—
My Father's Body
Mid December - Yule
"I have a decision. And let me preface: no one wins."
Most would give this speech while lounging in the throne - to further drive home the point that no one could argue with royalty. Gwen, though, chose to stand. Despite her shorter stature, she cut an imposing silhouette in a gown of deep red ringed with thick fur cuffs. Opposite her was Ethil, washed and freshly dressed, and next to the Druid, Brennis. The knight had bags under his eyes, but his armor was polished to perfection - perhaps he guessed he wouldn't have much chance to wear it again.
"When someone close to us dies before their time, it wounds. Any memory of them is raw, and anger becomes the perfect distraction. Revenge is no salve. Revenge has lain this kingdom low more than once."
Gwen lifted an arm until the fur slipped down to reveal her left hand, palm raised upward. "Druidic existence is stained with discrimination." She held up her right. "I trust the knights of Camelot with my life." She paused, now physically weighing her thoughts.
"We gave Iseldir tokens with good intentions, but I see now that forcing Druids to carry a badge demeans them. In Camelot, we trust people for who they are, not what symbols they wear. Drystan, a peasant, earned his place in our ranks because he worked hard, rather than for a family crest going back five generations. We'll mourn him." She took a breath in the silence. "In his honor, the decree requiring Iseldir's Druids to carry a brand is repealed."
There were wide eyes and some whispers, but she held the room. "I wonder why Drystan had to die in that forest. We knew him as an earnest young man, eager to please. He'd never even injured another in combat. I wonder if his killer knew those things about him. Would he have died if that archer was aware that all of Drystan's earnings went to his mother?"
Years of servitude had made Gwen an observer. When she'd stood with her pitcher behind Morgana and listened to the young woman argue with Uther, Gwen had agreed with her best friend. When Gwen had begun to court Arthur, she'd opened her mind to other explanations of old squabbles. She'd realized then that no one was ever altogether wrong. She'd learned the value of seeing both sides of the coin. "We need more than a treaty to bring peace between all the citizens of Camelot. We need understanding." She turned her gaze to her two defendants. "The both of you will host a cultural gathering this Yule."
Ethil's physical reaction was one that screamed You expect me to work with HIM?
Gwen continued. "Brennis, you are on probation. Your rights as a knight of Camelot are revoked. We may reinstate them given the reaction at Yule." The King's Council straightened in their chairs and gaped at one another. They were obviously thinking, Demote someone from Arthur's Council? But there was no interruption of anger, and she relaxed a fraction. "Ethil, I understand your frustration. I've experienced it myself with my father's death. But if you wish to be a citizen of Camelot, you must understand the trust we have for our knights. They earn their rank through effort and moral code. I expect you to learn to respect them."
Her voice projected through the hall, the fiery Gwen known only to the Round Table finally presented for the court to witness. "Whether you are a Druid, a noble, or a peasant, you are a citizen of these lands. Our actions, together, made this the best kingdom in Albion.
"Stay strong. Continue to do what is right by Camelot, and one day, we will be the greatest kingdom in history."
The words of Guinevere's speech wrapped around Arthur more comfortingly than the fluffy blanket he was tucked into. In his chamber's Solar Arthur curled into a wooden chair, and Merlin leaned nearby, more obviously listening in on the proceedings in the throne room below. At Guinevere's last line, their eyes met, and Merlin said, "Wow."
He smiled proudly, thinking of his wife and what she must look like on the dais. The expression may have been more sugary and romantic than he'd intended, because Merlin got that I'm-Trying-Not-To-Laugh face. "If you continue to giggle at your patients," Arthur griped, "you'll never graduate to Court Physician."
"Don't worry, Arthur. I'm happy to be your servant until the day you die." He walked forward and pressed his hand to Arthur's forehead. "And I'd hazard that will be a week longer at best."
"It's treason to threaten a King's life."
"The truth is the best medicine," Merlin quipped.
"Incorrect, Merlin. Laughter is the best medicine. Read a book."
"Laughter, eh? You in the mood for a tickle fight?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "If you tried to get into my pants any harder, I'd think you were a princess from a rival kingdom."
Merlin barked in amusement. This was why arguing with Arthur could be so entertaining. "Foiled again."
Arthur made a show of protectively tightening the blanket around his body, and Merlin went over to the small cauldron of broth he'd brought. With his back to his king, he was able to quickly warm a bowl before pushing it beneath Arthur's aquiline nose. There was no argument because Arthur's throat was perpetually sore these days.
After some spoonfuls, Merlin deemed Arthur sated enough for a serious conversation. "Removing the tokens in honor of Drystan was an interesting twist, but I don't know if that is enough."
Arthur agreed. "She's already got Leon running patrols, but there's not much else we can do. There's no proof that Drystan was killed by a Druid, even if everyone believes it." He narrowed his eyes at a goopy piece of boiled fat, deciding whether it was edible. "Iseldir will have to come for Yule now, and we can question him on any new archers in his camp."
"You trust him to tell you the whole truth?" Merlin asked curiously.
"No one ever tells the whole truth in politics," Arthur replied after flicking the fat at Merlin's hair. He missed, but didn't seem put out. "But Brennis will have spent a few weeks in Iseldir's camp by the celebration. He'll be another set of eyes."
Merlin's mouth popped open. "I never expected Gwen to be so devious."
"Don't be distracted by her breasts, Merlin. She's got a sharp mind."
With a knowing look, "You learned that lesson the hard way, didn't you?"
"I love Guinevere for her personality," Arthur smirked. "And for giving me the opportunity to make you wear ceremonial robes again."
"You'll never know where I hid those."
Arthur grinned, believing he was on an argumentative winning streak. "When you lose the bet on your imaginary word, would you prefer a pansy that matches the robes or your countenance?"
Merlin thought about it. "I'd prefer one that matched your petticoat." He complimented himself for using Arthur's own insults against him. "But, I'm not going to lose."
Merlin's dark eyebrow rose, and a smirk crawled onto his face. This was the confident expression that drove Arthur up the wall, and it was a weapon Merlin had perfected during the dice match. As expected, Arthur had to react. "What makes you so sure?"
"Geoffrey has a very special toast planned in your honor this Yule, and who better to help than the apprentice of his best friend, and the manservant of the king himself?" Merlin gloated. "Where do you think Dollophead should fit in your official title? After or before Champion of the People?"
Arthur was quick. "How about precisely after Geoffrey describes my useless manservant?"
Over the two weeks leading up to the Yule feast, Arthur returned to full health. Brennis had been forced to hang his Camelot cloak and regalia, and though funded by the Pelham estate, chose to leave under cover of night with Ethil for Iseldir's camp. Gwen's decisions were questioned by some used to power, but Arthur's pleased acceptance quieted them quickly.
As for Merlin, with a festival to prepare on top of the usual Yule feast, his life as a manservant ramped up. In between cleaning and laundry, there were decorations to retouch, game to salt, and speeches to assist. Despite all of this, Merlin still found the time to leave a little stanza on Arthur's pillow every day.
"A father whom kissed a troll / and struggled to sire a clotpole" had been one of his best. It made Arthur so nervous that Merlin had found him skulking around Geoffrey's mountain of scrolls later that evening. Today, the day of the feast, he'd dropped "Arthur of the Pendragon's was more than sword and skill / he was a ham with a belly to fill" in between two rolls of bread. Arthur had thrown one at his head. (Merlin ate it - and victory had been delicious.)
Less fortunately, the court librarian swiftly shot down every phrase he'd come up with. He had to hope that the elderly man wouldn't catch the dollophead rhyme he'd slipped into the last draft; there wasn't any time left for trickery. In fact, right now, he was already quite late to his appointment with the clothier - he needed to steam the wrinkles from Arthur's evening clothes.
Merlin bustled through the courtyard with his hands clapped over his ears to bare against the cold. Because of it, he didn't hear one of the gardeners calling his name. Someone had to flag him down, and only then did he see the man on the ladder holding up two colored garlands.
The gardener held both out in question, and Merlin pointed at the more reflective fabric. It would be dark soon, and if someone was going to go through the effort of stringing the exterior of the castle, they might as well be able to see their efforts later.
He hadn't gone much further when a kitchen servant burst from the castle's double doors, spotted him, and latched onto his arm. She called, "Where is the third sack of potatoes?"
Merlin was surprised to be asked. He generally relied on Audrey, the head cook, to provide Arthur's meals, and he wasn't so base as to go stealing from the winter stores. "Don't we keep a spare bag in the cellar, with the wines?"
The servant shrugged, but smiled gratefully, hurrying off. Merlin shook off the confusion and kept going; the whole week had been like this. Perhaps there was a sign on his back.
He kept his head down and made it past the kitchens - in an uproar apparently because the Yule boar had been oversalted - but was accosted again. This time, the distressed expression on Lila's face stopped him; the painfully shy Candlemaker's Assistant was too nice to deny. "I don't have enough candles," she admitted quietly, forlorn in the servant's passageway.
"Arthur won't notice," he reassured her, trying not to fidget.
"Right," she agreed, looking down at her heavy wooden shoes.
Merlin let an internal sigh rinse him clean, and he smiled brightly. "Let's go see where you set them up. We can redecorate!"
In the Great Hall, he spent a period climbing on expensive furniture. From the new heights he reached sconces hung on the stone walls, then used a ceremonial knife to slice the taller candles in half. Getting the wicks loose had taken a bit of magic, but Lila hadn't noticed.
After the last modified candle had been put in place he hopped to the ground, pleased with his quick thinking. He winked at the blush burning her cheeks, taking that as enough thanks, and bounced away for Arthur's chambers. The revered king had tossed an unmatching outfit on his sheets alongside a note that said, "Deal with these," in his quick scrawl. "And wear something fancy / you'll have to match your pansy."
Merlin rolled his eyes; Arthur did not a poet make. And after all that work to pretend like he'd taught Arthur poetry - it was almost insulting.
Alas, Merlin was a good friend, and so he picked out a better outfit for Arthur before scuttling for the clothier. It should have come as no surprise that he never got close - a youth with a mop of brown hair was smiling sheepishly at him not two steps from the chamber doors. (The party for investing time in discovering the spell for full invisibility was starting to gain traction.)
This was Brennis' former page, and the boy held out his hands for Arthur's clothes. "I'll take those if you help Sir Brennis in the Hall of Ceremonies."
"What's going on?" he asked, after groaning and accepting.
"The Druids starting arriving, and someone said they had thirty Yule Goats—"
"Thirty goats?!" Merlin yelped, but the boy only shrugged and ran off with Arthur's outfit. He paused, hanging his head. "Great!"
There were goats, but fortunately they were all made of straw.
"They're a gift," Iseldir said with a wry grin. "A toy for the children." The Hall of Ceremonies was usually reserved for knighting ceremonies and weddings, but now it bustled with Druids and peasants who were all busy setting up 'stalls'. It was loud enough to cover their conversation, and so at Merlin's raised brow, Iseldir continued. "You've noticed their magic?"
"It looks like a shield spell," Merlin replied.
This made Iseldir cock his head, and Merlin remembered that most people didn't see spells the way he could now. "A small one," he conceded. "The last sheaf of grain has an innate magic, and we use it to protect the harvest."
"How?" Merlin asked, intrigued. He picked up one of the goats in his hand and focused on the golden magic. It seemed concentrated near the head. "I never tried anything like this in Ealdor."
"We've noticed braiding grass helps," he replied, pointing to the horns curling back from behind the head.
On closer inspection, Merlin understood why. The tightly woven antlers served as a backbone for the crisscrossing pattern of the shield. Though, there was something odd about it. "This isn't just a shield for physical protection."
Iseldir looked at him oddly again. "How are you testing it? Or have you figured out a way to hide gold irises?"
He hedged. "It doesn't feel familiar."
Iseldir frowned, but accepted that. "You felt right. Our spell complements a minor protection against spectral draugr. Have you ever noticed that the veil is thinner on the midwinter solstice?"
He grimaced. "Should I be worried?"
Iseldir gave him a knowing look, "Do you know of someone who would take advantage?" Merlin flinched - so Iseldir knew he'd helped Morgana. Thoughts of her only reminded him that he had no idea what she was plotting. He'd kept procrastinating on searching her out, and that may have invited some attack on Camelot tonight.
He rubbed tiredly at his neck. Sometimes there were just too many things to deal with. "You've met Aithusa, then? How is she?"
"Better," Iseldir soothed. He could tell that he'd disquieted Merlin. "Bleise has some skill with healing spells, and the youngling usually spends a few days with us before searching out more wandering Druids."
"Thank him for me," he answered honestly. Sound swelled in the room, and it gave both men space to remember the other duties laden upon them. Merlin's mind began to run with the schedule for the rest of the evening. Would he have time to slip away? "I should get back to Arthur."
While Merlin placed the Yule goat back among the others at the booth, Iseldir bent his head in farewell.
Half a room away, Leon saw their exchange and interpreted it as simple assistance: to him, Merlin seemed to help arrange some figurines and then leave with quick strides. The rest of the Hall of Ceremonies bubbled with similar high energy, and the excitement bled into his own emotions. He felt more like a visitor enjoying the event than a knight of Camelot.
Of course he had duties, as Captain of the Guard they never waned, but he put them aside to see what Brennis and Ethil had helped spur. It was research - and if it also helped him pick out a gift for Forridel, then all the better.
He followed the crowd to the right wall of the hall, where one of Master Finch's artisans was chipping away at a white stone block. It looked to be a rough gargoyle, and the young Aglain of the Druids was staring in rapt attention. Leon tapped him on the shoulder. "Did you bring any of your wood carvings?"
Aglain beamed. His eyes darted, likely looking for Elyan, and even though he didn't find him, still nodded enthusiastically. "I've been practicing. For the celebration I thought I'd try to imitate a castle. I've only ever seen Odin's but…" he snatched a wooden tower from a stall, "I still think it looks similar to Camelot!"
Leon inspected it. The boy had done a fantastic job with the ramparts. He imagined commissioning models built for all the castles in the realm, then realized he was thinking militaristically again. "What's the going rate? It will be a great gift for Elyan."
Aglain bounced, but wasn't much of a salesman. Leon held out change for a silver. "This is quite a bit, but it's worth it." After a moment, "You should put your name on it. All the artisans of Camelot leave their mark somewhere on their work."
"I…" Aglain started, nose wrinkling. "I could do an 'A'?"
"So Elyan knows it's from you too." He leaned against the booth and looked out on the hall as Aglain dug with his pocketknife. "What should I check out next?"
A herd of children blew by, all newly decorated with intricate bows made from linen scraps. He couldn't tell if they were from the Lower Town, the Druid tribes, or both. He supposed it didn't really matter. Aglain responded, "Have you played a round of darts?"
He'd never heard of it, and Aglain pointed it out in the far corner. "The other guards like it. We usually play it around camp."
It was interesting - a circle of worn leather, small sharp stones lashed to rigid twigs, and a test of your aim. Leon had lost to the Druid who had brought the game, but it had been fun. They should have something like this in the tavern. Then there had been potted evergreen branches, dolls, pottery, and for entertainment, storytellers and fire dancers. It was fascinating.
He didn't realize how much time he'd spent here until the head cook stuck her head into the hall and bellowed, "Food's out! Get it while it's hot!"
Iseldir heard the call for the banquet, and noticed some of his people looking at each other - checking to see who would go first. The invitation for the feast itself had not been explicit.
He trusted that half the reason for the cultural gathering was to prove Druids were not second-class citizens of Camelot, and that meant they could eat at their will. "You aren't hungry?" He mentally asked the magical folk that could hear him, then crooked a finger at a few others. He didn't pretend to know the way to the Great Hall, but a friendly servant was happy to lead him.
He entered to see a room lit with candles and smiles, and the undercurrent of feeling was one of welcome and friendship. It was almost too much to ask for - he had to push himself to a wall and take a moment to breathe. Hope is a fleeting and dangerous thing for a Druid, and it had blown wide within him. It was staggering, and something he desperately wanted to reign back. It was much too early for expectations, and he was much too old for wishes.
Iseldir sought Emrys in the crowd and found him nibbling at a skewer of meat. He looked regal, dressed in a finely crafted blue tunic and missing his usual neckerchief. Iseldir watched him grin at something the king said, then cast his eyes around, finding the gaze that had been watching him. "Iseldir," he greeted warmly.
He smiled, then offered, "From my side, the Yule celebration is going extremely well. My tribe is happy here."
He watched Emrys brighten, and sensed the genuine emotion through their mental link. "I felt the same from the people of Camelot. They love having you." Emrys' answering grin was laced with giddiness, "Camelot's that much closer to being ready for magic."
Iseldir swallowed. "You're looking ahead."
"I have to. The Purge Trial isn't so far away." He cocked his head, "You'll be there?"
"Of course," Iseldir realized why he'd asked and felt another jolt, "You're going to stand trial, aren't you?"
Emrys' gaze steadied, and Iseldir glimpsed the leader he'd only dared hope for. "It's time I did."
Sir Gwaine jostled closer, aiming for Emrys' attention, and Iseldir ended the conversation with a subtle bow.
It made Merlin blush, but Gwaine's voice shouting in his ear pulled him back to his position behind Arthur at the long table. "Mate, there you are!"
The knight sashayed forward and flicked his hair out of his eyes. "Princess," he greeted Arthur, earning a rude gesture from the blonde. Gwaine drew Merlin away by the elbow, and when a few steps back from the table, raised an eyebrow. "You spaced, mate. Where's your head at?"
Instead of the truth, Merlin saw this as a good opportunity to ask a favor. "Nothing ever goes smoothly around here. I was hoping for some time to head off any threats."
"Oh?" Gwaine said, then waggled his eyebrows and dramatically asked, "Magical threats?"
"A codeword would be nice," Merlin said drily.
"Call me a genius later, but magic is its own codeword." He made the same facial expression as earlier, wiggling his fingers and laying the sarcasm on thickly as he repeated the word: "Magic." He shrugged. "When I say it like that, no one would ever believe I actually meant, y'know," he made the moves again, "magic."
Sarcastically, "How did I ever keep my secret without your help?"
Gwaine chuckled, "I'll distract our favorite prat," he said, then launched into a rendition of the uproar Leon had caused by formerly introducing Forridel to the head of his family. Merlin had a feeling some scenes were slightly exaggerated. Though, Gwaine's depression over a thrown apple pie was certainly not faked.
The hall stomping their feet for quiet pulled his attention to Geoffrey of Monmouth, rising now and clearing the phlegm from his throat. The burst of sound had the opposite effect, but the festivities were already underway and gay, and Geoffrey didn't seem to mind.
"Oftentimes when turning over in mine own mind the many themes that might be subject matter of a poem," Geoffrey started, droning into some iambic pentameter and losing the crowd further. Arthur turned about in his chair and an evil smile drew along his face.
"My thoughts would fall upon the plan of writing a history of the Kings of Albion.
It is a marvel that there is naught mention of Arthur,
for his deeds be worthy of praise everlasting
and are already pleasantly rehearsed from memory by word of mouth."
Merlin groaned aloud. He had a deadening suspicion that he'd given Arthur too much time to make terminal edits. Geoffrey went on, most ignoring him, but a token few who knew of the unfortunate bargain between Merlin and Arthur hung on, enthralled.
The historian went through the crowning, the overthrow of Agravaine and Morgana, continuing on into the more recent treaties with Annis and Iseldir. Then the moment—
"Though the future is foggy and hard to see,
And treacherous the paths we may tread,
We follow one who pens dragons, he,
Arthur, our king, of level head."
"Fie!" Merlin cursed, and Arthur broke into loud applause. The hall followed his lead, and while Geoffrey was busy beaming and bowing, Arthur swiveled, and his hand reappeared from his pocket twirling a purplish pansy.
Merlin crossed his arms. Petulantly, he said, "For me, sire? What will your wife think?"
Arthur had no qualms getting to his feet and tucking the pansy into place himself - this festival was not so formal as to dictate perfect decorum. "Remember, Merlin: the entire feast."
Camelot in Midwinter is a party to ache for all the long winter nights before it, and Morgana remembers it vaguely. She doesn't expect to ever attend in full celebratory spirit again, but in some strange twist she wakes to find herself in her old room.
She finds this queer, because the last thing she remembers is the Leshy forcing a draught lightly dosed with hemlock down her gullet.
She swings her feet from her bed, and cold stone makes her toes curl. She's looking down at her nightdress - suddenly not a nightdress but a gown of emerald green - when the doorknob begins to turn. Then the second shock of the night - Gwen, in royal maroon and bejeweled crown.
"Why are you hiding in here?" Gwen asks merrily.
The queen sweeps through the room and snags Morgana by the elbow. Familiar brown fingers comb their way comfortably through Morgana's dark curls, and their lost friendship lurches at the leisurely movements.
She tugs them out into the hall, and guards wave jauntily at them. "Just taking a nap," she replies stiffly, awash in surrealism.
"I thought you may be writing him a response," Gwen arches a delicate eyebrow, referencing something Morgana has no idea about. Gwen rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "I saw the courier come in."
Gwen bumps their shoulders together. It makes Morgana break out in goosebumps. "What do you expect me to say?"
She gives her a pitying look, "Oh, no, did I read everything wrong? Did you actually like him?" Even as she says this, though, Gwen is glowing and bouncing.
Her mind stretches back through the years and guesses, "You're extremely happy about something."
Gwen flushes, "I can't hide anything from you." But she smiles widely and leans conspiratorially inward, unable to keep the secret. "I've missed it again!" Her hand skims over her still-tight belly and she gushes, "I really think I am, this time."
They're in the throne room now, and it looks strange from this angle - one where she isn't actively seeking it. Shouldn't she kill Gwen and take the crown from her bloody locks?
A knight calls for the queen, and both ladies turn. He bows to them, and asks for Gwen's arm to escort her elsewhere. Still weirdly detached from the goings on around her, Morgana watches the conversation through a hue of disassociation. The knight is genuinely honored by their presence, and Gwen looks like a goddess on earth. This woman turns twinkling eyes to her and pushes her towards the king's chambers. "Get the boys?" she asks. "And don't say a word about this," her fingers twitch for her stomach, "not even Merlin."
Then she leaves her alone, and Morgana is standing in the empty throne room. She vividly remembers her last time here. She'd felt so secure in her victory, finally in control of her life and destiny. Then her magic had disappeared.
She takes sharp steps to stand before the second throne. There are two now - likely because Gwen is the queen. Her hands trail over the metal and instead of fierce resolve she gets hollow want. Not so long ago she'd received a heady rush while lounging in this symbol of power - now, it looks only like an empty chair that doesn't want her.
She flips away and pushes for the king's chambers. The doorknob turns beneath her hands, and she enters to a mostly empty room. Merlin's bare back is towards her, and he's tugging his old tunic over his head. Behind him, servile dress robes are abandoned over the back of a sturdy chair.
"I don't trust you," is what she says. "No matter what Gwen says."
He turns in surprise, caught in his shirt, hair awry. She watches his expressive features as he comes to some conclusion, and of all things, chuckles. "She told you then?" He takes a few seconds to straighten himself out, then walks towards her. "It's true, Morgana. He's just not that into you."
"What are you talking about?" She glares at him as he looks down at her, blue eyes dancing with mirth.
"I don't think he swings your way, if you get my meaning. In fact, I think the Prince of Amata prefers blue-eyed manservants," the laugh sneaks out from his lips and he makes a stupid snort-cough sound.
When Morgana narrows her eyes he finally begins to catch onto her mood. Since he's focused on her, he does that thing he does - tilts his head, drawls slowly. "Is something wrong?"
She is torn in two wicked directions. He puts a comforting hand on her shoulder and his furrowed expression clears. "Don't worry, he'll be here. Actually…" he trails off, looks at something behind her. His fingertips dig into the silk of her gown, and he's turning her slowly, then bending down to grin and say near her ear, "I think he just made it."
A cold eel slides from her sinuses to her gut, then coils in slimy marriage with the acid of her stomach. This is a nightmare.
It's her father.
"Morgan!" Gorlois says, a pet nickname he knows she hates. "Come 'ere!"
She raises her hands slightly, and he does all the work. He smells like armour polish and snow and a little bit like gingerbread because he probably stopped for a snack, and he always loved baked goods. His arms around her feel like home.
In a horrible union of thought she knows she doesn't want to let him go, and that this is an impossible dream. Her vapour fingers ghost through unreal fabric and she knows she's long lost the possibility of this future. Her father's hold fades to memory, and she comprehends that the warm embrace is only her body heat trapped beneath the Leshy's decaying leaves. It stinks of mold and maggots.
Her loneliness and self-hatred hit in one felling swoop, and her composure fragments. In the cracks, she cries.
This is how it feels: like your limbs are heavy. Like you're so embarrassed and disgusted by your own self that you can't look at the body stretching down beneath your eyes. Like you'll put the full force of your attention on any numbing distraction just so that you don't have to face who you are.
And while all of that is sitting on you, and you know it's there and that all it would take to get rid of it at least partially is to get up and do one thing, there's no point because who is there to notice? No one is going to see you either way. What does it matter if you're dirty or you reek.
You're so alone, and there's no one to blame but yourself. Oh gods, you just want your mother or your father or your sister or anyone that will love you, but you don't deserve love, not as you are now, this unmoving thing. Why should anyone even want to save that.
Why should anyone even want to save her.
Yet stunningly, someone does.
She's sobbing loudly and ugly, she's so cold and lethargic and sick, and through the haze of self-inflicted pain she sees an old, wrinkled woman staring at her. And somehow that woman understands. Somehow, that wizened face knows her for everything that she is.
Through a connection thinned only to shared history, those blue eyes tell her that she's never really been alone.
Ring of Fire sung by Lera Lynn
Footnotes:
(1) Yule is sort of a classical Christmas - a midwinter celebration. Some facts that I pulled and modified for my purposes were: 'draugr' - undead beings had an increased likelihood to walk the earth, 'Veneration of ancestors', 'Yule goat', 'Yule boar', and various modern Christmas decorations.
(2) May be important to note again that I picture the King's chambers as two stories (bedroom and Solar), and the throne room as two stories (lower floor, and catwalk i.e. remember when that archer was going to kill Arthur but instead killed the Sarrum in S5). You get to the king's chambers through the throne room.
(3) Lots of OCs, not many important ones. For a summary I'd recommend going to Chapter 28 of Part 1, which has a brief overview of all these random OCs. (Audrey, Brennis, Ethil, Lila, the pageboy, the Prince of Amata, Aglain, and Bleise.)
(4) Geoffrey's toast is partially pulled from his book "A History of the Kings of Britain".
(5) Dmarie1184 helped me realize the other uses of hemlock - in small doses it helps people sleep.
Author's Note:
Hope you enjoyed the closing credits.
Let me start off by thanking the beautiful people that this chapter wouldn't exist without. So little of this chapter is ideas from my own mind. They are my Round Table. If anyone out there is writing, I can only hope you have half the support group I do. Thanks to: [Flash edit!] FanWhovianChick, for getting me thinking that Brennis should now escort Ethil, since he killed her brother. Lya200 for a comment on how Gwaine could blatantly talk about magic and no one would look twice. Linorien, for being a wonderful beta and giving me so many ideas for Yule scenes. Jewels, for very much helping me solidify Gwen's thoughts for her speech and Merlin's busyness during preparations. And Dmarie1184, for giving me the courage to write Morgana's depression. You may not remember that conversation, but I do.
There is quite a bit to remark on this chapter, but I will comment on just this. I know Morgana's last scene in the forest is in no way my best writing, but it, in part, comes from a very real part of my life. I'm proud of myself for at least trying to put it into words. However, I think being saved is something only from fiction. When Morgana is stung by the serket, Aglain comes to save her. When she's dying in the forest, Aithusa heals her. And now when she's sunk so low, this old woman. She's lucky, in a way. I think we've all hit rock bottom at some point, but we've all had to take that first step back up alone. As for me, that first step was the first chapter of Part 1.
I really am glad I did it. Though I only know most of you through reviews, I feel a kinship. Lovely meeting you all.
Next time: Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight.