A/N: Based on the Lancelot/Elaine relationship. Only with…Arthur.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

"He shall be made king."

The voice drifted towards her, but she kept the same blank, bored expression. She was staring out into the distance; her own tongue sounded foreign as it fell from Merlin's mouth. He…king… There was, of course, only one person he could be speaking of. Arthur. A dreamy sigh fell from her lips. Her pulse sped up a little. He may have his own savior, but she knew one thing for certain: he was hers.

Memories floated on the breeze of Merlin's voice, intertwining with the words and overwhelming them.

The snow was almost blinding, but as she sat there, huddled in a borrowed wool blanket, bruised and broken and stripped of her pride, Guinevere had watched him carefully as he rode beside the sorry shelter. Artorios Castus, a great Roman general, like his father before him. Arthur, they called him. He struck her as more a Briton than a Roman, however. His hair was cropped in short, dark waves and he had no beard, the Roman fashion. Still, it was the spirit and grit of the land she saw in him that made her heart swell. Arthur's mother had been a Briton, and by the old ways, the mother- right, that made Arthur as good as one as well.

"Guinevere."

It was not a question and she looked up from her daydreams, surprised. Merlin was gazing intently down at her, his black eyes glinting in the firelight. The smoke was almost as thick as the snow had been. A bemused smile played across her face. "Yes?"

Was that amusement or annoyance in his expression? It was difficult to say, and most likely a combination of both. "Have you been listening? I am concerned you do not fully understand me, my daughter. Arthur stands in a good position to be made King."

"King of what, precisely? You know the Britons, Merlin, and they are loyal only to their land." She made a face. "I care deeply for Arthur, but he is part of the Roman past. I do not think anyone would accept him, certainly not as a king." As the Britons mistrusted even themselves, Guinevere had difficulty seeing how they would place their trust in Arthur, as good and sweet and humble as he was. Oh, if only they would, it would be lovely to see Arthur thus rewarded…

For he is their savior, too, and I believe they must realize that.

She did prefer not to think of Badon Hill, and did so now only to put her mind at ease. Arthur was as fine a man as could be found, but he was no king. He would not want it any more than the Britons would want him.

Merlin's creased face with its blue-paint was looking grim. She did not appreciate his pessimism any more than he appreciated her nonchalance. However, Guinevere wondered if he could understand just how she was feeling. Her loyalties now divided, she had much less time than she would have liked to spend among her people – Arthur still did not care for the man who had served as her adopted father for many years now. Merlin would never completely right his wrongs, at least not in Arthur's book. That being said, "I would truly enjoy my time here best without you lecturing me on how seriously I should be taking this situation, my dear Merlin."

Therein lies the irony, Guinevere reminded herself. I am always quite serious, and my humor is sarcastic and dark. Yet now, I have Arthur to be my sun, and everything has changed.

His face fell and he appeared to be dismayed. "So you do not understand," he murmured. "If Arthur is king, my dear, he will need to secure himself a queen…and then secure the kingdom, though perhaps not in that order." Yes, the kingdom was secure…but not secure enough. Guinevere had a good argument when she said that Britannia would not be overly ready to see an overlord like a High King in power.

Guinevere actually couldn't help but giggle like a delighted child. "Oh, I see. I would not be…prepared, is it? Merlin, should Arthur truly be made King, why would I not be delighted to be Queen by his side?"

To her amazement, he looked more somber still, and strode over to her. He placed his hand on the top of her head gently, trying to smile. Merlin was a very soft-spoken, mysterious man, but at that moment, she read his eyes perfectly. He was every inch paternal distress. She wished she could fathom why. "Merlin!" Guinevere cried, exasperated. "Will you not reveal this secret to me and stop gazing on me as though I might die within moments? Please, I must know why you believe me to be so ill-suited to this position."

Another moment of silence passed, and she feared he would not tell her at all. Then he spoke. "The clans here are viciously envious of one another, Guinevere. They will all seek to stake claim in this new regime…and I know how you and Arthur feel about each other, but think of Arthur's position. Must not he do what is best for Britannia?"

Oh. Oh, gods. Arthur might cast me aside for a woman he does not love?

Guinevere's mouth was dry. She wished she had Arthur's thick, familiar ruby-red cloak to draw around her shoulders, for though the cabin was quite warm, she felt a shudder pass through her. More were sure to follow.

Oh gods.

If she lost Arthur, she would lose everything. Being in love was akin to playing with fire, and this was one game she would choose to win. "Merlin – if I was to send for him…if we might wed here, now, secretly, and…" Guinevere's voice died on her tongue as she realized how impossible it was. They could not afford civil war among the Britons, lest the Saxons or some other tribe come and conquer them. To be the cause of that, simply for the sake of her own personal happiness, was truly unfathomable to Guinevere. The land had, before she had fallen in love with the tall, wise Roman leader, been that everything that she would dread to lose…and even basking in Arthur's glow, she could not forget how much her Britannia meant to her.

Guinevere began again. "Merlin…do you know…who?"

A shadow shrouded his face. She had expected him to say no, that it was impossible to say just what young lady might usurp her rightful place in Arthur's affections – or at his side. Yet that is not what he said, to Guinevere's dismay.

"Yes…her name is Elaine."

Elaine. Guinevere's mind could hardly process the concept, much less putting a name with it, but she began to picture the girl anyway. A slight, simpering thing. Spoiled by her father, no doubt, as his pride. Raised with propriety in mind – sewing, managing the household. Writing verses, even. It disgusted her. She, Guinevere, who had been orphaned early, raised with her parents' people to be courageous and strong – physically and mentally. She, whom the Romans had tortured because she was a dirty pagan and whom Arthur had rescued himself. Her blood almost ran cold. I am a pagan. What if this…Elaine…is…

She looked pitifully up at Merlin, hardly making an effort to conceal her heartache. "Merlin – if she is a Christian…if she follows Arthur's God…I fear if that is the case, he will certainly choose her over me." Wicked temptress! Guinevere lashed out. Get you gone! Arthur is mine.

Aware she was overreacting, she took a deep breath to steady herself. Arthur had not wed anyone yet, and perhaps he would find Elaine so dull compared to his love that he could never wed her, no matter if all the tribes of Britain united behind him.

"Yes, he may. But she is only a minor regional king's daughter, my child. He may have some support from various tribes in his lands…but you cannot lose hope. I wished only to make you aware. The Picts are no small force, and no one in Britannia can deny that we were also responsible for the Saxons' defeat," Merlin told her in what she supposed was a comforting tone. To anyone else, it might have sounded no different than when he was speaking normally…but Guinevere truly loved Merlin. He was the only father she had left. This news was dreadful, but the young woman felt a surge of pride when he reminded her of the power and influence their people could wield. She could only pray Arthur did not forget that. His love of peace was great…yet Guinevere felt certain marrying her would not disrupt any dreams of peace Arthur might have.

Guinevere stood. The olive-green material of her heavy skirt that had pooled around her feet was slightly wrinkled. She took Merlin's blue-painted face in her hands and kissed his forehead. He smiled; it made his eyes all but vanish.

"I hope to see you soon, my father," she murmured.

Merlin embraced her so tightly she felt he might crush her ribs, and then released her, touching her brow again gently. "Go with the gods' blessings, daughter."

Eager to return to Hadrian's Wall – and Arthur – before this Elaine creature slipped into her vacated place both there and in his heart, she practically ran from the hut to her waiting horse. She kissed the lad who had been attending him on the cheek, smiled, and swung her leg up onto the stallion's back. It didn't take more than a nudge to his side to spur him forward, and she hugged his handsome chestnut neck as he wove through the trees. Seeing her beloved Arthur again was the only thing on her mind. She did not even give thought to how she would arrive. Her feet were muddy, her clothes smelled heavily of smoke, her face was grey from sitting with Merlin, and her dark hair was tousled almost irreparably.

Her grey-blue eyes, however, were quite alive. They sparked ferociously…protectively.

When Guinevere arrived, she did not mark how much time had passed on her journey. She leapt down from her stallion, pleased to see Arthur was there, outside, waiting for her – or so she thought. Bors grinned and waved and came over to escort her sweat-covered stallion back to the stables. Guinevere herself flew towards Arthur, stopping just in front of him. "Have you missed me, Arthur?" she asked, teasingly, and reached out to take his hand.

"So this is your beloved," a high, childish female voice sang.

The blonde creature from Guinevere's vision appeared, only twice as lovely, a virtual goddess – or "angel" she supposed, for Arthur. She felt suddenly ill. Elaine's braided golden hair was neat, her powder-blue gown flattering and low-cut. She was everything Guinevere was not…including, it would seem, kind.

Arthur looked on the verge of disgust himself, and Guinevere happily laced her fingers through his own. He drew her closer and she glared menacingly at Elaine.

"Yes," Arthur said. "This is Guinevere."

And so it begins.