Summary
As the inner circle grapples with Arthur's abduction, Queen Guinevere's ability to lead is closely observed by Geoffrey of Monmouth.
Chapter 55 Crown of Iron Will
Geoffrey of Monmouth had witnessed his fair share of upheavals within Camelot's walls – from Queen Ygraine's tragic demise to the brutal years of the Great Purge, from the Afanc curse of '93 to the recent Southron invasion. Yet the whispers now racing through the castle corridors hinted at a crisis that struck a uniquely personal chord for many. Guards stood vigilant outside the lesser hall, their presence a buffer against the spreading unease. Within, the air crackled with an energy that reminded Geoffrey of the atmosphere before a violent storm, an urgency that seemed to seep into the very stones.
Queen Guinevere sat at the heart of this gathering, her composure unwavering despite the ordeal King Arthur's inner circle awaited to hear. He had expected to see her shaken, yet she sat with remarkable poise beside the king's empty throne chair. Flanking her were the ever-faithful Master George, his complexion ashen, and Mistress Sefa, her eyes rimmed red from silent tears. In the shadows behind them, a young woman with fiery red hair—evidently the queen's friend—moved with the nervous energy of one thrust suddenly into an unfamiliar and chaotic world.
As Guinevere and Merlin began their harrowing account, Geoffrey's quill scratched furiously across parchment, capturing every word. The faces around the table hardened as the tale unfolded, disbelief giving way to grim understanding. When the last echoes of their story faded, a charged silence descended.
Geoffrey's gaze swept the room, taking in the tableau of raw emotion before him. Merlin and Gwaine glared at each other like estranged kin, their usual camaraderie replaced by palpable tension. Percival and Ranulf sat rigidly at the long table, their optimism challenged by the dire situation. Galahad's restless pacing seemed to match the frantic beating of Geoffrey's own heart, while Fredrick, trail-worn from his mission with Gwaine to retrieve the copper-haired maiden, leaned heavily against a stone pillar. Leon stood near him, shock evident in his rigid posture.
The quiet broke when Gwaine, his face a mask of fury, rounded on Merlin. Both men, formidable in their own right, seemed poised on a knife's edge of confrontation.
"You're supposed to be this great wizard," Gwaine seethed, his usually smooth voice now jagged with accusation. "Two guards dead, the queen nearly slain, and our king snatched away!" His voice rose like a tide, each word louder than the last. His face reddened as he bellowed, "What happened, Merlin? Did the attackers interrupt your leisurely stroll? Or were you too busy polishing your bloody staff to notice?!"
Geoffrey's eyebrow arched, a spark of morbid curiosity momentarily overriding his scholarly need to document. The prospect of witnessing this confrontation between friends stirred something primal within him, and he wondered if the others also held Merlin culpable.
The young sorcerer's fingers twitched at his sides, as if itching to summon a spell of protection or retaliation, unflinching in the face of Gwaine's blistering assault. Around the room, the other knights shifted uneasily, a low murmur of discomfort rippling through their ranks.
"Hold your tongue, Gwaine," Leon commanded, stepping forward, his tone a balance between a warning and a plea.
"This is no time for restraint!" Gwaine fumed with the bitterness of betrayal and fatigue.
"The attack was swift and precise!" Merlin countered. "Like lightning!"
"And that's meant to absolve you?!"
"I don't need your absolution!"
Gwaine scoffed, undeterred. "If that's the best you can do, then Camelot is already lost."
Merlin closed the final space between them, rage radiating from both men. Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through the room despite the closed windows. Parchments flew off the table, quills spun in the air, and a nearby candelabra toppled with a resounding clang. The obvious manifestation of Merlin's roiling emotions made the men around the table gasp with surprise; those standing staggered slightly, all raising their arms to shield themselves from wind, dust, and flying objects. Tension excited the air as Geoffrey desperately clutched at his papers, and for a moment, he feared Merlin might lose control entirely.
"Merlin!" The queen's voice cut through the chaos, her tone slightly alarmed. When the wind continued to howl, she called again, more forcefully, "Merlin, stop this at once!"
The sorcerer blinked. His shoulders relaxed, the wind dying down as quickly as it had arisen. Loose objects clattered to the floor, parchments settling like leaves after a storm.
Geoffrey bent to retrieve his scattered papers, his hands trembling slightly as the knights straightened, adjusting their disheveled clothing and hair, casting wary glances toward Merlin. George immediately attended to the wide-eyed woman in the shadows, while Sefa scurried about the chamber, righting fallen candelabras, gathering scattered parchments and other displaced objects. Queen Guinevere glanced at Merlin, too, concern etched on her face as she smoothed her hair and gown.
Sir Percival, his massive frame moving with surprising grace, laid a calming hand on Gwaine's shoulder. "You're not helping either," he admonished gently, compelling Gwaine to meet his gaze. The knight's tense posture eased under Percival's touch, though his eyes still smoldered with anger.
Galahad, forced to halt his restless pacing during the disruption, was pushed closer to Merlin. Geoffrey noticed the sorcerer's stern gaze fixed on his mentee, a wordless admonishment in his expression. Merlin, aware of Galahad's disapproval, merely rolled sullen eyes in response.
"I'm sorry, Gwen," Merlin apologized to the queen before retreating a few paces from Gwaine, his fists clenched tight enough to whiten his knuckles. Geoffrey pondered how many allies would now question sorcerer's abilities. They'd trusted him, yet Merlin failed to safeguard their most valuable asset—their king and their friend. Was Camelot's future lost along with Arthur? What remained of the destiny so often whispered about behind closed doors?
Composed and sitting erect, the queen turned her attention to Gwaine. "Merlin nearly lost his life," she stated, her voice first hinting annoyance at the knight. "I was there. I witnessed his courage firsthand. He gave his all, and more." Her words left the hall in hushed awe, the quiet power of her statement leaving no room for argument.
The queen's hand rested gently on her stomach. The gesture, likely unconscious, was a newly acquired habit and subtle sign of her condition not yet shared with the kingdom. Geoffrey wondered if anyone else had noticed, if Arthur had known...
Still, he was impressed at how swiftly she had taken control of the situation. Her intervention had not only steadied Merlin but also reminded all present of their shared ordeal. But as he observed Guinevere more closely now, he caught other fleeting signs of vulnerability – a slight tremor in her hands summarily stilled, a momentary flicker of pain in her eyes quickly masked, the quiver of her lips pressed into a thin line. These brief glimpses of her inner turmoil only served to heighten his admiration for her strength. How, he wondered, could she maintain such calm in the face of such devastating loss?
Fredrick, who had stumbled away from his spot against the stone pillar during Merlin's magical outburst, now stood with his arms folded, leaning against the cool stone. His weary sigh drew attentions back to the matter at hand. "We must focus our efforts towards locating the king," he said, fatigue roughening his voice. "Did either of you recognize Arthur's other abductor?"
The queen shook her head. "I did not, but Arthur identified him as the sorcerer who attempted to liberate Morgana."
"The shape-shifter?" Galahad's breath hitched, the hiss quite audible. "A formidable foe indeed – his skills are unparalleled."
"Even for the illustrious Merlin?" Gwaine's cold inquiry pierced the tension. "Or should I say 'Emrys, the Great'?"
Merlin turned, his lips in a deep scowl as he met Gwaine's hooded eyes. Geoffrey reflected on how keenly Gwaine's candor was missed these past eleven days. Now, bitterness tainted his typically charming voice, and hostility clouded his usually mirthful eyes as years of brotherhood continued to crumble in the face of Merlin's catastrophic failure.
"Call me what you will," Merlin snapped, his words tight with resentment. "I will find Arthur."
Merlin's vow resonated in the chamber, both a promise and a challenge. Geoffrey was aware of the profound connection between the sorcerer and the king, a bond rumored forged since before Merlin's arrival in Camelot. Their destinies were undeniably intertwined, a union deeper than blood or brotherhood could define, perhaps proving that the very fabric of fate had indeed woven their lives together. Insomuch, surely Gwaine understood that Merlin would exhaust every possibility to bring Arthur home.
Gwaine scoffed, a sardonic smile twisting his lips. "Find him? Like when you found your father?"
Merlin's posture shifted, coiling like a spring ready to snap. His nostrils flared, his gaze a burning inferno. In a flash, both men lunged at each other, fists raised and swinging. Percival's massive form intercepted Gwaine, while Galahad and Leon swiftly moved to restrain Merlin as the chamber erupted into chaos.
The knights struggled to pull the two apart, their grunts of exertion and shouts to stand down mixing with the sounds of the scuffle. Amidst the tumult, Geoffrey pondered some hidden knowledge in Gwaine's words. He knew nothing of Merlin's father, let alone any search for him, and scribbled a note to seek clarification when this crisis passed.
Guinevere rose from her seat, her mouth dropping in shock before swiftly settling for a mask of controlled displeasure. "Stop this madness!" she shouted, her voice biting. "Enough! This behavior is unacceptable!"
The men's brawling ceased, Merlin wrenching his arms from his friends' grip and moving away. His gaze, still turbulent, darted between Gwaine and Guinevere.
Gwaine, no longer restrained, met her gaze defiantly, his face contorted with frustration. "Why do you so readily excuse his failure?"
The queen's glare intensified, her jaw set. "We all failed Arthur."
A collective gasp arose, the knights exchanging bewildered glances. Even Merlin's anger seemed to falter, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief.
"Yes, you heard me correctly: we all failed him," the queen repeated. "I was there when he was taken, yet I couldn't stop it. You," she gestured to the knights, "his most trusted guards, were not by his side. And Merlin," her gaze shifted to the sorcerer, though it softened to ease the blow, "powerful as you are, you couldn't prevent this." Merlin's apple bobbed, his fists relaxing at his sides.
The queen's hand briefly brushed her stomach as she straightened to her full height. "We all bear this burden, and I refuse to allow any of you to compound our tragedy by dividing us. Our strength lies in our unity, now more than ever." She looked between Gwaine and Merlin, her voice gentler, yet firm. "Gwaine, you and Merlin share a deep friendship. You've stood by each other through countless trials. This anger, this pain you're feeling – we all feel it. But now, Merlin needs his friend. He needs you, Gwaine. Whether you call him Merlin or Emrys the Great, he remains the same man who has fought alongside you, who has saved your life as you've saved his. Don't let this tragedy tear apart a brotherhood forged in fire."
Geoffrey was amazed how far Guinevere had come from her humble beginnings as a servant. Her ability to express herself eloquently and command respect had become evident many years ago, but now it shone with the polish of true royalty. Like a master weaver, she deftly interlaced the frayed threads of their emotions, creating a tapestry of unity from the discord that threatened to unravel them.
Gwaine's demeanor shifted in subtle stages – a loosening of his shoulders, a lowering of his gaze, the fury fading like morning mist. A low growl escaped the knight's throat, reminiscent of a wolf reluctantly backing down. "Aye..."
The tension in the room began to dissipate, replaced by a weary anticipation as Guinevere surveyed the faces before her. "Gentlemen, please be seated," she ordered. "We have much to discuss." Despite her petite stature, her presence seemed to tower above them all. The room collectively exhaled as those standing retreated to vacant chairs. Only Merlin, the last on his feet, hesitated briefly before he too succumbed and took his seat.
The queen glided to Merlin, her gown whispering against the stone floor. As she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a wordless exchange passed between them, their shared experience etched in the depths of their eyes. For a moment, Geoffrey glimpsed not a queen and her advisor, but friends bound by a profound, unspoken sorrow.
Yet amidst their broken hearts, a spark of defiance ignited in their gazes, like flint striking steel. Guinevere embodied the iron-willed monarch, while Merlin seemed to draw strength from some hidden reserves. Though their world had been shaken more than any, their expressions gleamed with silent promises—to persevere, to bear their burdens with dignity and grace.
The queen then turned, addressing the gathering at the table. "Fredrick speaks true," Guinevere agreed, interlacing her fingers across her stomach. "Finding Arthur is our utmost priority. And yet, the next crucial question is how did our attackers know where we were?"
"And how to subdue Merlin," Gwaine pointed out, a hint of brooding still in his tone.
"This was no chance encounter," Geoffrey found himself saying, his voice taut with concern. "They came prepared."
"Hold," Gwaine interjected, his features creasing with renewed concern. "Are you implying someone...?"
"Only a select few knew the details, Arthur included," Percival reminded them, his jaw tightening.
"We must consider every option," Leon advised, "however unpalatable."
"Jupiter's Stones!" Gwaine's chainmail clinked softly as he shifted in his seat.
"It can't be one of us," Merlin insisted. "The kitchen staff..."
Percival shook his head, his massive frame tensing. "Cook may have known when, but not where."
"The escorts?" asked Fredrick.
"They didn't get details until it was time to move out."
Ranulf's leather gloves creaked as his hand clenched the hilt of his sword. "Good Lord," he breathed, "if there's a traitor in the castle..."
Galahad rose and began pacing once again, his boots clicking softly. "We should question everyone," he urged with a look of concentration in his eyes. "The soldiers' families, the kitchen staff – anyone who might have overheard. Even the guards outside meeting room doors if necessary."
Guinevere, too, began to pace in small, measured circles, listening intently, her calmer demeanor a counterpoint to Galahad's restless movement. The knights watched her, their unease growing with each passing moment. Finally, she stopped and crossed her arms loosely, her fingers drumming a thoughtful rhythm against her sleeve.
"Very well," she said at last with a nod. "Percival, when you speak to the soldiers' families... convey our deepest sympathies, but impress upon them the urgency of your inquiry regarding any knowledge of our plans."
"Of course, my lady," Percival replied.
A shadow of worry darkened Leon's face. "Still, could you simply have been followed, Gwen? Mordred and his accomplice... just waiting?"
"Given Mordred's recent incursion into the citadel," Galahad answered, his march somewhat slowed, "we can't discount that theory either, Sir Leon."
"Like predators lying in wait, stalking their prey," murmured Fredrick quietly. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Guinevere's face, her gaze momentarily distant and haunted. "My apologies for the harsh imagery, my queen," he added hastily, his voice softening with regret.
Guinevere blinked, visibly pulling herself back to the present. She gave a small, tight nod to Fredrick, her composure quickly reasserting itself.
"There's an even more disturbing possibility," Merlin put forth. "What if the shape-shifter could mimic any one of us."
Geoffrey's quill froze mid-stroke, the sudden absence of its scratching making the silence more profound. A chill ran down his spine, cold seeping into his bones like winter frost. The feather trembled slightly in his grasp as he grappled with the implications. In all his years of chronicling Camelot's history, he had never encountered a threat so insidious. Traitors were one thing, but a foe who could wear the face of a friend? The very foundations of trust that held the kingdom together suddenly seemed so very fragile.
The tension in the hall thrummed like a bowstring drawn taut, their collective breaths held. Chairs grated against stone, jarring in the quiet chamber as the knights shifted uneasily. Yet, these were men, bonded by years of trust and shared combat, sought reassurance in familiar faces rather than casting suspicion – even if their hands might have reflexively twitched towards their sword hilts.
"Be at ease, Queen Guinevere, knights," Galahad insisted. "There's no one here who shouldn't be."
A wave of relief eased like a loosened knot amongst the men. The inner circle, aware of Galahad's gift to detect sorcerers, found comfort in his words. For Geoffrey, it didn't fully quell his lingering unease about past deceptions.
"And before today?" he probed. "Could the shape-shifter have infiltrated us earlier, gleaning information?"
The knights' faces betrayed their concern, this pervasive possibility etched in their questioning expressions and tense postures. Leon opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, seemingly at a loss for words. The threat could stretch back weeks, casting doubt on countless interactions. Amidst this collective unease, Sir Fredrick rose, his movement drawing all eyes to him as he took his position behind the throne chairs.
"In light of this," he remarked, "we must prioritize the queen's safety above all else." He crossed his arms, his gaze both weary and determined as he addressed Guinevere directly. "You require constant protection, my lady. I will not allow any harm to come to you again."
Murmurs and nods of approval accompanied Queen Guinevere's softened features, a flicker of relief in her hazel eyes. No doubt she was grateful for the twist of fate that had sent Sir Fredrick on a mission eleven days prior, sparing him from the attack at the stream. But Fredrick's glower and clenched jaw spoke volumes too – for he'd failed, the solemn oath he'd made as her protector had been tested by duty's call elsewhere.
"Agreed," Leon said, his tone somber. "We mustn't ignore the likelihood of treachery within our walls. Our measures must be strengthened."
"What should we do?" Merlin asked, his question laden with urgency. "What's our course, Gwen?"
The room's focus shifted to the queen. Guinevere paused by the king's throne, her fingers ghosting over the carved armrest. She surveyed the chamber, her gaze lingering on each face in turn. Her hand briefly pressed against her stomach before falling to her side.
"Our path is clear," she stated, her expression grave as she addressed the men. "We act swiftly and decisively. Sir Galahad, I'll entrust you with the investigation to uncover the traitor – if indeed there is one. Employ whatever means necessary to bring them to light."
"It shall be done, my queen," Galahad affirmed, his tone resolute, straightening his posture as if physically embracing the new responsibility place upon him.
"Merlin," the queen continued, "begin the search for your king without delay – cross our borders if need be. Excalibur, too, must be recovered. Sir Ranulf, assist him with this important task."
Merlin responded with a crisp nod, the gleam of determination in his eyes matching the queen's own resolve as Ranulf's "Yes, your majesty" rang out.
Leon rose, his chainmail clinking softly as he cleared his throat. "Your strategy is sound, Gwen, but our resources are stretched thin. The Southron conflict exacted a heavy toll on our ranks. We may not have the manpower for such an extensive search."
"I am well aware of the loss of men and mettle," Guinevere replied, her posture as unyielding as the stone walls around them. "Prepare the new recruits for the search. Rally all able-bodied individual – noble and commoner, men and women. I want every corner of Camelot scoured for our king. Is that clear?"
A unified chorus of agreement arose from the knights. Geoffrey noted the absence of surprise on their faces at the mention of women joining the search, a testament to how far Camelot had come. As the queen continued to issue uncompromising orders, he paused in his chronicling, recalling the Southron invasion. Guinevere had fought alongside Arthur and the knights to retake the citadel, proving the value of women in combat. The memory of Isolde's bravery flickered in his mind, too, reinforcing the wisdom of this inclusive approach.
Geoffrey blinked, his mouth drying as he realized the importance of the unfolding events. He leaned back in his chair, a hand covering his chest. In Guinevere's resolute stance and the knights' unwavering attention, he recognized the birth of a true leader, forged in the crucible of crisis. How adeptly she shouldered their collective hopes, offering strength against the burden of their shared loss. And how swiftly each man set aside his doubts, rallying to her clarion call of kingdom before self.
This moment was not lost on Geoffrey. He could already envision the chronicles he would craft, recording how a kingdom united in the face of adversity for generations to come. As Gwaine's charismatic voice vied for Geoffrey's attention, his quill resumed its dance across the parchment, capturing the pivotal moment when a queen truly rose to meet her destiny.
"And what about me?" Gwaine asked, a questioning smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The flickering torchlight accentuated lines of fatigue in his face that one could not miss. "You're leaving me out of the action?"
The queen turned to Gwaine. "Surely you're exhausted after your long mission," she said, her tone gentler but still firm. "Rest for a few days. You as well, Fredrick."
Gwaine rose in protest as Fredrick stepped forward, hands on his hips. Both men's faces tightened with discontent, clearly chafing at the queen's latest decision.
"Come now, my lady," Gwaine chuckled with earnest. "You wouldn't deny two of your best swords? Arthur needs us." His smile faltered as Guinevere's expression remained stern, unmoved by his charm and appeal.
"You can't be serious—" he started again, his voice now both frustrated and desperate.
"I will not argue," Guinevere said, raising a hand to silence him. Her voice carried a finality that pressed down like a physical force. "Clear minds will serve us better after rest."
Fredrick hesitated before returning to his chair, his jaw set with displeasure, yet unwilling to directly challenge his queen. His glance settled on Guinevere for a brief moment, conveying an unspoken disagreement in his look. As he settled back, his posture remained rigid. It was clear to those who understood their relationship that this discussion was far from over.
Gwaine, however, remained standing and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "With respect, Gwen," he insisted, "I can't sit idle while Arthur is out there."
"I understand your desire to act, Gwaine," Guinevere acknowledged after a moment. "But I need you at your best. Two days of rest, then you may join us. That's an order, not a request."
Gwaine's shoulders slumped slightly, the fight visibly draining from him like water from a broken vessel. He gave the queen a small, reluctant nod. "As you wish, my lady," he said, the words coming out almost as a sigh. He returned to his seat as a collective sense of relief permeated the room.
"Apologies for adding to our mounting concerns," Sir Ranulf remarked, leaning forward with fingers laced, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. "Speaking of traitors, we must consider that rival kingdoms likely have spies within our court. If King Lot discovers Arthur's absence through such channels, he may see it as an opportunity to strike."
Geoffrey's chronicling slowed as he considered Ranulf's words. Spies had indeed infiltrated Camelot before, their presence a constant threat to the kingdom's security. He made a side note to review the castle's security protocols, wondering if Arthur had installed informants in rival courts or established any measures to thwart spies in his. The historian in him recognized the cyclical nature of such political maneuverings, a dance of secrets and betrayals as old as kingdoms themselves. He pondered, however, if Arthur was a king of a different caliber, abstaining from such practices even as his father did not?
He glanced at the queen, her face carefully neutral. Would she know of security measures if there were any? Yet Geoffrey's keen perception caught the twitch of her fingers that rested on the arm of Arthur's chair, a tell-tale sign of the storm that must be raging within. He couldn't help but wonder at the strength of this woman who, mere hours ago, had likely exhausted every tear her body could produce in that glade. Now, she stood before them, a monarch tempered by adversity, carrying the weight of a kingdom without its king, possibly on the brink of war.
Geoffrey observed the reactions of those gathered. A collective heaviness seemed to settle upon their shoulders, each man absorbing this new threat in his own way. These were Camelot's finest – battle-hardened knights and two powerful sorcerers – yet in this moment, they appeared all too human. It wasn't fear he saw in their expressions, but a weariness born of one crisis too many, a reluctant acceptance of yet another challenge thrust upon them.
"By all the gods," Gwaine muttered, his earlier frustration given way to a look of grim resolve and sheer exhaustion. "Enemies within and without. We're truly in a living nightmare." Yet beneath the weariness stirred indomitable spirits that had seen Camelot through countless trials before.
"Drafting a war declaration could take weeks, if not months," Leon stated, his voice steady and assured. "We have time to prepare, even with the threat of spies"
"It is indeed a lengthy process for such declarations," Geoffrey agreed, his historian's knowledge coming to the fore.
Percival added, "It buys us precious time to fortify our defenses and find Arthur."
Queen Guinevere nodded. "Our forces must be ready," she declared, her tone decisive, sharp as a newly forged sword. "Leon, please work with Percival and the commanders to draft a military strategy. I want it promptly. Coordinate with Merlin that, when the soldiers and knights are not searching for Arthur, they're preparing for battle."
Geoffrey glanced at Percival and Leon, noting the contrast between them. In Percival, he'd seen a remarkable transformation in leadership and confidence these last few weeks, like a sapling growing into a mighty oak. Leon, on the other hand, displayed an interplay of wary resolve, his seasoned experience evident in his demeanor. Together, they represented a blend of fresh ideas and field knowledge that Camelot sorely needed. And yet, without Arthur's guiding hand and tactical brilliance, could they and the other commanders run an effective campaign against Escetir's forces?
As Geoffrey pondered his own question, he found himself reconsidering. These men had been trained by Arthur himself, had fought alongside him in countless battles. He knew they could rise to the challenge. Guinevere would require every able voice, every ounce of wisdom, and every sword in the days ahead – and in these knights, she had some of Camelot's finest.
"Your majesty," Galahad asked, "what of the people? News of Arthur's disappearance will surely incite panic."
Geoffrey interjected, "The kingdom yearns for unity in these trying times, especially with the circulation of propaganda leaflets against magic and sorcerers. Perhaps it would be prudent to delay an announcement of his abduction."
Guinevere fixed him with a steely gaze. "Arthur's absence was surely noticed upon our return from King's Woods, Lord Geoffrey," she said, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Delaying only increases rumor and speculation."
"With respect, my lady," he pressed, "rumors we can control. An official announcement, however, could fan the flames of anti-magic sentiment."
"He has a point, Gwen," Merlin added, his voice tight with worry. "We have to think about how this information might be used against innocent sorcerers."
Leon nodded slowly. "Or how our enemies might use it against you, the kingdom."
Guinevere turned away from the group, her gaze distant as she laced her fingers across her stomach. Geoffrey noticed a subtle shift in her posture as they awaited her decision, the barely perceptible squaring of her shoulders.
After what seemed an eternity to Geoffrey, she turned back to face them, her expression resolute. "I understand your concerns, and they are valid. However, I believe honesty is our best course. Yes, there are risks, but there is also strength in truth. We will not hide Arthur's absence, but neither will we show weakness."
Geoffrey nodded, acknowledging the wisdom in the queen's words even as his mind catalogued the potential risks. He caught a fleeting glance between Leon and Percival, their expressions that of admiration and concern. The queen's honesty was bold, but Geoffrey couldn't deny the power of her conviction. She strode to the head of the table, all attention fixed on her every move.
"Knights of Camelot," she began, "our king is missing, but our resolve must not waver. We face formidable enemies, ones that threaten not just Arthur, but all we hold dear. But remember this: we are Camelot. We have faced dragons, undead armies, and traitors within our walls. We have prevailed before, and we shall do so again."
A change permeated the chamber, her words kindling hope in each person she gazed upon. Geoffrey was struck by the conversion he witnessed around him. The men straightened, their faces a blend of respect and renewed purpose. Even Gwaine, who had been so confrontational earlier, nodded his approval, a tired, wry smile reflecting a restored faith as Guinevere continued.
"The people must know the truth, but say nothing of sorcerers. We'll not incite a witch hunt. We move openly, but cautiously. And remember, our strength lies not just in arms, but in unity. We are stronger together than any force that stands against us."
"We won't let fear divide us," Merlin asserted quietly, his tone weighted with purpose.
The queen nodded solemnly, meeting Merlin's gaze with silent appreciation. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. "Each of you has a crucial role to play. Find our king. Prepare our defenses. Protect our kingdom. My faith in you is unwavering, as must be your faith in each other…. Sir Percival, sound the alarm." She turned to Geoffrey, her voice firm. "Lord Geoffrey, summon the council. We have work to do, and not a moment to lose."
The knights responded with a unified affirmation of loyalty. With one long final glance at Arthur's empty chair, the queen looked beyond it to the skinny redhead still silent in the shadows. "Jacinth, come with me."
The young woman timidly stepped forward, her movements hesitant. Guinevere extended a hand to her, and as Mistress Jacinth grasped it, the queen pulled her close, a gesture of protection and comfort. With the maiden at her side, the queen headed for the lesser hall doors. Fredrick, George, and Sefa followed, their footsteps a symphony of purpose. Merlin hurried to flank her other side, his features set in lines of grim determination and resolve. Behind them, the knights murmured in hushed tones, their voices a blend of concern and resolve.
As Geoffrey watched them depart, a sense of calm purpose tempered his uneasy heart. Allowing himself a moment of reflection, he set down his quill and threaded his fingers. If any could steady shaken faith, mend pierced hearts, it would be Queen Guinevere, for he appreciated how her words had reinvigorated those battle-hardened men. Arthur's vision and her leadership, refined by dire circumstance, might lead them to yet glimpse Albion's dawn despite the encroaching night.
As the door closed behind the departing group with a soft thud, marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another, Geoffrey turned back to his parchment and skimmed over the written pages. Prophecy's call was strong for these people, and they courageously reached for its strands in destiny's tapestry – however entangled, however dangerous. He'd caught the numerous subtle details during the meeting – a creased brow here, a clenched fist there – each speaking to the magnitude of their challenge.
With meticulous care, Geoffrey began to add these observations to his account. As he wrote, he wondered how this tale would be remembered in the annals of history – as the darkest hour before dawn, or the birth of an even greater legend.