A/N: This fic, in addition to being a Christmas present to my best friend (not on FFN), is dedicated to all of the fandom who was emotional gutted by the finale. If there was a category entitled 'Hope', I would place this fic in it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin. That right belongs to the BBC, and they use it to devastating effect.
With that out of the way, please, sit back and have a read!
"Uncle Ambrose! Uncle Ambrose!"
"Hamish, be careful!"
Helen Pryce shook her head as her five-year-old son bolted out the door and scampered down the steps to the road. He'd already skinned his knees twice this month dashing down the concrete steps too quickly, and she'd rather not hear his wailing tear through the village's peace just yet -
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! MAAAAAAAAAAM!"
- She spoke too soon. The blonde woman sighed and turned the dial of the stove. The first aid kit was within easy reach - it had to be, for a mother of three rambunctious boys and a girl who never remembered she was a girl.
"Hamish, didn't I tell you..."
"What's this?" a wizened old voice demanded, "Sir Hamish, what foul beast has afflicted you so?"
On the concrete steps of a large manor in the Welsh countryside, Hamish Pryce, plump and light-haired like his mother, sniffled and looked up at an old man with long white hair with bright eyes. "Un - Uncle Ambroooose!"
"Come now, brave Knight," 'Uncle Ambrose' said, " 'Tis but a scratch! You must rise to fight another day!"
Hamish coughed a giggle and lifted up his arms. Ambrose Llewllyn, Professor of Medieval Welsh and British Literature, chuckled and hefted up the young boy, making a great show of it. "Look how big you're getting, Hamish!"
"Hamish!" Helen scolded, "Leave the Professor be, you rascal!"
Ambrose laughed, shifting the five-year-old in his grasp to stop the boy from stealing beanie on his head. "Helen, Helen, how many times must I ask you to call me 'Ambrose' before it sticks?"
Helen huffed, holding her arms out for her son. "You're my employer, Sir, and it wouldn't be proper."
Hamish rolled his eyes as his mother fussed over him, mouthing along with Ambrose's reply. "Nonsense, it's the 21st century, my dear!"
"And I am your housekeeper, Profess -"
"Uncle Ambrose! Uncle Ambrose!"
Helen was cut off as a herd of young children stampeded down the street and swarmed around the old man.
"You're back! You're back!"
"Tell us a story, Uncle Ambrose!"
"Oh, please, will you?"
"Uncle Ambrose, this is Ella, she's new, look!"
"Please tell us a story!"
"Enough, now, give the man some room to breathe," Helen scolded. "Honestly, you children, no manners these days... I've put the kettle on, Professor, come inside."
"Yes, yes, that sounds lovely," Ambrose agreed, making his way into the manor, with the children trailing after him like ducklings.
The inside of the manor was warm and decorated with all manner of oddities. Some would liken it to a museum, but artifacts in a museum would not be so worn by the hands of children. The rooms were spacious and well lit, despite the damp Welsh climate.
"I'll be in the study, Helen."
"Of course, of course - Mark Wallace, don't you track mud in here!"
"Sorry, Mrs. Pryce!" Mark replied, dashing after Ambrose and the other children, regardless.
Helen heaved a sigh, placing her hands on her hips. Really, at this rate, she should just stop putting the mop and bucket away, and keep it at the ready for when the Professor came home, because the children followed almost instantly!
The Professor was a good sort, a bit odd, but a fixture of their little village. He'd appeared in their lives some twenty years ago, looking as white and wizardly as he did today. He was a wonder with children, telling them fantastical stories and playing games with them despite his age. No one quite knew how old he was, but the white-haired man had easily won the hearts of all the villagers. He could often be found in the village square, always ready with a sage piece of advice, a kind word, or some tips and tricks to make life easier. He knew more about herbs and home remedies than the local midwife, but he always spoke to her as if she was the Master and he the Apprentice.
There was a sadness about him, too. Sometimes his eyes went misty and he looked so very lonely. Privately, Helen thought that was why he surrounded himself with children and always made time for the townsfolk. She'd asked him about it once, and he simply smiled, passing it off as an old man's whimsy, and deftly changed the subject.
"I have been instructed by the Knights Sir Thomas and Sir Adam to request 'chocolate fingers and jammy dodgers along with tea, please,'" Ambrose's voice cut through Helen's musings.
"I'm sure," Helen clucked, reaching for the requested treats, "They'll ruin their appetites at this rate, Professor."
Ambrose chuckled. "Oh, they're growing children. You could feed them with enough for Her Majesty's Army, and they'd simply come back for more!"
Helen shook her head. He was right, of course. "I'm surprised they let you go. They've been eagerly awaiting your arrival all day! Did your visit go well?"
Ambrose looked at her, nonplussed.
"Your soldier friend, the one you visit every now and again," Helen prompted.
Ambrose's lips turned up in a smile. "It went as it always does, as it is wont to do."
Helen shook her head and continued setting up a tray of snacks for the children. That was no answer at all, but sometimes the Professor did that. Sometimes, he gave a straight answer, and other times, not so much.
The Professor made the trek out - somewhere, she never asked - once every few months, leaving with a solemn, sometimes broken expression on his face, and returning a little better. She only found out who he was visiting after the terrorist attacks ten or so years ago. The Professor had watched the news with horror, they all had, but he disappeared. She found him again, days, later, standing in the midst of the most horrific storm, lightning and thunder crashing around him. There had been such agony and grief on his face, her heart broke for him.
He told her the truth, then. About the grave he visited. About his soldier friend who had such dreams for the future of England. His soldier friend who believed in the glory of the Crown, and worked tirelessly in its aid. He told her about the soldier's wife, as graceful as any Queen, and the friends who stood loyally at his side against the tide of their foes.
He told her about the family he had lost, and how utterly heartbroken they would be at the state of the world they left behind.
Ambrose smiled fully, taking the tray from Helen's hands. "Don't you worry about me, Helen. I know I've sometimes come back... melancholy. But things are getting better. There's nothing to worry about."
Helen's lips twisted wryly as the kettle whistled. "Oh, I'll always worry about you, Professor. I'm your housekeeper, after all!"
Ambrose laughed and prepared to return to his study. By the time he got back, the children were all waiting eagerly, looking up and swarming around him like a pack of overeager puppies.
"A story, Uncle Ambrose, tell us a story!"
"Tell us a story, do, please!"
"Alright, alright, my brave Knights," Ambrose laughed, "You shall have your stories! But let an old man rest his weary bones..."
Ambrose sank down into a plush armchair, beside a merrily crackling fire, and set the tray of snacks on a side table. Helen followed with his tea. Taking a sip of the warm beverage as the children settled around, nibbling on their own food, Ambrose mused.
"What story shall I tell you, then? Shall I tell you a tale of King Arthur's Court?
"Shall I speak of Sir Gwaine, strongest and most loyal of King Arthur's Knights - and fairest, too, if he had any say!
"Or perhaps I shall tell you of Tristan and Isolde, smugglers, yet heroes true?"
Ambrose smiled at the three girls seated at his feet. "Or perhaps you'd prefer a story of Guinevere, the Once and Future Queen?"
One of the girls nudged Ella Cooper, saying, "Ella's new, she gets to pick!"
Ella promptly flushed bright red, looking down at the carpet.
"Well, Lady Ella? What say you? What would you like to hear?"
"How... How did it all start?" Ella asked shyly.
Ambrose smiled widely, taking another sip of his tea. "A fine tale indeed... In a land of myth, and a time of magic, the destiny of a great kingdom rested on the shoulders of a young boy. His name... Merlin..."
The fire crackled and the sky darkened as Ambrose wove his tales to an enthralled audience. He told them of the fair city of Camelot, the shining jewel of Albion. He told them of a young boy with magic, not yet the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the Earth. He told them of a young Prince with a good heart buried under his station's arrogance, not yet the Once and Future King. He told them of a kind but frightened Princess, before grief and bitterness and destiny warped her. He told them of a down-to-earth serving girl, not yet the Once and Future Queen.
Helen once asked why the stories he told the children were so different from the manuscripts and canon he worked with at the University. He simply laughed. His story, Arthur's story, had changed hands so many times, warped and twisted to the storyteller's needs. History took Camelot and turned it from Arthur's legacy to his crowning accomplishment. When Albion - England - passed into patriarchal hands, High Queen Guinevere faded into memory, and the golden age of Camelot flowered, not in Arthur's memory, but under Arthur himself. He didn't mind, it was what he had hoped for all those years, before his destiny was fully realized. The Druids whispered stories of Morgana and Nimue and their Priestesses who stood against Emrys, the greatest of them all. They went from heroines to villainesses and back again, and he let it be.
The truth of it wasn't in the details, it was in the lessons learned.
Merlin the serving boy, Arthur's faithful shadow, disappeared shortly after his Master's passing, overcome with grief. Emrys, the aged sorcerer who defended Camelot's forces at Camlann appeared in High Queen Guinevere's Court shortly after the death penalty for sorcery was repealed. Whispers said he had always been at Arthur's side, working from the shadows to build Camelot into the shining jewel of Albion.
Whispers would live on in the minds of men, as Kilgarrah promised, until Arthur rose again and wished the stories set straight.
And he, Merlin, Emrys, Myrrdin Emrys, Merlin Ambrosius, Kingmaker, Queenmaker, creature of Magic, would be waiting. He had waited through the years, after Leon and Percival and Guinevere had all crossed to shores of Avalon to wait at Arthur's side, until the world needed them again. He had waited through the rise and fall of empires, sometimes Special Advisor to the Crown, sometimes not, trying to forge England into the kingdom he and Arthur had dreamed of.
He'd thought Albion's need was greatest during the First World War, or even the Second, but Avalon's waters remained still even as droves upon droves on young British boys lost their lives. He hadn't understood until he saw leaders like Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher rise, bright and shining, to lead their nation onward. Arthur's time was gone, and the children of his land deserved their time to shine.
So he waited.
He knew his waiting was not in vain, even now, when Magic lay dormant, and his story veiled. The world was in turmoil again, hatred and fear spreading their claws. The economy was in shambles, the leadership weak. Something dark was on the horizon, something no one was prepared for. Albion's need was rising.
Merlin's eyes flickered gold.
The waters of Avalon were stirring.
Arthur would rise again.
A/N: So, thoughts? Please, leave a review!