foes for all to happen as is needed.

She is Handmaiden.

One she will reluctantly seek to destroy for he is good and yet he impedes with his loyalties to the unfortunate.

He is Prince.

One she will never forget what he has done, how he has betrayed, and forever will she loathe his innocent look.

He is Sorcerer.

With her joyous celebrated return…

It has not ended.

The ties that ravel and unravel

Will bond tighter and rip apart.

War is not over.

The ending has simply

BEGUN

.

.

Thank you for reading. Feedback kindly appreciated.

Once again this whole story formed from the SFX picture, so cool of Arthur in battle.

Note that I tried to fit in all the memories with what really happened on the show. Some of might have been a bit out of glitch though, especially with a new season started that I haven't watched yet.

Morgana's part in this story became so pivotal. I tried to leave it open with what's evil and what's not. I see darker sides in both her and Merlin. Where their relationship seems destined to go...is sad really to me...all her ties really and where they're going to go. I never delved so deeply into Morgana's character...very interesting to do so for this story.

The king and Guinevere's part also kind of just formed, but I would be thrilled to see a scene centered around them on the show. The dynamics of them are so powerful because of Uther sentencing Gwen's father to death and the fact that she loves his son.

Arthur's scar on his cheek was written when I saw the SFX pic just by chance. Oddly enough, after I wrote that, I saw the new promo pics where in one it looked like Arthur might have a scarred cheek. So…coincidence I guess.

Hope you enjoyed reading and hope I can update some of my other fics soon too. Thanks for your patience and support.