"How I wish everything was simple,
How I wish everything didn't end in lies,
How I wish I could just keep turning back time,
How I wish I could be more like me,
When I didn't have to worry about myself,
How I wish I could just keep turning back time."
- Don't Cry, Olivia Broadfield
Merlin was Emrys.
Merlin was the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth. Merlin was the master of life and death. Merlin was the last High Priest of the Old Religion, and the sole defender of all Albion, and the champion of magic, and the hero of prophecy, and now that all the snow and the cotton and the feathers weren't there to dull it all down, Arthur felt he had to think about it—to turn it over and over and over in the quiet of his mind, to say it to himself, again and again, until he knew it better than he knew the back of his own hand, better than he knew his own name, until he could make it feel normal, until he could make it feel right.
Merlin was Emrys. Merlin was the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth. Merlin was the master of life and death—and what did that mean, to be the master of life and death, and what in God's name had Merlin done to be the master of life and death, and what in God's name had made Merlin want to be the master of life and death, because no man should be master of life and death, that just wasn't the kind of power a mere man should hold—and Merlin was the last High Priest of the Old Religion, and he was the sole defender of all Albion, and he was the champion of magic, and the hero of prophecy, and what did that mean, to be the hero of prophecy, because it sounded an awful lot like maybe Merlin could see the future, and Arthur really did not like that at all, but if Merlin could see the future, wouldn't he be like Morgana had been? With all her funny dreams, and things? If Merlin could see the future like Morgana could, wouldn't he be like Morgana? If Merlin could see the future like Morgana could, wouldn't he have funny dreams like Morgana had, too?
Well, if Merlin had ever had funny dreams, he'd certainly never said so much as a word about it, but he wouldn't, would he, if he knew it was magic, if he knew it was all prophecy? And he always got these ridiculous little "feelings", on missions and quests and things, like Arthur, I don't think you should go into that crumbling old manor, or Arthur, I don't think you should stop to help that frail old lady,or Arthur, I don't think you should shoot that unicorn, and Arthur always scoffed at him, laughed at him, teased him, right up until the crumbling old manor's roof nearly caved in on him, or the frail old lady turned out to be an evil witch, or the death of the unicorn brought a curse down upon the kingdom.
No, Merlin had never said a thing about funny dreams, but he said an awful lot about funny feelings, and damn it, that was it, he could see the future, couldn't he, just as clear as Morgana ever could, and everything would be so much simpler if he was just an ordinary servant without any magic at all.
"I'm afraid I must leave you now," Iseldir said suddenly—soft, quiet, but it cut through the thick haze in Arthur's head quicker than a sword, quicker than a knife—and he got to his feet, with a light brush of his wrinkled hand down his cloak, where little white flecks of fresh snow glimmered faintly against the dark green wool. "It seems the storm will soon be upon us, and I have already lingered here overlong. I must do my part to secure the camp."
And, without another word, he walked away.
Like he hadn't just turned the whole world over on its head. Like he hadn't just opened his mouth and upended the universe in all of ten minutes. Like he hadn't just reached over and finally put in the last piece to the puzzle Arthur felt his life had been, and like the last piece didn't just raise a hundred thousand more questions than the empty space ever had.
"Wait!" Arthur scrambled to his feet—he slipped and stumbled, in the snow, in his frantic rush to get past his friends, to get to the old druid before he could disappear into the crush of the crowded camp. "Wait, wait, I—" he finally pulled even with Iseldir, "—I still have more questions!"
"Indeed?" Iseldir didn't slow or stop, but he did level a quick glance at Arthur. "Good."
Arthur blinked. "Good?"
"Well, I must confess, I would be rather disappointed if you didn't have questions," Iseldir said, with a slight arch of his silver brows. "Indifference and disinterest are, after all, the outcome of an idle mind."
"Um," Arthur said. "Right."
"But I'm afraid I can offer you no answers yet," Iseldir breezed on, like Arthur hadn't even opened his mouth. "I must see to the camp before the storm sets in."
"See to the camp?" Arthur repeated, with a glance around at the clusters of cloaked druids, the bright, soft glow of the little cookfires, and the scattered, patched-up tents. "What's there to see to? You lot have—" even with all the unbelievable and impossible and incredible things Iseldir had just told him about Merlin and Emrys and magic and sorcery, he still couldn't push the word off his lips with anything like calm, "—magic. Can't you just—I don't know, enchant the camp to repel the snow, and leave it like that for the whole winter?"
At least Iseldir didn't seem offended over the slip—and what had things come to, that Arthur didn't want to offend a druid—? "I'm afraid that would not be possible. To cast a Shield over an area as large as this requires much magic, and to maintain it for the duration of a storm requires even more. To keep it up for the whole winter?" His mouth edged up in a small smile. "I believe we would need something in the vein of a hundred Emryses for that. No, I'm afraid this is the most we can do."
"Really?" Arthur blinked. "It's that difficult?"
"Oh, indeed," Iseldir nodded, his loose grey hair dragging down his wrinkled cheek. "It takes far more magic than one sorcerer possesses to obstruct the elements." He leveled another glance at Arthur, his pale eyes unreadable, and his grey head tipped to the side. "Perhaps," he said, but slow and steady, like a defenseless man before a vicious snake reared back to strike, "perhaps you would like to stay and watch?"
Arthur blinked up at the old druid—he could feel his half-open mouth go dry, he could feel his eyes stretch wide in his face, he could feel his heart beat and batter out a frantic, frenzied thud in his chest, against his ribs, and he wanted to say no, because he shouldn't stick around for this, he shouldn't see this, he shouldn't know any more about magic than he already did, he shouldn't learn any more than he had already learned today, he shouldn't know too much about magic, he shouldn't let himself get too interested in it, because interest was such a slippery slope to obsession and obsession was such a slippery slope to application—
Or, at least, that was what his father had always told him.
He had always said Arthur should never know too much about magic—never learn more than you must, never learn more than what you need to fight it, Arthur, never let yourself look at it too long, never think about it too hard, don't let it in your head, or before you know it, you'll be a sorcerer, too, and you cannot let that happen, Arthur, you cannot let magic claim and corrupt you as it has claimed and corrupted so many others, we must fight it, we must keep our heads clear enough to fight it—and Arthur had always believed him, but—but he had also always said that sorcerers chose magic, and it wasn't like that, it was the other way around, wasn't it?
Magic chose sorcerers.
Not the other way around.
His father had been wrong about that.
His father had been wrong about so much—about servants and kings, about common folk and highborn men, about the druids, about worth and valor and honor, about Gwaine and Guinevere, about Merlin—and Arthur had always faced it, flat-out, full-on, eyes wide open to find the truth, to decide for himself, and he had always told himself I will be better than my father, because when I think I'm wrong, I will face it, flat-out, full-on, eyes wide open until I find the truth, and if it turns out I am wrong, I will face that, too, and I will make amends for my mistakes and I will change.
Arthur swallowed.
He nodded.
Iseldir smiled, pale eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Well, then," he said, simply, "step back a bit, and we will begin."
Without another word, the old druid dropped down to his knees in the snow, almost as a devout believer in a cathedral and, as if he had just cast a silent spell, at least ten other druids followed his lead, crouching down low in the thick heaps of white.
Iseldir reached out a steady hand, and traced a light shape in the fresh powder—a large circle, at least six feet wide, and six feet tall, with a funny sort of upside-down cone in the center, and a long, straight line running right through the whole of it, from one edge of the circle to the other, and, as Arthur watched, the other druids etched out the same odd little emblem in the snow, until it made a kind of pattern all around the camp—so many, he had to take a step back just to make room for them all.
Arthur's breath hitched when he finally understood.
It was a rune. It was a magic rune. Right there at his feet.
He had never seen a magic rune before.
"All right!" Iseldir called, and his soft voice sounded sharp and clear now in the stinging cold air. "Let us commence!"
He stretched out an arm to grab up the wrinkled white hand of a very old lady to his left, and the smooth brown palm of the tall, lanky man on his right—and all the other druids down the line clasped hands, too—before he opened his mouth, before all the druids opened their mouths, and magic words spilled out.
"—beteon þes friþhus—bewarian þes friþstól fram se dynge—"
The spell seemed to go on forever—certainly long past the point Arthur thought it would stop—but when the druids finally fell silent, a great yellow light shot out of the rune in the center, the one Iseldir had drawn, and the light soared, up and up and up, over the druids, over the fires, over the tents, over Arthur's head, over the bare brown trees, to form an enormous, shimmering dome of brightest gold, like a rounded roof, in the slate-grey sky.
Arthur didn't actually think it would hold up in the storm—it simply looked too delicate for that, frail and fragile as the first silken threads in a spider's newly-spun, gossamer-thin web—but, even as the snow still rained down right outside the shield, it melted down to water to air to nothing the moment it touched the golden light, and for all the wind howled, the flimsy frame never even trembled.
Arthur had never seen magic like this before.
He had never had the chance to see magic like this before—when he wasn't fighting it, when the sorcerer who cast it didn't want him dead, when the sorcerer who cast it didn't mean to hurt, when the magic wasn't meant to hurt, but this was it, wasn't it, this was magic, and he wasn't fighting it, this was magic and it wasn't—
And it wasn't hurting anyone.
The rest of the druids drifted slowly away from the thick cluster of runes in the snow—they went back to the seats they had left empty beside their friends and around the fires—but the high, glittering arch stayed steady over the camp, a bright and brilliant shine against the cold, stark white of the midwinter sky.
It was magic.
And it wasn't hurting anyone.
"Now," Iseldir said, and he sounded a bit worse for the wear, slow and tired and strained, but the smile never left his old face, "let us make our way back to your companions, and you may ask what you will of me." But even with the toll the spell had so obviously taken on him, the old druid never stumbled or swayed on his way back to the fire.
The flame still burned on, a faint orange flicker in the heap of dark wood, but Gwaine and Guinevere and Elyan had gone and the logs were lost under a thick fall of fresh snow. Iseldir merely cleared the white powder away with the back of a wrinkled hand and dropped down, with a heavy breath, on the cold, hard wood beneath.
But Arthur didn't sit down. He glanced around the camp—the quiet grove wrapped in its thick ivory blanket, with the golden roof still glittering high overhead—until he had finally found his friends, clustered around one of the many magic runes etched into the frozen ground. And the wrinkled old woman from before, who had stood at Iseldir's side and held Iseldir's hand while they cast the spell, had returned to the rune, too. Even from here, Arthur could see her mouth open and move, could see her talking to them.
Even from here, Arthur could see Elyan had taken his hand off his sword.
"Well?" Iseldir prompted, but it wasn't stern or sharp or even a little bit impatient.
Arthur finally ripped his eyes off his friends—they were all right—before he eased himself down on the logs at the old druid's side. His brain seemed to almost burn inside his skull—Merlin and Emrys and magic and sorcery and spells and runes and druids and Morgana and Guinevere and Gwaine and Merlin, it all just went around and around in his head, in a circle, on a loop, an endless, empty echo, and so fast, and so much, his temples pounded painfully with it all. "W-What else—?" Truth be told, he wasn't sure he actually wanted to know, but he was very sure he needed to, and that was enough. "What else has Merlin done for me? For Camelot?"
Iseldir slowly lifted his silver brows. "Well, that is a very good question. A very good question indeed. But I'm afraid I will only disappoint you if I should attempt to answer it. You must understand," he pressed on, a little louder now, because Arthur had opened his mouth, "Emrys operates in great secrecy. Many of his exploits simply never reached our ears, and I should think a great number of them never will. I certainly do not presume to know more of him than any other of my kind."
"You know more than me." The words, or maybe just the truth in them, burned on the way out of his mouth. "And I'm beginning to think everyone does."
Iseldir merely looked at him, pale eyes wide and soft and sad. "Do you know why that is?" he said, quietly. "Do you know why Emrys never revealed his true identity to you?"
Arthur scoffed. If he only shut his eyes, he knew Merlin would be there behind them, looking just like he had looked down in the dungeon, dirty and bruised and terrified, his thin face white and his blue eyes blown wide as he screamed I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it was always, always you, his panicked, desperate voice echoing off the cold stone walls—
So Arthur didn't shut his eyes. "Yeah," he said, instead, "because he knew I would act like a right prat about—"
"Because," Iseldir cut in, quiet as ever, but with a sharp, inflexible edge of steel to his voice now, "he feared it would make it more difficult to protect you."
What? Arthur blinked numbly up at the old druid. "Protect me?"
"Everything he has ever done is to protect you," Iseldir leaned in a little nearer to Arthur, and dropped his words down to a whisper. "Emrys would never act if he believed it would place you in peril. You must know he only wanted the best for you. He only wanted to ensure your safety."
And Arthur wanted to believe it, more than he had ever wanted to believe in anything in his entire life—more than he had wanted to believe Morgana wasn't a traitor, a sorcerer, an enemy, more than he had wanted to believe his father was a good man, and a good king—but he didn't ask. He didn't press it. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the truth.
"So," he said, instead, rubbing lightly at his brow, "so if you know all this, surely you know more about his—" he had to stop, and think back to the word the old druid had used, "—exploits in Camelot. Can't you tell me anything more about—?"
"No," Iseldir said, firm and final. "No, I'm sorry, Arthur Pendragon, truly I am, but I cannot do as you ask of me. Any account I could give you would only prove inaccurate, and I do not wish you to walk away with the wrong—"
"He's my friend," Arthur blurted, before he could stop himself, before he could even think to stop himself, before he could even wonder if he wanted to. Before he could wonder if he could still call Merlin that, after what he had done. "He's my friend, he's been my friend for a long time now, but this—" he swallowed, "—but this is the first chance I've ever had to meet him."
Iseldir only smiled at him, a small, soft, sad little quirk of the lips. "Then don't you think," he said, light and even, "that your friend would like the chance to properly introduce himself?"
It would have been kinder, Arthur thought, if the old man had just hexed him.
"No," he whispered, because his throat felt too tight, just now, to let him get much louder than that. "No, I don't think. I really don't think he's ever going to want much of anything to do with me ever again." He pushed a swallow down past the knot in his throat, but his eyes prickled and burned. He had thrown the best and most loyal friend he had ever down in a dungeon. He had thrown the best and most loyal friend he had ever had away. He had picked Merlin up, and he had thrown him away. He had said such horrible things—he had said he hated Merlin, hadn't he, and he had said—he had said he was going to kill him, he had said he would burn at dawn, he had—he had made such a mistake, he had made such an awful mistake—
A warm and wrinkled hand suddenly squeezed Arthur's shoulder. "Have faith. You have done nothing he cannot forgive."
Arthur lifted his head to look up at the old druid—his eyes itched, and he had to blink back the hot tears before they spilled over—and he shook his head, slowly, side to side. "You don't know what I've done."
Iseldir's withered face settled back in the familiar warm, wide smile. "I know that Emrys sets you above all others. He loves you over all. You are his king, and he is your simbelgeféra."
Arthur blinked again, though his eyes were dry now. "My what?"
Iseldir leaned in and lowered his voice again, like it was some sort of great secret, like it was a secret only Arthur could hear. "Your champion."
"Champion?" Arthur echoed numbly, because if that meant what he thought it meant, this could very quickly take a turn for the unimaginably horrific. "He doesn't—" his cheeks felt a bit hot all of a sudden, even with the cold wind all around them, "—he doesn't fancy me, does he?"
"Certainly not," Iseldir said, like that was unthinkable, which it wasn't, because Arthur was the finest fighter in the five kingdoms, and he was rather handsome, if he did say so himself, and he was the king of Camelot, for God's sake, so he was plenty fanciable, even by Merlin's admittedly unknown standards. "His heart is with the Lady of the Lake."
"The what?" Arthur turned the name over and over in his mind, but he was sure he had never heard it before today, he had never heard it before Iseldir had said it, before Iseldir had called Merlin the one true lover of the Lady of the Lake, and he had already found out an awful lot about Merlin he had never known, but had the man really never even said so much as a word about the girl he fancied?
Sure, yes, all right, Merlin obviously had a lot of secrets, a lot of things to hide, but how did I've got a girlfriend even make it onto that particular list? It was certainlynowhere near the same level as I've got magic and I've used it to save the kingdom about a hundred times or I'm the greatest sorcerer in the world and I've got more power in my little finger than most sorcerers have in their whole body or my name's not even really Merlin, so what sort of girl was this Lady of the Lake, that he had never even heard Merlin mention her?
What sort of friend was Arthur, that he had never even heard Merlin mention her?
"You know, I do believe the Lady of the Lake might be of some help to you," Iseldir finally let his hand fall from Arthur's shoulder, and he snapped up a bit straighter on the log, his pale eyes suddenly bright. "What do you know of her?"
"Nothing," Arthur murmured, and the word tasted sour in his mouth, a sharp and bitter acid on his tongue. Had Merlin ever mentioned this mysterious Lady of the Lake to Gwaine? Had he ever talked about this girl to Guinevere? Did Elyan or Leon or Percival know her name? Had Lancelot known her name? Was he the only one Merlin had left locked out of the loop? Was he the only one who had never known such a small and simple and central thing about Merlin? Was she—
Was she like Merlin?
Was that why Merlin had never talked about her? Because she was like him? Because she was like him, and Merlin was afraid for her, too afraid to talk about her, too afraid to tell a soul in the city about her, because if he slipped up, if he said the wrong thing, if he said so much as one strange or suspicious word, she could be killed? Had Merlin never mentioned her simply because he thought he couldn't?
It felt like a stone in Arthur's stomach, hard and heavy and cold. Had Merlin never mentioned her because he was scared Arthur would do something horrible to her? Had Merlin never mentioned her because he thought Arthur would kill her? "Is she—" he swallowed, "—is she like Merlin? Has she got magic, too?" He didn't slip or stumble or stammer over the word this time.
"There is no one like Emrys," Iseldir shook his head, "nor will there ever be. But the Lady of the Lake does indeed hold extraordinary power in her own right. However, if it is her sorcery you seek—"
"It's not," Arthur said, but even with the golden dome still shining brightly over his head, even with Merlin clear in his mind, a cold tingle of fear crawled down his spine at the thought of it. At the thought of magic.
"—I believe she has something far more valuable for you," Iseldir breezed on, like Arthur hadn't said a thing. "You must tell her you are ready to receive Excalibur."
If Iseldir had thought Arthur would understand that, he had sorely missed the mark. He could only blink blankly at the poor, hopeful man for a long minute before he finally forced out one single word. "Excalibur?"
"Your sword," Iseldir said simply, like he thought that would clear it all up, and he sorely missed the mark there, too.
"No," Arthur said, as kindly as he could, "I already have my sword." He patted the silver hilt at his side.
"You have a sword," Iseldir said. "But you do not have your sword."
Arthur did not put his head in his hands, but it was a very near thing. "Well," he said, instead, "this one has never failed me in battle, so if it's all the same to you, I think I'll stick with it." He let his hand drop back into his lap. "What's so great about this Excalibur one, anyway? What makes you think I need it?"
And now it was Iseldir blinking blankly back at him. "I believe it will be integral to you in the forthcoming battle for your kingdom," he said, soft and serious, "for it is the only blade in this world with the power to slay Morgana."
Arthur didn't know what he had thought he would hear, but it wasn't that, and for all of half a moment, he went numb—like a cold shock of pure ice had rushed up into his brain, like frost had squeezed his heart with its white and frigid fingers, like a thick fall of fresh snow had flooded his throat, choking him, like winter itself had come and claimed his bones for its own, and it played over and over and over again in his head, sick and sharp, slick like oil over his unfeeling skin. For all Morgana had done, he had never wanted to hurt her. For all Morgana had done, he had never wanted her dead. But if this was ever going to end, if Camelot was ever going to be safe, if this fight was ever going to be over—
If Arthur wanted to save his people, he had to kill Morgana.
He would have to kill his own sister. He would have to murder her, he would have to look her in the face as he plunged his sword through her chest, carry her blood with him on his hands for the rest of his life, because if he didn't, she would be back, again and again and again, because this was Morgana, and God knew Morgana didn't give up.
Morgana would never give up, not so long as she had a beating heart in her chest and breath in her body, not so long as she still could fight, not so long as she could still lift her hand and open her lips to cast her spells, she would never give up as long as she lived, and what else but a sword to the heart would ever make her stop?
"Years ago," Iseldir said, but he sounded far away now, lost in the ice, the frost, the snow, the numb, "Emrys forged Excalibur for you, and entrusted it to the Lady. She has guarded it faithfully ever since, awaiting the moment when you have most need of it."
"But—" Arthur swallowed, and his throat felt cold, "—but it will—it will kill—" he couldn't get the last word off his frozen blue lips, couldn't slip it past his shaky white hands and pounding pounding pounding head.
"Yes," Iseldir nodded. "For if she lives on, she will merely return again. So long as she lives, this land will never know peace. So long as she lives, she will never know peace."
"But—" Arthur shook his head—pounding pounding pounding and this can't be it, this can't be right, this can't be— "—but she—"
"If you do not stop her now," Iseldir said, so serious Arthur simply couldn't help but believe him, "you never will."
She's my sister, Arthur wanted to say, she's my sister and I love her, and I can't hate her, even with all she's done, even as hard as I've tried, I can't hate her because she's my sister and I love her and I want her back, I want my sister back, I want my family back, and his hands, open and empty and limp in his lap, were stained all over with the blood of everyone he couldn't save. She's my sister, he thought, again and again and again, she's my sister, she's my sister and I love her and I can't hate her because I'm too busy missing her and wanting her back.
"I'm sorry, Arthur." Iseldir's withered hand settled on Arthur's shoulder again, light enough to let him shrug it off if he wanted to, but he wasn't so sure he did. "I am so very sorry for all destiny has demanded of you."
She's my sister, and I have to kill her, and if this is destiny, I don't want it, if this is my destiny, someone else can have it, someone else can do it, but he shut his eyes, and he hauled in a slow, shuddery breath. He folded his open and empty and limp hands up into fists. His kingdom needed him. His people needed him. He could not let himself fall to pieces like this. He didn't know how he would ever end Morgana, but he had to.
Iseldir was right on one count. For as long as she lived, the land would never know peace.
"How," Arthur said, in the steadiest voice he could muster, "do I find the Lady of the Lake?"
"Merlin's got a girlfriend?" Gwaine blurted.
Like that was the crux of thing. Like that was supposed to be the takeaway here, like the bit where Arthur had to find a magic lake because an enchanted sword apparently waited for him there was mere background noise to the true crisis at hand. For Christ's sake. Arthur's head throbbed. "I'm not sure what she is, Sir Gwaine, but that's not the—"
"Well, it's only to be expected, you know," Elyan cut in, with a grin on his face, and light pat to Gwaine's shoulder. "You can't just go and fall in love with Emrys without a bit of competition. You'll have to fight an awful lot of duels for his hand, I expect."
Gwaine pushed Elyan into the table so hard, the candle at Arthur's elbow rattled lightly in its holder.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "You know what? Yes, Gwaine, absolutely right, Merlin's got a girlfriend, well done, and trust me, I'm as astonished as you are." He smoothed out a small crease in the thin, yellowed paper spread out on the low table. "Now," he plowed on, before Gwaine could derail things with his ridiculous questions again, "Iseldir says, so long as we stick to this path, we should reach the Lake of Avalon in three days—we could knock it down to two with a hard march, I'm sure." His heart thudded hard against his ribs. He would be back on his way to Camelot within the week. He would be back in Camelot within the week.
Within the week, he would be back in Camelot with the means to murder his own sister in his hands.
Guinevere's dark brow puckered a bit, and she leaned down to look at the map—splashed all over with stains, black ink blurred and smeared, corners crinkled, pale edges burnt black. "So you just ask her for the sword? That's all?" She chewed lightly on her lower lip.
"That's what Iseldir said," Arthur murmured. "He said Merlin made it for me, and gave it to her just to keep it safe until—"
"Merlin?" Elyan broke in. He pushed off the table. "Merlin forged it? Iseldir said Merlin forged it? Like—?" He lifted an empty hand in the air, like he had an invisible anvil clenched in his fist, and he brought it sharply down again, like he had just struck the blade of an unseen sword. "Like forge-forged?"
"No, I don't think so," Guinevere shook her head before she picked up the candle off the edge of the table, and lifted it high over the stained, tattered map for a better look. "He's never been much for that sort of thing, has he? You've seen him at it. He didn't even know how to buckle on a hauberk until Dad and I gave him a hand."
"That explains a lot," Arthur muttered under his breath, to himself, soft enough he was sure no one else would hear.
"What does it matter where Merlin got the sword?" Gwaine snapped. "One way or another, it's in the lake, isn't it?"
"In the lake?" Elyan whipped his head around to stare at Gwaine. "I-I don't think Iseldir meant that literally, Gwaine. That's mad. I mean, it's December. The lake's all frozen over now. Besides, wouldn't the sword be all rusted by now if it was in water all this time?"
"I—I don't know." Arthur hadn't even thought about that, but Iseldir certainly hadn't seemed to think so. Or, at least, he hadn't seemed to think it would be much of a problem even if the sword was all rusted, but what did a druid know about swords? "He just said she was the Lady of the Lake. He didn't say she lived in the lake. She's got to have a house or something, hasn't she?"
"Well, I don't think we need to worry about that, anyway," Guinevere put the candle back down with a light little clunk of metal on wood. "It's a magic lake, isn't it? Even if the sword is in there, I don't think the water would have hurt it much." She chewed her lip again, and dropped a glance back down at the map. "What I want to know," she said, slowly, "is why Merlin didn't just give you the sword straight off after he got it? Iseldir said he made it for you, didn't he?"
"Probably 'cause it's enchanted," Gwaine leaned on the edge of the little table, and the wood creaked. "A magic sword would have been a bit of a dead giveaway, Gwen."
"Uh, I think we do need to worry about where the Lady of the Lake lives," Elyan tossed out. "At least a little bit. What if her house is hidden? Or it's got a spell over it so people without magic can't find it? How will we know when we've reached her?"
"I—I don't know," Arthur hadn't thought about that, either. "Iseldir just said I had to go to the lake's edge and—" he frowned, "—and 'call her on in the name of Emrys', but obviously—"
"—well, yes, of course it's enchanted, Gwaine, but I don't think that's it," Guinevere pushed a lock of thick, curly hair behind her ear. "How many ordinary people do you think could tell the difference between a sword and a magic sword? You need all sorts of sorcery detectors for that sort of—"
"Do you reckon she'll be mad at us?" Elyan wrinkled his brow. "When she sees Merlin's not with us? I wouldn't be too chuffed if I—"
"Well, just so long as she's not too hacked off when she sees we've got the princess with us," Gwaine cut in, his mouth twisted up in a sneer. "His fantastic reputation with sorcerers might precede him, you know."
Arthur shut his eyes, long enough to let the hot, sick rush of shame and fury in his stomach settle back down, before he dragged in a breath and looked up at Gwaine. "She's Merlin's girl," he said, lightly and evenly as he could. "She and I are on the same side. There's a good chance she won't mind me as much as most."
"Yeah, or maybe she'll mind you more," Gwaine bit out, all clenched teeth and clenched fists and sharp edges. "Once she hears what you've done to him."
Arthur stilled. He tried to swallow, but the knot in his throat was back again, too hard and tight to breathe around. He tried to open his mouth—he wanted to open his mouth, he wanted to talk, he wanted to say I know that, don't you think I know that, don't you think I know that's a risk, and don't you think I've already decided Camelot is worth that risk—but his lips felt stitched shut.
Elyan snorted out loud in the sudden, heavy silence. "Come off it, Gwaine, if anything, she'll mind you more," he elbowed Gwaine lightly in the ribs. "You've tried to romance her tall, dark sorcerer away a total of—what is it? Going on three times now? Yeah, I don't fancy she's too fond of you."
Gwaine blushed—actually blushed, bright red cheeks and all—and he opened his mouth, but Guinevere cut in too quickly for him to get out a word, and thank God.
"Look, it's getting late, and we've got a long walk ahead of us tomorrow." She traced a finger down the little black line on the map until she reached the creased corner where the lake was inked in, and tapped it with one short, blunt fingernail. "We should all get in a bit of sleep before we set off."
Gwaine huffed, still very pink in the face, but he didn't fight her on it. He merely pushed past Elyan and stormed out of the tent into the deep black of the winter night outside without so much as a word.
Elyan tossed Arthur a quick, apologetic little wince. "He'll—he'll come around," he said, and even he didn't sound like he believed himself, but he turned and ducked out of the tent, too, before Arthur could call him on it.
Guinevere stared after her brother, her dark eyes hard as stone, her mouth pinched up in that thin, white line, and for a moment, her furious screams from before seemed to echo around and around the silent tent, seemed to burn in Arthur's ears, and for all of half a second, he thought she might do it again, might whirl around to face him and pick right back up where she left off, when she had said if you think this is about me, you really do not get it, when she had said I thought I was going to have to do it all alone, with her voice high and tight and so much colder than the ice and snow outside, and her pretty face twisted up in a snarl, and furious tears shining in her brown eyes, I thought I was going to have to do it all alone, I thought I was going to be alone, I thought I was going to be alone—
Arthur blinked, and turned the words over in his mind again. He had never—he had never thought about it like that before, he had never thought about how alone Guinevere must have felt, when she lost her father—when he had died on the wrong end of a sword in the dark dead of night, in a cruel and senseless slaughter, in a murder, even though he had done nothing wrong, even though he was an innocent man, a good man, even though his only sin was simply knowing a sorcerer, merely seeing a bit of magic, even though he'd had no hand in it, he had still gone the way of the guilty, and Guinevere was the one left behind, all alone in the world, a girl of barely eighteen with not a thing to her name but the dress on her body.
Guinevere had lost her father, and even with Morgana in her corner, even with Merlin at her side, she'd had no one to turn to. She had lost her father, and his father hadn't even permitted her to lay him to rest in the city, in the old cemetery behind the cathedral where Camelot buried their dead. Even with Morgana to stand up for her, and Merlin to stand with her, Guinevere must have felt so terribly, unbearably alone.
And Morgana hadn't been there to stand up for Guinevere much longer, had she? No, she had betrayed Guinevere just as much as she had betrayed Arthur, she had stabbed her in the back as surely as she had stabbed Arthur, but he had only ever stopped to pull the knife out of his own spine. He had gotten lost so deep inside himself—why didn't she come to me, why didn't she tell me, why didn't she just tell me, why didn't she let me help her, didn't she know she could turn to me, didn't she know she could trust me—and when he had finally clawed his way back out again, when he had finally pushed past his own pain, and come back to the world, come back to Guinevere, she had seemed all right, she had seemed fine, but had she had a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold, a friend to talk to, a friend to turn to, when the pain pressed too heavy on her, when the hurt cut too deep, when she missed Morgana too much? Had anyone been there for her, in the long, dark, quiet days after the battle?
Or had she faced it all alone?
Had she faced—Arthur's heart thudded—had she faced the loss of Lancelot all alone? When he had gone through the veil on the Isle of the Blessed, to heal the tear, to seal up the dead, to save the world, and Arthur had come back to her, she had read the truth in his eyes, she had known before he could even open his mouth that Lancelot didn't ride at his side because he couldn't, because he wasn't there to ride at Arthur's side any longer, she hadn't needed Arthur to tell her, she had never needed him to say a word, but he had told her anyway, just to get it out of him, just to take the terrible weight off his shoulders.
He had needed her.
And she had been there.
But he hadn't done the same for her.
She had cried at the funeral—he had seen the tears in her dark eyes, on her brown cheeks, glistening in the soft glow of the fire, and he had held her hand, yes, but when she had said he didn't sacrifice himself for Camelot, I made him promise to look after you, and he said with his life, Arthur hadn't said a word. He hadn't told her it wasn't her fault. He hadn't told her she shouldn't blame herself. He hadn't told her that the guilt wasn't her burden to bear.
He had told himself she wouldn't want to hear it—he had told himself she wouldn't listen, she wasn't ready to listen—but the cold and brutal truth of it was simply that he hadn't known what to say, that he hadn't had the right words, and he hadn't tried hard enough to find them.
So he had turned around and left her at the pyre.
He had left her all alone.
Arthur swallowed. He opened his mouth—
"I'm sorry."
—but he wasn't the one that said it.
"I'm sorry, Arthur," Guinevere looked him full in the face, her lips pulled down in a frown, her brow wrinkled, her loose dark braid spilling over one shoulder. "I'm sorry for—" she sucked in a breath, and shook her head, slowly, side-to-side, "—for the way I acted this morning."
What? Arthur gaped at her, with his mouth still open and his eyes far too wide in his face. What the hell did she have to besorry for? He was the one who should be sorry. He was the one who should have said it, he was the one who should have told her, and he knew it, he knew he had wronged her, he had failed her, he had never been there for her in the way a friend should be there for a friend, never mind the way a lover should be there for a lover, or a king should be there for his queen. He had wronged her. He had let her down. Not the other way around. Never the other way around.
"I'm not sorry for the things I said," she sounded stronger now, and sharper, and she never flinched, never looked away, never broke off. "And I'm not sorry for standing with my friend, and I'm not sorry when I say I will go on standing with him, no matter what you decide to do when we get back."
I'm not going to do anything, Arthur wanted to say, and how can you think that, how can you think I would do that, now that I know all that I do, now that I know so much more than I knew when I did what I did to him?
But he didn't say that, he didn't say a word of it, because he wanted to listen to her, he wanted to do one right in this long line of wrongs.
He was going to do better now. He was going to shut his damn mouth, and for the first time in his selfish life, he was going to be there for her.
"But—" Guinevere finally dropped her eyes down to the floor, her dark curls falling in front of her face, hiding her from him, "—but I am sorry, Arthur, truly, for how I said those things. I shouldn't have lost my temper, and I certainly shouldn't have carried on as long as I did." She lifted her dark eyes back to his, her voice slow and steady and more serious than he thought he had ever heard it, and she leaned on her palm on the edge of the low table. "And for that, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."
Arthur let the silence stretch long enough to know she had said all she had to say—he didn't want to miss a word, he wanted to listen, he wanted to do better—before he finally opened his mouth. "No," he said, quietly, "no, I did. I'm glad you said what you did. It's—it's me who should be sorry," he went on, and a little too slow now, a little too uncertain. "It's me who should be sorry. I should have listened to Merlin. I should have—" he sighed, deep and heavy, and glanced back down at the map, at the lake, the last hope Camelot had left. "—I should have known better. I should have known he would never—for God's sake, he's Merlin, there's no one in the world more loyal to me than him, and I should have known better, and—" he finally met her eyes again, "—and I'm sorry I didn't."
Guinevere stared straight back at him, her face blank and smooth as glass. "We both know I'm not the one you should be saying that to."
"No," Arthur shook his head, "no, I should. I haven't been listening to you any more than I've been listening to Merlin, and that's not fair to you. I haven't been there for you like I should have. I haven't been the—" he had to break off there, right in the middle, he had to stop so he could sort out all the words, all the terms, all the things he could say right now, just to pick out the one he should say, "—I haven't been the friend I should have been to you," he said finally. "Much less anything more. You've always been there for me, and I'm sorry that I have yet to return the favor."
Guinevere jerked her head back up to stare at him again, her mouth slightly open, her brown eyes very big in her shocked face, and she tried to shake her head—he could read the word no on her lips clear as ink on paper, clear as if she'd said it out loud.
"No, I haven't," he said, firmly, no room for a fight, no room to say no. "I haven't been a friend to you, Guinevere. I've told you—" he wanted to touch her, to cup her cheek in his palm, to run his fingers lightly down the side of her face, but when he had reached for her, and she had said don't— "—I've told you I love you many times now, but I've never done a thing to show it. And I'll change that, Guinevere, I promise I will."
Guinevere tried to shake her head again. But she didn't open her mouth, didn't look like she wanted to talk, so he pressed on.
"I'll be better from now on." He held out his hands to her, palms up and open, to take hers in his, if only she would let him. "I'll be there for you just as you have always been there for me. You won't have to carry everything on your own anymore. You won't have to face all this alone anymore."
He dropped his arms back to his sides. She hadn't reached to take his hands, but that was all right. He had hardly expected her to. He had hardly even expected her to listen this long, come to that, and thank God she had, because at least she had let him get out, at least she had let him do that much. At least she had done that much for him.
A thin, glittering trail of tears slid slowly down her cheek, shining faintly on her face in the low light of the single candle, but even as she cried, she let out a quiet, startled huff of laughter. "This is such a mess," she said, and soft even in the thick silence of the dark tent. "Everything—" she sniffled and reached up to wipe lightly at her eyes with the back of her shaking hand, "—everything is just such a big mess right now."
Arthur almost laughed, too, because wasn't that a nice way to put it, but his throat still felt far too tight for that. "Yeah," he said, instead, and he thought about Merlin, shut down in the dungeons, cut off from his magic, cut off from the entire world, defenseless and scared to death. He thought of Morgana on the throne again, proud and tall and cold as ice, with the golden crown gleaming brightly amid her dark curls, and her bloodred lips twisted in that small and vicious smile. He thought of Gwaine, with his silver sword flashing and shining in his hand, in the light of the sun, of the way his narrowed, furious brown eyes had flashed still brighter, of the dark blood flecked on his white knuckles when he had punched Arthur. He thought of Guinevere, her mouth all pinched up in a thin, pale line, of Guinevere red-faced and screaming at him loud enough to frighten the birds from the trees, he thought of Guinevere, her brown eyes hard and her voice cold, of Guinevere calling him Sire.
He swallowed. "Yeah," he said, "it is."
"And now—" she sniffed again, and glanced back down at the map, still open on the low table, before several more sparkling tears seeped out of her dark eyes to glimmer dully on her cheeks, "—and now we're going off to fetch thissword—"
"You don't have to come," Arthur broke in. "You don't have to come with me. None of you have to come with me. Honestly. I don't blame you if you'd rather stay here, and wait for me to return with the—"
"No," Guinevere cut him off, a little too quick, a little too sharp. "No, don't be ridiculous. If you're leaving, we're leaving." She pushed off the edge of the table and reached out to take his hand in hers. "We're in this together, Arthur, all of us. We're with you. No matter what."
Arthur's heart lifted a little higher in his chest, even as he tried to tell himself no, don't, don't do that, don't do it, you know she's only in this for Camelot, you know you've lost her, you know you lost her a long time ago, but you've only just realized it now. "I'm not so sure Gwaine would agree with you," he said wryly. "It'll be a miracle if he ever wants anything to do with me again."
Thank God, Guinevere didn't shove an empty comfort down his throat like Elyan had. "What are you going to do?" she said, instead, and she swiped at her face again, still streaked and stained and sticky with the leftover tears. "What are you going to do when you've—when you've got the—?" she swallowed, hard enough for Arthur to see it go down, in the smooth line of her slender throat, and dropped her voice down to a hoarse whisper, like the trees outside could hear, "—the sword?"
And Arthur—
—he wanted to tell her he would use it, tell her he knew what he had to do, and he would do it, he would do whatever it took to end this war, to save his people, to bring peace to the land at last, he would do what was right, even if it was hard, even if it hurt, but—
—but he couldn't.
"I—I don't know," he said, instead, and he meant it. "I don't know. I don't—" he looked away, his throat squeezed nearly shut, "—I don't want to hurt her. I don't want her to die." He went down to a whisper, too, on the last word.
"Well—" Guinevere's brow creased up in a frown, and she pulled back to look him full in the face, "—well, of course you don't." And she made it sound so simple, like it was only to be expected, like he hadn't just told her he would let Camelot's deadliest enemy walk free if he could. "Of course you don't want that. I don't want that, either. I don't want anything bad to happen to her. She was my friend. And even with all the awful things she's done, I still love her."
And Arthur knew it didn't make a bit of sense, no sense at all, no sense in the world, but the tight twist in his chest pulled suddenly loose enough to let him breathe. She felt it, too. She felt it just as he felt it. He wasn't alone. He wasn't the only one who felt this way, he wasn't the only one who still remembered and missed that confident, outspoken, headstrong little girl he had grown up with. He wasn't the only one who could still see his sister under the ice-cold veneer of pride and cruelty.
"As do I, Guinevere," he said softly. "As do I."
notes: Oh, gosh, I can't believe I got this polished up so soon! It's been a crazy summer (and it's shaping up to be a pretty crazy autumn/winter, come to that!) so, if I'm being honest, I actually got this chapter written quite a while back, but I never had the chance to sit down and do the heavy edits I knew it needed. To tell you the truth, I'm still not sure if this is any good, but I've done the best I can, and that's all I can ask of myself. Sorry, again, about the long wait, things have just been so wild! If you're still willing to stick this story out, and see it through to the end with me, thank you. Your support means more than you'll ever know.
As always, the holiday season is typically when I'm busiest (work really picks up for me around the holidays, what with Christmas shopping, and all) so it might be a while before I come back, but I'm aiming for January! I haven't given up on this fic. It was just a hard summer, and working on this fic wasn't the outlet it usually is for me - it was just depressing me more. But I should be back to a more regular schedule now. Thanks so much for waiting for me!