IYîYîYîYI
"This is the way that we love
Like it's forever
Then live the rest of our lives
But not together"
- Mika, Happy Ending
IYîYîYîYI
The Trial of Queen Guinevere
There was, actually, a tradition that dictated that any prominent member of court who was accused of high treason should have their trial held on the courtyard. The point of this tradition was that if the person was found guilty, they could be executed immediately, in front of the people who had ordered it, without any unnecessary delays or chances to escape.
A trial of this kind was a rare occurrence in Camelot. Disputes between citizens were, when needed, settled by a member of council, or in some exceptional cases by the King himself. Smaller crimes were usually punished as soon as the culprits were apprehended, and they were sent to the stocks or, if a more severe punishment was called for, flogged. Trials, in any form, were reserved for very special crimes or very special people, and even then they were no guarantee that there would be fairness and justice. Arthur remembered his father's words when Morgana had tried to guarantee a trial for that forest rebel of hers – it was so long ago now, Arthur could hardly remember what he had looked like, even less what his name had been, but he remembered Uther's words – "Of course he'll have a trial. And he'll be found guilty, because that's what he is." That was how justice worked in Camelot: by the word of the king. It was the way it had been under his father's reign. It was the way it would be now, no matter if some people thought differently.
It was tempting to go and hide in his room until the trial, but it would probably look bad, look irresponsible. So he went to the throne room, and sat down. It was his chair, after all. No one entered for a long time, so he was left alone with his thoughts.
He had bought himself rather a lot of time, setting the trial at noon tomorrow. He felt guilty about how he'd sent Merlin away without explanation and wished he could give him a message, but he knew that would be both stupid and unnecessary, so he waited in silence. Explaining himself to Merlin could wait until tomorrow. It would have to.
He wondered what Guinevere was thinking at the moment. He hoped she was feeling confident of some form of rescue. It was horrible to think of her sitting down there thinking she had barely a day left to live. Or she could be hoping that she'd have a fair trial and be found innocent and all would be well, he told himself. But no. She wasn't that naive.
He would have to go down and see her. He didn't trust himself to do it right away – he wanted to decide exactly what he was going to tell her before he approached her, he shouldn't say too little, he shouldn't say too much – but before the day was over he would have to down there. It was his last chance to say goodbye. And then he would be alone. He would go to bed alone tonight, and again tomorrow night, and the night after that. After days of exhausting negotiations or in times of crisis, he would go to sleep with his worries in an empty bed in a big, empty room. After days of triumph, his celebration would end in climbing in between cold sheets alone. It was a gloomy prospect.
He would not be alone when it came to ruling the country – he would keep Merlin by his side no matter what people like Hector said. Those voices would die out sooner or later, if he and Merlin played their cards right. They had to. But Merlin was so different from Guinevere, in nearly every way. Most of all, Merlin was dangerous. Dangerous because he was a powerful sorcerer, yes, but in so many other ways too. It had been safe to fall in love with Guinevere. There had been difficulties, sure, but no one had questioned his sanity or, with that one notable exception, that she hadn't cast a spell on him. There had been some controversy when he had made her queen, but it had been trite and predictable and not lasted very long. She made people love her. She was, for better and for worse, very good at that. So, despite all those things, Guinevere was safe. Falling in love with her had meant quiet evenings, warm smiles, soft kisses. She brought out a gentler, calmer side of him. Falling in love with Merlin was something else entirely. It was secrets, and pain, and fire. It was not just other people doubting his sanity, but himself doubting it as well. It was dreams of stolen touches and passionate kisses returned in the dark. It was fear of rejection and loss. It was the desire for things forbidden and unreachable. Merlin might be good at bringing out Arthur's good sides at times, but being in love with him had only brought out the nagging little creature inside Arthur's guts, and frustration, anger, jealousy and bitterness. Loving Merlin was not something that fitted into Arthur's life and his duties. It was real. It was standing at a ledge. It was deciding whether or not he would sit down at a gambling table where he would have to bet his soul.
The irony of course was that he had never made that decision. He had gotten drunk, and made an ass of himself, and then Merlin's secret had been revealed, and they had both made asses of themselves. And now, Arthur found, his soul was already on the table, and he had not even learnt the rules of the game yet. It had looked like a game of chance to begin with, but he was beginning to suspect it had turned into something more like chess.
It had almost begun to darken by the time he stood up, shaking thoughts of Merlin out of his head. He needed a messenger. It had to be someone both inconspicuous and trustworthy, which narrowed the number down considerably these days. It would have to be the boy, Wart. Call it a nostalgic fondness for clumsy servant boys, but if there was one thing it was Arthur had learnt it was that unassuming, seemingly incompetent servants often were far more loyal than those who clamoured for his attention. He had not known Wart for long, but he had seen enough to tell him that if the King told Wart to be quiet about, say, leading a horse out of Camelot at a strange hour, the boy would take it to his grave out of pure awe.
IYîYîYîYI
It wasn't the first time Gwen had the questionable honour of seeing one of the dungeon cells from the inside, but it was her first time as Queen of Camelot – and as a supposed adulteress. The guards seemed unsure whether they were supposed to show her respect or reproach. They had given her a few blankets to sit on, and to sleep on when night came, but then they had proceeded to stare at her in silence from their little table. She closed her eyes and focused on the chill of the stone wall behind her back, trying not to think about what her father would say if he were alive to see this – trying not to be grateful that he wasn't.
She didn't know how long she had sat like that before Arthur showed up. It could have been a hundred seconds, or a hundred years. He gestured to the guards to let him in. He looked around the cell and Gwen recalled that it wasn't the first time he'd been in one of them, either.
"Have you come to break me out?" she asked, half-joking, half desperately earnest.
He shook his head.
"I'm here to say goodbye."
Something inside her cracked and fell apart.
"Arthur, I'm sorry."
"So am I. But here we are."
"Arthur, you can't do it. You can't let them kill me. After all you've been through with Merlin ..."
He simply shook his head a second time.
"We both knew it, didn't we, that it would end like this? But I was so stubborn. And you are just as stubborn as me. That's one of the things that made me fall in love with you."
She wondered if she was crying.
"I'm sorry it has to be like this," he continued, "but there's nothing else I can do."
He leaned forward. His kisses had always sent her hear racing, but not like this – not in fear of death. Certainly not in fear of her own. It left her speechless. He gave her an apologetic look before he stepped out of the cell.
"Goodbye Guinevere."
He left the way he had come, and when he was gone, the cell felt even colder than before. Gwen sank back down to the floor in a daze. A thousand things she should have said came to mind. Things that might have changed his mind, like flattery, or begging, or trying to explain about the letter from Morgana – and things that she simply wanted to say if that had really been their last conversation, like "I love you" and "you must believe that I never slept with him" and "I can't believe you're doing this to me."
But it was foolish to think of these things. It wouldn't really have made a difference. Not now.
She had thought he needed her, she had thought he needed her love and advice, that he had needed her by his side. He had believed it too. He was right, they had both been stubborn, and they had both deceived themselves.
She thought about his face and his tone and told herself that his appearance had not been that of a man about to have his wife executed. She told herself that he would have someone break her out – Merlin, maybe, or someone else who wasn't already in trouble. Several people had escaped from these dungeons over the years, even if they seemed impenetrable to her now. He might even come back himself.
But he had said goodbye in a very final way, and as the night fell and light drained away from her surroundings she only dared to hope with half her heart that he would help her escape in the safety of darkness. As the night progressed and no help came, her hope took the form of Lancelot instead. He had been sent away, and she knew he had small chances of being able to save her. But he wouldn't leave her. He would never.
IYîYîYîYI
Merlin sat down on his bed. He stood up and walked around the room. He sat down again. He walked over to the window. He itched to get out of there. He wanted to see what Arthur was up to. He wanted to solve this, to help Gwen and Lancelot, and he really, really wanted to make toads jump out of Sir Hector's mouth. Or give him boils. Or just punch him in the face, no magic used – it was that bad.
He sat down again. It was no good pondering courses of action. The only course of action was to stay where he was. Sure, there was a risk that Arthur had gone off his head again and would let his friends be killed. But Merlin doubted it. And if he had understood Arthur's little hint right (if it had been a hint and not just Arthur talking to Hector), Arthur had tried to remind him of the time so long ago it felt like another life when Arthur had told Lancelot that ... what had he said? Something along the lines of "if that happens neither of you can return to Camelot". Merlin couldn't quite remember, but he was sure that had been the gist. So he had at least some reason to believe that Arthur had a plan, and that the plan included Gwen and Lancelot leaving Camelot. He couldn't forget that Arthur had clearly been against it when Merlin had suggested it earlier, but on the other hand he had used the argument that he didn't want Gwen and Lancelot to look like traitors, and now they already did.
How an escape was supposed to work, however, Merlin had no idea, and when he looked down at the courtyard from his window he saw a familiar kind of stage being set up in the courtyard.
He could get out through that window. If he really wanted, he was sure he could float himself safely down to the ground without so much a piece of rope. He felt that he should. He felt, urgently, that he could well be all that stood between his friends and death. It was so easy, to open those dungeons, and so hard to sit here and twiddle his thumbs.
But if Arthur had a plan, Merlin barging in at this point was bound to spoil it utterly and unquestionably. Instead of being the one to save his friends he might end up being the one to condemn them. And Hector would get that much more support for his argument. Unless he killed Hector. It wouldn't be hard, after all.
When he realised what he was thinking, Merlin froze, feeling slightly sick. The ease with which the idea of murder had entered his mind made him return to the bed, lie down and fold his arms across his chest, finally absolutely determined not to interfere. He would have to trust that Arthur had a good plan – if for no other reason than that Merlin didn't have one at all.
IYîYîYîYI
Lancelot had come to Camelot with nothing, and now he left with nothing. The guards had not even let him have his sword. All he carried with him was a change of clothes, a flask of water, a knife to fend for himself with, and a piece of paper that said he was Sir Lancelot, knight of Camelot. He was no such thing anymore, of course, but when he'd seen the paper lying there he hadn't had the heart to leave it behind.
He couldn't leave Gwen where she was. He had realised this before he had walked two miles. He might not believe that Arthur would have her killed, but he didn't believe he'd take her back either. But what was he going to do? He couldn't very well break into Camelot with nothing but a knife. He was headed for the nearest village, but how much help he could get there without money or anything to trade was doubtful. He was almost sleepwalking, stuck halfway between the urge to turn back and the impulse to run ahead.
As evening sank down over him, he felt as if he was waking up. He had just decided that he would attempt to get a horse at the village, and a sword, and then turn back whether he got it or not, when, as if his thoughts had taken physical form, he heard a horse neigh further up the road. He raised his head to see a boy standing under a tree, holding a horse with fully loaded saddlebags, and looking straight at him.
"Good evening, Sir Lancelot," the boy said.
"Good evening," Lancelot replied.
He studied the boy. He was scrawny and spotty, and there was something familiar about him.
"I'm afraid I don't know who you are," he admitted.
The boy looked as if he had not expected anything else.
"I'm called Wart, sir. I work in the castle."
"And you're on your way there now?" Lancelot asked.
That would explain why he is still calling me Sir Lancelot, he thought. And why I haven't seen him ride past.
"No, sir," the boy said. "I just came from there. I took a shortcut to catch up with you. My master wanted you to have this."
He gestured at the horse. Lancelot looked at it. It wasn't the one he'd used to ride, but it was a fine animal, a grey. Tied to one of the saddlebags was a sword. He could tell from the hilt that it was not his either, but he would bet that it was the size and weight he was used to.
"And who would your master be?" he asked.
Lancelot's first thought was Merlin, but no, that wasn't right. Merlin would have come himself, or if he could not, he would still not need a messenger. So unless Gwen had managed to get a message out...
"I'm not allowed to say, sir," Wart replied.
Lancelot nodded. He had suspected as much.
"What's in the saddlebags?" he asked.
The saddlebags contained a complete set of armour – again, not Lancelot's own but something nondescript in his size. He supposed it would have been conspicuous if all the things that had been his had suddenly disappeared. There was a shield, too, and for a moment Lancelot stood looking at the blank white surface where there should have been the red and gold emblem of the Pendragons. By the handle, hidden from view, a tattered piece of white cloth was tied. Lancelot touched it. He'd never seen it before, but something told him without a doubt that it had belonged to Gwen. For a moment his conviction about the identity of his benefactor wavered.
"Is this a message?" he asked Wart.
The boy shrugged.
"I wasn't told, sir."
"You don't have to call me 'sir'. I'm not a knight of the round table anymore," he said, throwing another glance at the blank shield.
"You're still a knight though, sir," Wart said.
Lancelot looked at the horse and the saddlebags, which had contained no message.
"I suppose I am." He turned to wart. "Tell your master ..." he trailed off. He thought of Gwen's words to Arthur, the apology, the guarantee that she had never had bad intentions. He thought better of repeating such words.
"Tell him I said my piece the first time we sat at that table, that I never stopped believing in those words, and that this proves me right. No matter what posterity will say of either of us."
IYîYîYîYI
The next morning came with a bright sun and a cold wind. Arthur was standing on the courtyard, watching the preparations, when he noticed a tall, red-haired man near him doing the same thing. Kay, the hangman. Arthur found himself walking up to him.
"If you want to find someone else to do this, everyone will understand perfectly," he said.
The man jumped at being addressed by the King, and bowed when he had gathered his wits about him.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but I'm not sure what you mean."
Arthur gestured at the people running around.
"I understand that you knew the Queen when she was a little girl. Your task must be a tarrying enough without knowing the persons who are sent to you."
Kay nodded stoically.
"I'm afraid it is a task one gets used to, more than one would like, Your Majesty."
"I find that hard to believe. I've killed my fair share of men in battle. I'm not afraid to admit to a man like you that sometimes, they come back to haunt me in my dreams."
Kay nodded again.
"It's the one's you're not sure you had the right to kill."
The hangman suddenly paled as he caught himself.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, I did not mean to suggest ..."
"It's alright," Arthur interrupted assuringly. "You're right."
Someone called out loudly from the other side of the courtyard and a few big logs of timbre crashed down onto the cobbled stones from a wagon. There was a brief commotion that caught their attention for a moment and allowed them to leave that line of thought. Though, not completely.
"I know it because I saw what it did with my father," Kay said. "He worked during the Great Purge. For a time had to execute women and youngsters daily. Even children. People who might only have been suspected of having hidden someone. There were no trials held, no witnesses were questioned." He paused. "A hangman must assume that the people he executes are guilty, or he will go insane. But during that time ... It was the women and children, you see. He got nightmares. He never became the same again. There will be times when someone you know is sent to you, and that is hard to bear, but at least when that happens, I can assume that it is because of something they have actually done. When Your Majesty changed the law on magic, I went to my father's grave and told him about it. I told him that no one would ever ask me to execute a child. I will be eternally grateful for that."
Arthur didn't know what to say about that. He felt the criticism of his father and the praise of himself in equal measure, and hoped the latter was as fair and deserved as the former.
"The profession runs in the family?" he asked instead of answering.
"It always does," Kay said, and smiled for the first time, a tired but true smile. "I wanted to be a knight, or at least a squire. But no one would take on the hangman's son as an apprentice. I was a walking reminder of my father's axe. Now I hold the axe. No one likes the hangman. He's Death."
They fell silent again. In opposite of what Kay had just claimed, Arthur found that he liked the quiet company of this man. It soothed him. He would have made an excellent addition to the Knights of Camelot on account of temperament alone.
"My father's final execution was that of Tom the Blacksmith," Kay said suddenly, surprising Arthur. "I suppose there is some sort of sense in that I should be the one to execute his daughter."
Perhaps because he sensed that this man was honest and trustworthy, or perhaps just because it didn't matter very much and he wanted to do the man a kindness, Arthur said:
"That is not settled yet. The trial doesn't have to end with execution."
For a moment Kay looked like he was about to disagree, but then their eyes met and it seemed he thought better of it. Arthur wondered if he had seen that Arthur meant it, or simply decided it was never wise to argue with a king.
IYîYîYîYI
By the time the guards came to get her, Gwen's fear had long since been replaced by hollow apathy. She had thought through each possible way she could attempt to rescue herself, and she predicted she could probably get as far as to the lower town, even defend herself against the guards for a while, but each scenario ended with her getting apprehended and brought back in chains. After hours of frantic searching for a plan she had admitted defeat. She cut off the part of her that was still a blacksmith's daughter, fretful and angry, and instead she drew herself up to her full height and became The Queen of Camelot. She followed the guards with her hands free at her side and her chin high.
They brought her up to an elevated area in the middle of the courtyard. The first thing she saw was Arthur, sitting in front of her in a booth that looked like the one used at tournaments. People were seated to the right and left of him and Gwen knew they were people she knew, people she ought to recognise, but their faces didn't register with her now. When the two guards next to her tore of her dress, leaving her in her undergarments (which still outdid everything she had worn before marrying Arthur) she thought she saw a look of pain flick across Arthur's face, but she didn't even flinch at the treatment. The booming voice of the town crier called out her name, and the crowd that had gathered fell silent. All those eyes looking at her, hungry for drama and blood, or horrified of what their gossip had led up to. Let them take their fill. She didn't care. She felt the sunshine on her face. She felt the wind rustling in her skirts. She felt so overwhelmingly alive that, paradoxically, it felt more natural than ever to her that life was only a temporary state. It was too intense to last.
Time passed as slow as syrup, and it seemed strange beyond belief that the town crier was still carrying on when the clanging of metal and the sound of raised voices reached Gwen's ears. She began to rise slowly out of her deep daze. Then, the town crier stopped himself and stared over her shoulder, and she turned around.
From the direction of the main gates, a knight rode through the crowd, and the crowd parted in front of him like water. Gwen's heartbeat went from lethargically slow to a furious pace. She couldn't see who it was, but she didn't have to. Far from someone who had stopped caring whether or not she lived or died, relief and gratitude now washed over her like a warm wave. The sharp sound of metal against metal cut through the air that separated them like lifelines being thrown towards her.
Somewhere someone cried out: "Stop him!"
The cry shook Gwen the remaining way out of her half-sleep. The world kicked back into full speed, with loud sound and vivid colour, and with it, fear also returned. She saw guards and knights disengage themselves from the crowd and make their way towards Lancelot, and wanted to scream. The guards next to her gaped. She threw a glance at Arthur. His hands had clenched around the armrests, but he remained silent and motionless as people began to stir around him. For a moment, the guilt that hit her at the sight of him took her breath away. Then she blinked, and remembered the urgency of the moment. She turned back around.
Lancelot was already close enough that Gwen could see his face clearly when he opened the visor, and charging towards her at full speed. He leant down and reached out his hand. She could count the seconds before their hands connected: one – people were screaming around her – two – the guard next to her tried to pull her away – three – she put an elbow in his eye – four.
Before she knew it, she was flying through the air, half pulled by him, half throwing herself onto the horse as if she'd been doing nothing else all her life. The upset voices around them united in one horrified scream.
Later, she would think of the people she'd left behind, of the look in Arthur's eyes the last time she saw them, of never knowing for sure what he had truly meant down in the dungeons, and of never getting to tell Merlin about Morgana's message. She would think about Elyan, wonder where he'd been and how he'd react when he heard. She would think about her father's grave that she would never visit again, and how close she had been to ending up in a grave of her own. Now, she could only think of how much she wanted to get as far away from here as possible.
IYîYîYîYI
As Gwen quickly settled on the horse in front of him, Lancelot took a last look at Arthur. He was seated on the small stage that was covered in red cloth; he wore shining chainmail, a crimson mantle and the golden crown, and was flanked on both sides by knights and council members. The Pendragon shield of arms hung off the castle wall behind him, the golden dragon on the banner looking more majestic than ever. Sunlight shone down on the scene, glittering in the metal, making the red nuances deeper and more vivid, like blood. The whole scene reminded Lancelot of tapestries of the Old Kings: mighty men, timeless, larger than life. Men who could spawn legends that would live for centuries. Men who could become legends. Lancelot would have been proud to serve a king like that until the day he died. Now it seemed this would be the last service he did him.
He didn't nod at Arthur, careful not to let anyone else think what he now knew – that this was all part of Arthur's plan – but he met the other man's eyes. Arthur made no sign of being pleased or triumphant, and Lancelot supposed he didn't have much reason to, plan or no plan. But his grip on the armrests relaxed. Justice had been served – not the justice of written laws of Camelot, but the justice of the word of the King.
Guards were approaching, and Lancelot turned the horse around. The crowd split before them as they charged back across the courtyard toward the gates. He managed to get them to the castle walls without having to wound any of his fellow knights, but when they got as far as the gates, he saw a young guard trying to haul up the drawbridge. There was only one thing he could do. He sheathed his sword, pulled out his knife and threw it. He would have liked to aim at the man's hand, but knew it was too risky from that distance. The man fell when he was hit, and they rode out of the gates, over the drawbridge.
IYîYîYîYI
Belatedly, after a few cries, Lancelot heard an arrow or two rush through the air behind them, but the guards on the wall had taken too long to realise what was going on below; they were already out of reach, and soon they were out of sight, tearing through the woods at high pace. They rode in silence, even when he thought he felt Gwen sobbing in his arms. They slept under the stars that night, and in the morning they continued, further and further away from Camelot.
IYîYîYîYI
A/N: Ta daa! Back again!
I am looking for a BETA for a one-shot Lewis-fanfic (light slash, nothing even remotely graphic). It's like the most narrow ship of the most narrow fandom ever, but if anyone here would like to give it a read-through, that would be awesome.
I would also love a BETA for a one-shot Neverwhere-fic, gen, some pre-slash if you squint. Give me a shout if you're interested.
Thank you.
