Long Live the Queen
Thinking there was no risk when he went into battle would be absurd. Guinevere knew what Arthur was getting into with every fight, every skirmish. There was always a small sliver of a chance that something horrid would be bestowed upon him; be it infection or a wound too deep in his flesh or loss of blood. There was always a risk when he went into battle, and years of living around the people in charge, who were obligated to deal with these things, had taught her that. There was always risk.
But had she imagined his death happening during the battle? Had she even wondered that he wouldn't come back, that she would never see him again? Were there the signs that this was to be his last stand, and had it simply been clouded with hope? Did she have the faintest idea what was to follow? If only she had. If only she had, if only she had worried more, if only she had told him to take care, or come back. If she knew, than maybe this wouldn't have happened. Maybe he wouldn't be dead.
When Merlin arrived back at Camelot, by his lonesome, there was a voice at the back of her mind telling her that he was gone, but she refused to listen to it. She blanketed the voice with hope, blocked it out with wishes, and smothered it with prayers. She thought that of course he wouldn't be dead, he would never be dead. Arthur was her strong, tough husband. He was calloused from years of fighting. He had survived some of the most fatal wounds Gaius had ever seen. He could survive anything Morgana's army could throw at him. He could survive cuts to the chest, to the heart. Knicks to his armor. Slices to his limbs. Arrows to his neck. To Guinevere, he could survive everything. He was insurmountable.
Merlin pulled her inside the castle; he guided her through the hallways, past the servants' quarters, up the stairs, landmarks she had walked passed so many times before. She expected him to tell her that Arthur was hidden away in the woods, or in an abandoned cabin, and Merlin didn't want anyone to overhear. Or had she expected him to? Had she thought any of those things were possible, or was she subconsciously refusing to believe that her husband could possibly be gone forever, that he had passed on?
Merlin sat her down on her and Arthur's bed in their chambers and took a seat beside her. His hands were shaking with fear, with regret, with dread. His back was slouched, his neck hung so his chin dusted his chest. Her eyes filled with tears before any noise escaped his lips. It took a long time before Merlin could look at her. It took even more before he could even open his mouth without tears spilling over the lip of his eyelid and dripping down his cheek. It took him so many moments, heart-wrenching, agonizing moments before he could work up the strength to tell her what she had been dreading. It took him so long to say:
"He's dead."
And they collapsed into each other and wrapped their arms around each other messily and held each other close, because these two had lost so much in their life, they had lost so much. People had been snatched from their grasps left and right, plucked from their gaze, pulled from their arms. Those close to them were always at risk, because these two had lost so many people, and anyone that dared be a part of them was doomed to being stolen from them in the harshest ways. They lay in the bed for hours, holding on to each other, sobbing, wailing. Her cries were only drowned out by his attempts to calm her down, to calm them both down. But his words meant nothing. They both lost someone so important, someone that meant so much to them both, and no soothing whispers or cooed mumbles could make them feel any different from the way they had felt in that moment.
They fell asleep in each other's arms, because it was the only thing that would make them comfortable. Guinevere fell asleep like she would if Arthur was holding her; Merlin held Guinevere like he held Arthur in the king's last moments. They clung to each other, tears soaking their clothes, the sheets. But they didn't care. They did not care at all.
For days, she rarely left her bed. She never left her room. She lay under the silken covers, crying, thinking. She hardly slept, and when she did it was only from exhaustion. Her wails echoed through the empty space of her room; her cries were swallowed by the darkness. No one aside Merlin and Gaius were permitted to enter her chambers.
She did not believe it. As the days went on, she refused to believe he was gone. Because her husband could not be dead. Her love could not be dead. He was the most stable, strong man she had met in her entire life, surpassing the knights and her father. He had risked his neck in so many fights and battles and wars and he had lived through those. He lived through a bite from a magical beast, a wound that was previously thought to have been fatal to anyone. His body was laced with scars, many too deep to ever heal over completely. She liked to trace them when they lay in bed at night, telling him sleepily that he had survived so many tragedies to get to the place they were. He had taken so much pain and taken so many injuries and there was no blade or arrowhead or spear that could cut him too deeply or sink too far into his skin that he would cease to live. He was not dead.
She kept asking Merlin when Arthur was to come back, how they would get him back. And no matter how many times Merlin told her that Arthur was gone, she pushed him away and tried to convince him that there must be a mistake. There must be a mistake. Arthur was not dead, he was alive and well, and Guinevere just wanted him back. She just wanted to hold him and tell him she was not going to let him go.
And then she was angry. She would sob frustrated tears into her pillow, swiping them from her hot, red cheeks. She was mad about everything. She was mad at Merlin. She was mad that he didn't try harder to save Arthur, that he wasn't fast enough, that he hadn't done enough. She was mad at Gaius for not telling her where they were going before it was too late. She was mad at Gwaine for bedding a lying, selfish woman who sought out to destroy her beloved. She was mad at Gwaine for dying. She was mad at Leon and Percival for not trying harder to save their friends, to save Arthur, to win the battle for Camelot. And she was mad at Arthur because he had let himself die. He didn't hold on. He didn't live, and that made her mad.
She soon heard of the rumors flying about the castle and got mad at everyone who whispered about her behind her back. She raged about the laziness of the servants and the carelessness they had with food, with laundry, with cleaning. She got frustrated with their mumbles and their secrets. Except the only thing they were whispering about was how worried they were for her and they hoped that she would recover soon.
Soon she began to lay in bed, sheets strewn about, pillows thrown about the bed, about the floor around it. Her brown eyes stared up at the ceiling. She did not say a word – not when Merlin and Gaius came to bring her food, or to fix the state of the bed or the room, or to tell her goodnight and insist that she could come to them if she needed to. She did not speak, because all she could do was think. If only she had told him it wasn't safe. If only she had made him promise to not go into the thick of the battle. If only she had told Leon or Percival to watch over him. If only there was a way to go back and keep him safe. If only she had told him she loved him more. Maybe then the world wouldn't have snatched him from her so suddenly.
If only she said goodbye.
Merlin slept in her room some nights. Most of the time, he waited until she finally drifted off to tuck her in and go back to his own chambers. But if she was really bad, if her crying was uncontrollable and her sobs were unstoppable, he would stay throughout the night. He would cradle her in his arms and stroke her hair and hug her with all of his might. He would let her know he was there for her, should she need anything, anything at all. He too had lost so much. He wasn't going to let her slip away too.
But she was not getting better.
She could not find the strength to live. She had just lost… so much. She had lost so many things meaningful to fate. As a child, she had lost her mother to an incurable disease. When she was older, she lost her father to the cruel hand of the late king, Arthur's father, Uther Pendragon, who had him executed for working with someone that made him oblivious to the bigger plans that were in store. As queen, she lost Elyan, her only sibling, her beloved brother; the last member of her family. She lost men day after day, who sacrificed themselves for the good of the kingdom; for the good of Camelot. She had lost everything.
Arthur was… everything. He was strong, able. But he was tender and kind when need be, even if it was a risk to him. He was intelligent, wise. He was a just leader, a man worthy of the title of king. He was fair. He gave justice to those who had been wronged and punished those who had done wrong. He was emotional. He was smart. He was tough. He was open and honest and trustworthy. He was lovable. He was selfless. He was… her one and only love.
She still saw his eyes. His perfect blue eyes. She saw them in dresses that were lying on the floor, in beads on necklaces and bracelets, in gemstones on rings and headpieces. She saw his eyes in the blue of the sky. She longed to see those blue eyes again. She craved to stare into them and to look at his face, his handsome face, and run her thumb over his cheek and feel her lips against his and pull apart and gaze into his sparkling blue eyes. Sometimes when she woke up and she saw Merlin's eyes she thought for one second they were Arthur's. And then she remembered he was gone. And she would never see his blue eyes again.
She missed him. She missed his presence next to hers in their bed. She missed his strong arms wrapping around her, fingers slowly tracing shapes on her skin. She missed listening to his heart beat as they drifted off, encased in each other's grasp, holding on to each other like if they let go they would disappear. She missed his lips brushing her forehead. She missed the way their legs tangled with the sheets, which was a struggled to undo in the morning but was always filled with laughter. Oh, how she missed his laughter; his chuckle, his giggle, his hearty laugh. When he held her, she always felt safe and secure. And now she felt bare.
If only she had held on tighter.
Guinevere's biggest regret was not being with him. Not being by his side as he passed on, as his eyes closed and the final breath left his body. She worried that he resented her for not being with him, that she hadn't been there to say goodbye. Her worst fear was that he died thinking she didn't care. She would have moved mountains and dug through the middle of the earth and emptied oceans just to have been by his side when he left, had she known it was the end. She would have done anything just to be there.
She wished she was with him. She wished that they left the world together, ready to leave their bodies behind, ready to journey into whatever came after life. She wished she lay beside him as he faded off, arms wrapped around him, fingers tracing shapes on his skin. She wished he felt her lips brush his forehead and her heart thudding against her chest and her legs tangling messily with his. She wished she had gotten to hold him like he held her, to make him feel safe and secure as he parted. She wished he looked into her eyes like how she looked into his and felt a small smile creeping onto his lips, a smile Guinevere knew well. And most of all, she just wished that she didn't have to live without him. She was one of the few things he had left; one of the few things that kept her alive and well. And honestly, she wasn't quite sure if she could move from this bed, his bed, knowing he was gone and he was never coming back.
Then realization seeped in. He would not want her to turn into an empty shell. He would want her to know that she too was strong. She too was tender and kind. She too was intelligent and wise and a just leader, a woman worthy the title of queen. She too was fair. She was emotional. She was smart. She was tough. She was open and honest and trustworthy. She was lovable. She was selfless. And most of all he would want her to know that she was his one and only love. And he would want her to know what she could do anything without him. That she was special and wonderful and she was able to make Camelot the best it had ever been. And she was going to do just that.
It would be hard; helplessly, hopelessly hard. There would be days where she did not want to get out of bed. There would be days when the grief was too much. There would be days where she did not believe she could do it without him, that she was not doing what he would've done or what he would've wanted her to. From now until her death, she would have days where nothing was going right and she just felt like giving up. But she had Merlin and Leon and Gaius and Percival. She had the whole of Camelot to fend for, to look after. They were her duty now, a duty that had been passed onto her by Arthur Pendragon, her true love, the man she missed most dearly. And she had to protect them with her life, just like he had.
The sun shone through the windows, casting light over the crowd gathered in front of her. Whispers were hushed into silence as Leon took his place beside the throne of Camelot. Percival stood at the front of the crowd, attention only on his two friends at the front of the room, watching to make sure everything would go smoothly. Guinevere was told by Merlin and Gaius that they would be standing beside her and when she first entered the room they were there, as promised. Clasped in her fingers was the crest of Camelot, bearing the insignia she was now going to spend her life defending. She took a deep breath. Her eyes trailed up to where Leon was standing. She gave him a gentle nod and looked back down at the object in her hands. And then she looked up at the crowd, who were waiting in eerie quietness.
"The king is dead," Leon announced.
Gaius looked over at Guinevere. Her gaze met his quickly, and at once flickered back to the knight standing beside her.
"Long live the queen!"
As the crowd repeated this chant, Guinevere felt a presence stirring beside her. It was not Gaius, nor was it Leon. She knew that somehow, in some way, that it was Arthur. And she could almost hear his voice repeating the chant back to her too.