Archive of Our Own

Guinevere was, first and foremost, a craftswoman. Her earliest memories took place in the flickering shadows of the forge. She knew the glow of molten metal and carried the tattoos that sparks left on her forearms. Carding heaps of wool had bestowed calluses on her palms and the slow tedium of the spinning wheel introduced the recurring ache from sitting too long. The making of clothes, the delicacy of embroidery, the warp and weft of weaving, all of it Gwen had practiced. Thus, from the moment she joined the castle staff, she always knew that one day she would craft a gown befitting a royal wedding. 

Never once had she imagined it would be her own. 

The thought returned again, as she deftly stitched back and forth with fine silk thread on the edge of cloth that was to become the hem. Arthur had purchased the fabric off a trader from Samarkand, long before he had proposed the first time. It was as white as snow and felt like water in her hands. It was the type of thing she once dreamed of as a little girl, had forgotten as a young woman, had despaired of as an exile in Ealdor. Against it, her craftswoman’s fingers were worn and brown, scarred from the forge and the kitchens and spinning and sparring.

Gwen resisted the urge to pick at the itching scab on her knuckle. It had been there since the retaking of Camelot. 

From the moment Morgana turned the corner, she had known she was outmatched. She and Elyan may have sparred occasionally with the swords their father forged, but Morgana had trained in swordplay since birth. The darkness of the stone walls encroached on her vision, a flicker of torchlight on her blade as it clattered far from reach. 

She clenched her needle too tightly and it bent in the center. With a breath, she worked it straight and tried to forget how Morgana’s hatred had pierced her to her marrow. Guinevere was here, in her chambers. That night was past. All was well. 

Her lady’s maids were gossiping about the knights. Amice and Imogen worked on the more complex embroidery of the bodice, chattering as they added birds and roses. Birgit sat in the corner. Her wooden bobbins rattled as she critically gazed at the lace of the ancient veil Gwen would wear for the ceremony. Ygraine wore it for her marriage to Uther, and the queen before her, on and on, back through the Pendragon lineage. The lace for the gown would mimic those patterns designed long, long ago. It was a delicate task and Birgit was the best in the castle. 

One of the upsides of being a servant before becoming a queen was that the maids were not intimidated by her like she was by Morgana when she first started. Gwen tried to tame the smile starting as Amice managed to turn the conversation to Sir Gwaine for the third time. 

“Oh, you brought water to the practice fields again then?” she said with interest to Imogen. “How was the sparring?” 

“Gwaine is back to his old self, if that’s what you’re asking,” Imogen answered smartly. 

“Shirt on?” asked Amice shamelessly. 

“Well,” smirked Imogen, “it is awfully warm outside today.” 

“I don’t know what you see in him,” inserted Birgit. “He’s a rogue.” 

“A handsome one.” 

“He’d flirt with anything that moves.” 

“As long as one of those things is me,” trilled Amice, setting them all off into a fit of giggles. 

“I thought I saw you looking a little too long at Sir Percival’s biceps, Birgit,” Imogen added. 

Birgit blushed brilliantly and the swift rhythm of lace bobbins stuttered. “Damn,” she muttered to herself, trying to untangle the result. “They’re--they’re distracting, that’s all. I don’t mean to stare, my lady, honest--” 

Birgit’s plea was abruptly interrupted by the chamber doors bursting open. Gwen jumped, her needle barely missing her finger. 

“Merlin!” she scolded, since only Arthur’s manservant would be so bold. Arthur happened to be suffering through an afternoon council session about land taxes, so Merlin must have temporarily escaped the drudgery. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Merlin apologized, grinning ear to ear as he bounded inside. “Got a little excited. I found it, Gwen, it’ll be perfect.” 

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Merlin,” Gwen told him. Her maids were snickering behind their hands as Merlin maneuvered his lanky figure around the pattern pieces and piles of fabric. He held a highly decorative box that was mostly covered in dust except for the patches that were clearly Merlin’s fingerprints. 

“The Sapphires of Hypatia. Said to be worn by the greatest empresses of the Roman Empire,” Merlin announced grandly, brandishing the box at her once he was close enough. 

This meant nothing to Gwen. She scanned him from the top of his head to his scuffed boots. “Are those cobwebs in your hair?” 

“Probably. Yes.” 

“Have you been in the vaults?” 

“With permission,” he said proudly. He jangled the keys in his free hand for emphasis. “So? Do you want to see them?” 

“I suppose…” 

Her maids gathered around her curiously as Merlin slid open the latch and flipped the lid open. There was a collective gasp. 

An enormous necklace glistened where it was nestled on dark velvet. Intricate silver filigree laced around little white gems like seeds, but the true wonders were the sapphires. There were five of them, large as chestnuts and sparkling like they contained their own secret source of light. Gwen had never seen anything so ornate or priceless-looking in her entire life, and she had lived in the palace for most of it. She had to imagine it weighed at least a pound. 

“Merlin…” she breathed. “What on earth are these for?” 

“Something blue, of course!” 

She snapped her eyes up to his earnest ones. Of course. The merry little poem danced through her head. Most brides in the kingdom tried to honor it in one way or another. Gwen herself would be wearing the old Pendragon veil and her brand new wedding gown. But she was not too bothered about the last verses. After all, what was she to borrow? She was not fortunate to be close with many women in her life, at least none who owned any precious items for a royal wedding. She had nothing of her own mother’s except the wide set of her eyes and the dimples in her cheeks. And as for something blue, it seemed silly to seek a particularly colored item when there were so many other duties to attend to as a future monarch. Camelot was still healing from her latest crisis. Tristan’s face at Isolde’s funeral rites remained burned into her memory. How could she insist on small luxuries in the wake of such a tragedy?

But despite her dismissal, Gwen had not counted on how weirdly insistent Merlin would be that she follow each of the rhymed instructions to the letter. 

He had been aghast when she told him she had not thought it that important. When she tried to explain, she got it all scrambled up, which was embarrassing, because she really thought her awkwardness had improved. 

“Don’t worry about it, Gwen,” Merlin had soothed, interrupting her flurry of stuttering sentences. “I’ll figure it out. You just focus on becoming queen.” 

Apparently, the sapphires of Hypatia were Merlin’s version of “figuring it out.” She glanced back and forth between the enormous gemstones and her friend. 

“Merlin,” she repeated again, completely lost for words. 

He read her tone instantly. “Too much?” he asked sheepishly. 

“It’s… not really my style,” said Gwen, smiling softly at him. 

He chewed his lip, squinting at the gemstones and cocking his head. “I suppose they are pretty extravagant.” 

“Very extravagant,” corrected Imogen, a trace of awe in her voice. 

“Are you quite certain, my lady?” asked Birgit. “They are lovely.” 

“Positive. And I told you, call me Gwen. No need for formality in closed quarters.” She turned back to Merlin. “I’m sorry Merlin, you probably hunted all day for these.” 

“Well, not all day,” he said cheerfully. “Arthur was in a state this morning over the council meeting. Which, obviously, became my problem.” 

“What would he do without you?” 

“Attend his royal duties in his sleep clothes,” Merlin grumbled. Then he winked at the maids, “Take one last look, ladies. I’ve got to return these to the vaults before anyone notices them missing.” 

“You said you had permission!” 

“To look, not to touch.”

Gwen laughed. “I won’t tell Arthur then.” 

“I’d appreciate it,” said Merlin, snapping the lid shut and hiding the beautiful gems from view. Amice, Imogen, and Birgit drifted back to their work as he gathered the box under his gangly arm. “Anything else I can do for you?” 

“No, you have so much on your plate already. How’s Gaius?” 

Merlin’s cheerful demeanor slipped. “Getting there,” he answered quietly. 

The ordeal in the dungeons was clinging to the old physician longer than Gwen liked. She could see the strain on Merlin as well, in the purple shadows under his eyes and the wrinkled mess of his clothes. In the aftermath of regaining the castle from Morgana, Merlin had been run ragged, balancing his duties as Arthur’s manservant with the court physician’s job while Gaius recovered. When Gwen visited yesterday she was pleased to see Gaius back to mixing his remedies and tinctures.

“He was on his feet yesterday,” she said encouragingly. “That’s something.” 

“I know, I know. He really is better, I just worry. There are good days and bad days. The good days are getting to be more frequent.” 

That could apply to all of them. Gwen still woke up some mornings expecting the scent of Hunith’s charcoal fire, the closeness of her tiny hut, the ache of a broken heart. 

“And you?” she asked. “Everything’s okay?” 

“You know I’m always fine.” 

“I know,” she sighed. Another thing that was lost in the whirlwind of becoming royal: she could not check on her friend as often as she used to. “Merlin, if you have too much on your plate, I really can do without something borrowed and something blue--”

“It’s a tradition for a reason, Gwen,” he interrupted. His expression deepened, like he knew something she did not. But the moment of seriousness evaporated and he added with a soft smile, “I’m not too busy. Let me do this for you.” 

“Okay,” she said. He pivoted on his heel and left. She watched the door swing closed behind him. 

“I knew it!” crowed Amice immediately. “Imogen you are as red as a strawberry!” 

“I am not!”

“It’s the ears, isn’t it?” 

Gwen smiled to herself at the maids’ talk and wondered once more. Not just about Merlin’s insistence on the rhyme. About Merlin himself. Perhaps Ealdor had given her a new perspective, some context in which to place him and all his contradictions. 

The scab on her knuckle itched. The cool burn of steel whispered over her neck and once again she felt the thrill of fear before Morgana was inexplicably blasted backwards. For some reason, the most unforgettable thing about that night was Merlin’s presence as the dust settled. 

The most unforgettable thing about that night was Agravaine’s frozen look of surprise as the dust settled. Arthur’s uncle was dead the moment the warning passed Merlin’s lips. Be careful. 

In the aftermath, it was determined that Agravaine must have escaped the tunnels and perished in the fire that swept through the forest outside of Ealdor. The burnt remains were indistinguishable from one another. Arthur had the corpses gathered and buried and perfunctory rights were said over the grave. Arthur stayed by the freshly turned soil until night fell. Far away, in the cavernous belly of the earth, Agravaine rotted. His name was not mentioned again between the two of them. 

Merlin had killed before. 

It had never haunted him like this until now. 

“I swear if I hear one more lord complain about property lines and wheat taxes I will personally gift his lands to Essetir. See how he likes Lot’s treatment of his complaints.”

“Heavy the head,” Merlin said absently. He placed a tray of food on Arthur’s desk, pushing aside papers and inkwells to make room. 

“What?” 

“You know. Heavy the head that wears the crown.” 

“I don’t know where you come up with these nonsensical phrases--”

“It’s an idiom. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it.” 

“I’m busy running a kingdom here--”

“And I keep telling you, you need to be more in touch with the people.” Merlin shoved an apple into Arthur’s hand. “Eat. You skipped lunch.”

“I am in touch with the people!” 

“Eat, Arthur. You’ll feel better.”

“What are you implying?” 

“That the combination of an empty stomach and Lord Urien’s demands have made you cranky. Also, here are the vault keys.” 

“The--you took my keys?!” 

“You gave them to me. I promise everything is as I found it.”  

“What were you looking for in the vaults?” 

“It’s wedding-related.” 

Merlin kept his face politely neutral, while Arthur’s went through a complicated series of emotions. He landed somewhere between lovesick and nervous. “What is it?” 

“Just a little ritual for the bride, Arthur, nothing you need to worry about.” 

Arthur scowled and chomped down on the apple. “Ah doh unnershtaand wayoo--”

“Seriously, how can you possibly pass for royalty?” 

Arthur glared at him and swallowed. “I don’t understand why you get to help Guinevere with her preparations and I can’t even see the gown.” 

“It’s bad luck,” Merlin informed him, busily organizing the stacks of parchment lying around Arthur’s desk. 

“Don’t be superstitious,” Arthur accused. But now that he was eating, his focus shifted to the food. Merlin rolled his eyes and sifted through the mess of tax documents. Mentally, he sifted through his other problem. He needed to find something borrowed and something blue, and soon. The wedding was in a month and Gwen, through no fault of her own, did not think the rhyme to be of utmost importance. 

Merlin did. 

He just did not know how to say, “I read in one of the forbidden magic books I hide under my bed that the rhyme is actually a powerful charm of protection for the married couple against any harmful spells cast against them on their wedding day.” 

Morgana was still out there somewhere. Merlin was convinced of it despite the rumors she was dead. She would kill Gwen to preserve her claim to Camelot’s throne if she had the opportunity.

The charm was likely not as powerful as Merlin himself. But he was tired. He’d take all the help he could get. 

He noticed suddenly that Arthur had gone quiet. A hunk of cheese was left on his plate, but the king’s gaze was on the fire in the grate. His eyes reflected the flames. 

“Arthur?” 

Arthur blinked. Then he cleared his throat. “I won’t have much family there.” At Merlin’s confused glance, he clarified, “At my wedding. Leon’s a distant cousin on my mother’s side. He’ll be the closest thing…” 

The spectre of Agravaine returned like a foul taste on his tongue. Merlin tried to find the right words, but all he could say was, “I’m sorry.” 

Arthur let out a sad little huff. “For all your many flaws, Merlin, this is not your fault.” 

Merlin sometimes marveled at Arthur’s uncanny ability to say just the opposite of what was true. He gathered himself and said quietly, “Still. I am sorry.” 

And that was all. 

Later, when the foul taste settled in his stomach, he would serve Arthur and Gwen dinner by candlelight. They would offer for him to join, and he would politely refuse, saying he already ate. It would be a lie. Gwen would try and catch his eye and he would pretend ignorance. Then as he readied Arthur for bed, he would finally make his request. 

“May I take a few days to visit my mother? I’ll find a page or one of the servants to assist Gaius with his deliveries. He’s well enough to mix medicines in his quarters. I wanted to go back and check on her after we retook the castle but Gaius needed--”

“Of course,” Arthur would interrupt. Understanding would shine in his gaze. “Of course, Merlin.” 

Merlin would grin, with teeth and everything. It would almost be genuine, for he truly did want to see his mother, to feel safe in her embrace for just a little while. 

“You’d better be back in time for my wedding.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good.” After a moment, a rare version of the king he knew so well would softly emerge. “At the very least, I need you by my side.” 

Between tutoring in the ways of the court with Lady Alana and cutting the pattern for her coronation gown, Gwen went back to the place she faced Morgana. The broken furniture and debris had been cleared away and the dust swept. It made the narrow corridor look bare and empty. She had not noticed then, but the crenellation above the doorway had been completely destroyed. Gwen ran her fingers up the smooth wall to the first crack. Whole chunks of stone were missing, as if they were scooped away from the wall like pudding. 

She went through it again: a blade, cold against her throat. The numbness spreading from her chest as Morgana swung it backwards. A sudden loss of pressure against her eardrums, and a blast. Shock. Merlin. “Are you alright?” 

“Merlin is going to Ealdor to visit his mother tomorrow,” Arthur had told her this morning. “Would you like to send anything along with him?” 

His growth showed in the way he knew to ask. She wanted to brush her palm against his cheek, to reach over the chasmic reminder of their separation. He wasn’t looking at her. He studied a document that caught the dawnlight and turned the blue of his eyes to glass. It hurt him too, to remember it. She reached out. 

“Yes. Tell him not to leave without a letter from me.” 

She missed Hunith, straight-backed and enduring beneath the scrutiny of the village where she raised a son born of wedlock. Hunith’s kindness won them over in the end. Gwen hoped she could hold her chin high like that. The servant-become-queen, exiled and returned. Rolling with every blow, yet never hardening. 

There was so much of Hunith in Merlin. 

She let her hand fall from the broken wall and walked the rest of the way to her chambers. Her maids were already laying out the pattern pieces on the fabric of what was to become her coronation gown. It was a lovely shade of violet, but shimmered like the twilight sky on the edges and in the shadows. In the corner, Amice was starting to assemble the skirt of her wedding gown. It felt overly luxurious to have two priceless dresses for a single day of her life. Morgana, the old Morgana, would have agreed that it seemed too much for one person. 

Gwen sighed as it tumbled once again through her memory: the blade, the blast, the shock, Merlin. She had hoped that by visiting the corridor, her mind would cease sticking at that moment. 

She settled at the table where the patterns were already pinned and picked up her scissors, cutting along the borders. She paused only once, briefly, watching the fabric fluctuate between violet and blue, blue and violet. A thought caught, like a word on the tip of her tongue that she’d forgotten. She shook her head and kept cutting. 

The only thing Merlin had not inherited from Hunith was his eyes. They must be from his father. The blue, she mused, was similar to her shifting fabric. Almost as though it was on the cusp of something else. 

Arthur made Merlin take Gwaine and Percival with him to Ealdor. Merlin tried to argue that he would be fine on his own, but the king insisted he go with some protection. The king needn’t have worried, thought Merlin, as Ealdor came into view over the fields. A few cows on the road moved lazily out of their way and Merlin was struck by how little his village had changed. It was the time of year that the bluebells bloomed. The horses had waded through glades of them in the woods. Merlin recalled the years he used to bring a bouquet home to his mother after long afternoons of playing with Will. The patches growing by the road swayed as they passed, dislodging the late afternoon bees.

“You know, Merlin, if Ealdor had a proper tavern it would probably get a lot more trade,” Gwaine commented. 

“Probably a lot more transient rogues too,” Percival added slyly. 

Merlin snorted. 

A weedy adolescent traipsing through the fields caught sight of them and waved, before running ahead to the village to alert everyone of their arrival. Merlin urged Buttercup into a trot and heard Gwaine and Percival do the same. Once they were close enough he stood up in his stirrups and… there. He grinned and waved. His shoulders loosened. Ealdor was no longer home, but sometimes it still felt like a homecoming. 

“You’re okay,” he murmured when he wrapped his mother in a hug and let his head fall onto hers. 

“Of course I am,” she replied warmly. “Didn’t you get my letter?” 

“It’s different to see it in person.” 

She leaned back and placed her hands on either side of his face. “Truer words,” she said, eyes crinkled. She greeted Gwaine and Percival then, and invited them all to join her for dinner. Percival volunteered to do Merlin’s usual chore of seeing to the horses, while Merlin and Gwaine cut more potatoes to add to her meager stew. 

“The Southron soldiers burned the grain-house, but luckily we had already removed the seeds we saved for planting. Otto Simmons and his boys are already making plans to rebuild.”

“We won’t be here long, but Percival and I can at least help clear some of the ruin,” Gwaine offered. 

“That would be wonderful, thank you Sir Gwaine.” 

Gwaine carried the conversation through dinner, with Percival occasionally adding his input. No one commented on how Merlin seemed to have less and less to say.

Sneaking away from the village after everyone had gone to sleep was easy. With a flash of gold, Merlin became a wraith, passing between buildings like a star-cast shadow. No moon hung in the sky. He loped on long legs across the fields and into the darkness of the woods. Secrecy came as naturally as breathing to him by now. Even so, the duality of his mission to Ealdor had eaten away at his conscience as he traveled here with his friends and ate at his mother’s table and laid awake on his sleep mat. 

But there was one last thing left undone. 

The tunnels were black as pitch when he slipped inside. There was no need to hide his magic from the fae and forest creatures, but he still did not make a light right away. His fingers skimmed the rough, wet walls as he went. Slowly he wended inward, feeling the bass hum of the stones around him, beneath his feet, above his head. He felt a stranger here, in this place he once knew so well as a child. But even the darkness could not preserve those innocent days. When the stench of death filled his nostrils he knew he had come far enough. 

“Leoht.” 

There were hardly any remains to speak of. Merlin surveyed without emotion the scattering of bones and rotting meat and tattered clothing. All were marked by the teeth of wild animals. Discerning which belonged to Arthur’s uncle would be impossible. His fists clenched. He could leave. But Agravaine’s blood was on Merlin’s hands, blood which the man shared with Arthur, so Merlin would bury what he could find. 

As he magically swept the human debris from the corners he considered that Agravaine was also the brother of Ygraine. Ygraine who died that Arthur might live. Merlin grit his teeth against the tension in his chest. 

Was her blood worth the death and persecution of his people? 

The raw, grating sob that escaped his throat surprised him. 

It awakened something bigger, something that built like an ugly storm, electrifying his limbs. He bit back a scream, holding back the storm with an effort that sent him to his knees. His vision grayed. 

When he returned to himself, he was staring down at his hands pressed against the gravel, cut with sharp shadows from the phantom light above. He breathed shakily through his nose. The sudden loss of control was… frightening. 

So it’s you. You’re Emrys.

After a few rough swallows, Merlin straightened. Agravaine had not truly understood the meaning of the title. The stones whispered it now, still reverberating with the echo of what had occurred here. Merlin thought he felt the earth tremble as he raised his palm. He took a deep breath and sent the bones of Agravaine and his men deep below.  

The grave would remain here, unmarked like Balinor’s. He swiped at his wet cheeks and stumbled away. 

When he emerged into the night, he inhaled the rich scents of the forest. His soul still felt turbulent and unhinged, bigger than his body. He cast his mind outward, testing the limits and finding none. For a heartbeat, he was infinite. 

Emrys, Albion chorused. Emrys shuddered and shrank back into himself. 

Gwaine was waiting for him outside his mother’s house when he returned. The knight pushed himself upright from where he was leaning against the fence at Merlin’s approach. His gaze was inscrutable. 

“Where’d you go?” he asked quietly when Merlin was close enough. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Merlin lied. His mind still slipped and sloshed in the wake of revelation, hyper-aware of the sleeping villagers, the freshly planted gardens, the dozing livestock. “Thought maybe I’d check on the horses.”

“Then went for a nighttime stroll?” asked Gwaine. For all his bluster, he could be extremely perceptive. 

For an instant, Merlin considered telling the truth. But the habit of lying was too deeply ingrained. Maybe it was engraved onto his very being. He held up the bunch of bluebells he had gathered on the way back and smiled blandly. “For my mother.” 

Gwaine stared at him. Then he shrugged. “Fine then. As long as you’re safe, the Princess can’t complain.” 

Merlin felt his eyes on him all the way back into the house, but he hardly noticed. Exhaustion pulled at him as he set the flowers in a jar and collapsed onto his mat, careful not to crush the second bunch he had magically preserved in his jacket pocket. He tried not to think about the voices of the stones and the forest speaking his name to him and the surety of the knowledge that came with it. 

Emrys. Immortal.

He sucked in a breath and pushed the gaping abyss of time away from the edges of his consciousness. 

He needed to remain here, in the present. 

As he drifted into sleep, he decided that Gwen was right about the sapphires. The bluebells were simpler. They would be lovely braided into her hair. 

“Welcome back!” Gwen greeted Merlin as he entered her chambers. “I’m sorry I was unable to come down and greet you, Lady Alana was in rare form today. No troubles on the road?” 

“None unless you count Gwaine,” said Merlin, grinning widely. His eyes skirted over to the near-finished coronation gown in the corner. “Oh Gwen, this is lovely! The bodice is your work, is it not Imogen?” 

The normally loquacious maid blushed brilliantly and nodded. 

“Amazing detail-work!” he praised, completely oblivious to the effect he was having on her maid. Amice and Birgit stifled giggles in the corner, where they were cleaning up their tools for the evening. Outside the sky was purple and streaked with saturated orange clouds. Merlin, despite how weary he likely was, helped them clear up the scraps and move the gown into Gwen’s bedchamber, where it would be out of sight should Arthur choose to visit her living chambers later. 

The maids curtsied as they took their leave, Amice promising to bring dinner within the hour. Gwen was still unused to such a service, but she thanked Amice and then frowned at the mess covering Ygraine’s beautiful oak dining table. Pins and bits of brocade and thread littered the surface. 

“Here,” said Merlin. He removed his neckerchief, tied it in a knot, and started sticking the pins into it three at a time with deft movements of otherwise clumsy fingers. “I promise this one is freshly laundered. I smelled of horse, so I changed before coming up.” 

“Thank you, Merlin,” Gwen said, suddenly exhausted and discouraged. She picked up the brocade scraps alongside him and placed them in the scrap basket. In Lady Alana’s lessons today, she had been unable to keep straight the sheer complexity of the nobility family trees. All she could remember was that Sir Leon was Alana’s first cousin on her father’s side. But Gwen had known that since she was a girl. It was frustrating, as each person required a different level of etiquette and she was beginning to doubt she would ever remember. Even now, as she swiped pieces of thread into her palm, she could not recall a single iota of what they had reviewed today. Some queen she would be. 

“Hey.” 

She looked up. Merlin set his bristling neckerchief in a bowl on the table and took her hand. 

“You okay?” 

“Yes. Yes, I-- It’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid if it’s upsetting you.” 

“It is though,” she moaned and it all came bursting out. “I’m supposed to know all these silly details about the noble families that all the other ladies have known since they were children, and I’m just… I don’t know these people, Merlin. Lady Alana tries to be patient, but I have to memorize it all and… and what to I care who Lord Urien’s brother’s son is called--”

“Hector,” Merlin interjected. 

Gwen blinked at him. 

“Urien has two brothers and only one of them has a son. Hector.” Merlin smiled at her amazement. “Arthur lets me help with far too many of his less-interesting duties. Hector is the only male heir to Urien’s estate, something Urien resents because he and his brother don’t see eye to eye on a number of things.”

“Oh,” Gwen said, somehow feeling worse. 

Merlin sensed this and added, “I happen to know a good tutor, if you need one.” 

“Really? Who?” 

“Oh you know,” he said with a smirk. “Tall. Dark-haired. Mysterious.” 

She sighed. “Thank you, Merlin.” 

“Some of the families are complicated, but don’t worry--” his grin took a wicked glint to it-- “I have some very memorable mnemonics.” 

This finally made her laugh. 

“You’ll be good at this, Gwen,” he assured her. “Stop worrying. Here, I brought you a letter from my mother. And a gift, if I’m not mistaken.” 

He proffered an envelope that did indeed feel like it contained something more than parchment. Gwen slid her finger under the wax seal and pulled out the letter and… a silver bracelet. It was simple, a chain of slender links with a little charm. She held it up to the candlelight. It was a dragon, wings stretched out in flight, unadorned, but incredibly detailed for how small it was. 

“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. She set it on the freshly-cleared table and picked up the letter. “Do you mind if I…”

“Of course.” 

Merlin stood up, his eyes lingering on the bracelet for an instant, then going to stir the dying embers in the fireplace and add another piece of wood. 

My dearest Gwen, 

Merlin has conveyed to me your well-wishes. It was wonderful to receive your letter. I must admit it is not the same in this house without your company. 

He also passed on your invitation to the wedding and coronation ceremonies. Regretfully it is a difficult season for me to leave Ealdor, but I am passing along a small token of my regard for you. Perhaps it is presumptuous of me, but Merlin mentioned your need for something borrowed. This bracelet is the only thing of worldly value I possess, given to me by Merlin’s father--

“Oh,” breathed Gwen. 

Merlin looked up from where he tended the fire. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Oh,” she repeated. “Oh yes I--the bracelet--” Then she hesitated. Never once had Merlin mentioned his father to her. Neither had Hunith, until now. 

“Yes?” 

It felt strange, to say out loud what neither mother nor son ever had. “Your father gave it to her.” 

Merlin went quiet, his gaze returning to the delicate loop of silver on the table. The light of the flames had turned the tiny dragon charm scarlet. He was silent for so long, Gwen began to regret saying anything at all. But then he murmured, “I had guessed that was so.” 

“Did you… do you remember him?” 

He shook his head. “He left Ealdor before I was born, but… I did meet him. Once.”

“Why did he leave?” 

She hadn’t meant to voice the question. It slipped out as she considered the language Hunith used and the careful craftsmanship of the piece. They told a tale, not of a brief affair, but of lovers tragically separated. How long had they been together? What caused them to part ways?

Again, Merlin did not immediately respond. He took his time adding another log, positioning it, and leaning the poker against the hearth. Perhaps he did not know. Gwen’s own heart still echoed with the ache of leaving Arthur behind. Perhaps Hunith, like her, still did not know how to speak of it, even to her son.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“It’s okay,” he answered quietly. “I… I used to wonder the same thing, I suppose. I used to wonder a lot of things. Mother only ever said that he was a good man. But would a good man leave his family behind? Would he go years without contacting them, without ensuring that they were safe?” 

“And now?” 

He sighed. “And now I’m old enough to know that even good men can be caught up in difficult circumstances. I am proud to be his son,” he clarified, and behind him the fire briefly flared. “But he was only a man. It is easy to become bitter when all you have are bad choices.”

“Surely staying with his family was not a bad choice.” 

“He didn’t know about me.” In the dim light it was hard to tell what Merlin was thinking. “It was a difficult time back then for… for certain folk. I’m afraid I don’t know how to explain. I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize, Merlin.” 

He did not answer. 

“You said you met him?” 

He smiled wanly. “Perhaps one day I shall tell you the full story, my lady.” 

The manservant rarely used a title with such gravity. Gwen felt herself grow cold. “Merlin, don’t… please don’t think that my becoming Queen will put a distance between us.”

He regarded her solemnly and for a moment the shadows from the fireplace made him a stranger, someone far older than her care-free friend. But his next smile was soft and genuine. “Never,” he promised.

They spoke no more of fathers. Gwen made Merlin join her for dinner and did not finish the letter until after he had gone.

The bracelet is the only thing of worldly value I possess, given to me by Merlin’s father. I know the borrowed item is meant to come from a married couple for good luck, but I trust that this will do. In our hearts, Merlin’s father and I were wed. I have always cherished it, and I would be honored if you wore it the day you marry Arthur.

Please keep an eye on Merlin for me. I know his destiny lies in Camelot, but I cannot help but worry. He seems so tired sometimes. 

Yours, 

Hunith

“Has Merlin ever spoken to you about his father?” Gwen asked Arthur when he visited her late after another arduous council session. 

Arthur shrugged. “Not really. He only said that he never knew him.” 

Surprised, Gwen asked, “When was this?” 

“A long time ago now. Why?” 

Gwen pondered. Had Merlin lied to Arthur or had he not met his father until later? If he had, why did he never speak of it until tonight? 

“Gwen?” 

Arthur appeared in front of her. There was something gentle and warm about him in the firelight, even with his brow creased in concern. 

“It’s… nothing,” she said. “Hunith mentioned him in her letter to me. She sent a bracelet for me to borrow on our wedding day. Merlin’s father gave it to her. I guess it just… reminded me. How private he can be.” 

“I doubt there’s much to tell.” The jibe was meant to lighten the mood, but it only made her coldness from earlier return. 

“I confide in him all the time. More so than in my own brother. When my own father died, he was there for me. Have I ever offered to return the favor?” 

Arthur frowned. His eyes became distant for a moment and she wondered if he was thinking the same. But he refocused on her and asked, “Gwen, where is this coming from?”

The chill was beneath her breastbone. It was… familiar? The same feeling from long ago, when the distance between her and Morgana was increasing and she did not understand the reason. The Gwen from years ago would not have recognized the deranged woman who held a blade to her throat. 

“I don’t know,” she answered. Because Merlin had promised not to drift away. Because Merlin had been there, just at the precise moment she thought she would die at the hand of the woman who had once been her closest friend. 

“I guess I just… I’m so grateful to have him. That’s all.” 

In a rare, vulnerable moment, Arthur whispered, “Me too.” Then he kissed her before saying sternly, “Don’t tell him I said that.” 

“I won’t,” she said. “Since you should tell him yourself.” 

“I’m trying ,” he replied, and to her amusement he sounded genuinely frustrated. “I’m having a coat made for him, you know. He can attend our wedding without wearing his usual rags.” He wrinkled his nose at the pincushion-neckerchief discarded on the table. 

“With your words, Arthur.” 

He rolled his eyes and kissed her again. But his expression was serious when he pulled away and quietly repeated, “I’m trying.” 

Arthur was positively surly when they returned from his last council meeting before the wedding guests began to arrive. He practically ripped his ceremonial cape off when he returned to his chambers and proceeded to scowl at the courtyard while Merlin picked it up off the floor. 

“What’s got you so down in the dumps?” he asked after he had stowed the cape and Arthur had still yet to say a word. 

“My servant is a busybody,” Arthur snipped, without turning around. Merlin raised an unimpressed eyebrow at his back.

“Well, since it’s my duty to keep you pleasant and cool-headed for your upcoming nuptials--”

“Lord Urien is a pain in my ass.” 

“Not this again,” Merlin groaned. 

“It isn’t the property taxes this time,” Arthur sighed. Finally he turned from the window, only lean his fists on his desk and glare at it. “He thinks I shouldn’t be marrying a servant. That it’s not befitting of Uther’s son.” 

“He said that?” 

“Might as well have,” Arthur mumbled.

Merlin carefully thought back over the entire meeting. Lord Urien had not contributed much, and even his perfunctory input had nothing remotely to do with Arthur’s choice of a wife. 

“I didn’t notice--”

“Not in the session. Earlier today.”

“Ah.”  

“Yes.” 

“Well he’s wrong of course.” 

Arthur slumped into his chair, blond hair falling forward to partially obscure his knitted brow.

“What if he’s right about… about the responsibilities she’ll have to handle. The training she’ll still need even after the coronation. If something happens to me, she’ll have to lead-- ”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” 

“No!” Arthur declared loudly, finally looking up at Merlin. “No, I’m just… I feel… Am I asking too much of her?” 

Merlin did his best to hide his amusement. “Are you suggesting Gwen isn’t capable of being queen?”

“Of course she is,” Arthur snapped. “But what if she doesn’t want to be?!” 

The king’s anger only thinly disguised the anguish sparkling in his eyes. His words landed heavy as blows. Arthur couldn’t know what effect they would have on his servant. Merlin held his spine straight and his fear in check--for it was fear that he felt. It rushed over him in an overwhelming wave of knowing how fleeting a mortal man’s lifetime really was. How long eternity would be in comparison, and of course Merlin had never wanted to be-- 

But no one asked Emrys if he wanted it. He never had a choice. And Arthur was still waiting for an answer to his own fears. Merlin pulled himself together and considered Guinevere. 

“I suppose she will be an unconventional Queen,” he said at last, nearly to himself, though Arthur was hanging on every word. “She still has much to learn about ruling a kingdom. She never expected to carry that kind of responsibility. But she’s working hard at it. What matters, Arthur, is that she loves the people of Camelot.” 

That was right. It resonated down to his bones. Love was not the same as want. It was stronger. He swallowed, knowing he had paused, knowing that Arthur would need more. He continued: “Many of the nobles don’t understand what it really means to serve the people. But Gwen has lived among them, rich and poor alike. She knows what it is to be hungry, to count coins, to fear winter and scarcity. She knows the depth of relief spring brings. I doubt any of the Lords truly understand the needs of the people they claim to serve. No, her blood is not that of kings, but she was born to be Queen, Arthur. Yes, she still has much to learn,” he repeated, “but I think, as you once discovered many years ago, that the nobles have far more to learn from her than she has from them.” 

Arthur blinked at him, mouth agape. Merlin sighed and said, “You’ll catch flies.” 

Arthur’s teeth clicked shut. After a few heartbeats, he said softly, “You know, Merlin. This is one of those times…” 

“I’ll try not to make a habit of it.” 

“Please.” 

Merlin chuckled and gathered up the basket of dirty laundry from behind the dressing screen. He paused at the door and glanced back at Arthur, who was staring blankly at the next document Merlin had laid out for him. Dusk gathered outside his window, throwing shadows over his face. He still looked despondent to Merlin’s critical gaze. 

“If I may beg for one more moment of my lord’s time,” Merlin interrupted in a simpering, very George-like voice. 

Arthur shook himself and scoffed. “Go on then.” 

“As it is with most people who have destinies, she may not always want to do it. But she loves you, Arthur. Let that be enough.” 

Arthur’s shoulders straightened imperceptibly. “Read that in that book of yours, did you?” he asked lowly. 

“Yes, sire,” Merlin said. His voice betrayed nothing of the newly acknowledged weight of what it meant to be Emrys. 

Perhaps love would be enough for now.

But what would become of him, when everyone he loved was gone? 

The stonemasons were finished with the repairs to the wall and doorway that had been damaged. A new crenellation was in place, complete with the Pendragon crest. The cracks and divots were filled and sanded. The arriving wedding guests would have no idea as to what had taken place in this corridor, now over a month ago. Even Gwen could hardly tell, except for the slight discoloration as the old became new. She ran her finger over the transition. It was more obvious this way, worn and smooth to fresh and rough. 

“Gwen?” 

“Merlin!” 

He approached, looking puzzled. He held something draped over one arm, likely a garment of Arthur’s, judging from the rich fabric. 

“Lord and Lady Annesley have been settled in their guest quarters,” he reported. “And Queen Annis and her retinue are expected in a few hours according to our messengers.”

“Thank you, Merlin. Will you see to it that her chambers are ready?” 

He nodded, but did not leave. Instead his gaze went to the repairs. Had Gwen not been watching, she would not have seen his expression close. 

“Is the stonemason’s work to your satisfaction?” he asked. “Arthur hired the best in the kingdom.” 

“They did marvelous work,” she replied, knowing that Merlin knew she would not truly care. Which only added to the strangeness of his question. Gwen tentatively added, “I was very lucky.” 

“Yes,” Merlin agreed.

She sensed from his tone that he did not wish to discuss it further. “Forgive me, Merlin. I suppose I’m in a bit of a contemplative mood. Is that Arthur’s?” 

He glanced down at the garment he was holding as if surprised to see it there. “Oh. No actually it’s… well, it’s mine.”

She smiled. “He finally gave it to you?” 

“You knew?” 

“He’d mentioned he was having something made.” 

“I confess, I’m a little shocked at his forethought,” Merlin murmured, running a hand over the quilting. “Guess he really didn’t want me looking like a peasant at his wedding.”

“You know that’s not the reason, Merlin.” 

His lips twitched, but he kept his eyes averted.

“You’re more than just his manservant,” she continued. “After everything that’s happened with Agravaine. His father’s death. Morgana. You’re his only constant. He relies on you now more than ever. As do I.” 

“You honor me, Gwen.” He finally met her eyes and smiled. There was something about it though that seemed almost… sad. In the dim corridor, his eyes were nearly gray. It seemed all wrong and she wished she could fix it as easily as she could mend a dress or smelt a key. 

“I’m glad you were there that night,” she burst out. His eyebrow rose in a way reminiscent of Gaius. “I mean when Morgana nearly… I was so frightened.” 

“I didn’t--” he began, looking startled.

“You were there,” she repeated. “That’s all that matters.” 

He stared at her longer and harder than he ever had before. Almost like he was trying to see into her very soul. For an instant, she irrationally wondered if he could. But then he blinked and the corners of his mouth lifted. 

“You’re welcome,” he said sincerely. “I had better speak to the housekeeper about Queen Annis’ quarters.” 

“Of course.”

Gwen remained where she stood long after he had disappeared. 

Later, once Annis had arrived and they had feasted and welcomed her properly, after Arthur had come to say goodnight and gone, Gwen sat on her bed to braid her hair. Her completed gowns were draped on the dress-forms; only candlelight served to illuminate the silhouettes. 

The wedding was in four days.

Had Merlin ever found her something blue? 

The thought came on suddenly, with the memory of how he had looked at her today in the corridor. The one where she’d nearly been killed, the one which inexplicably blew apart to save her, where Merlin had arrived just in time to ask if she was alright. His eyes had been gray then too, but she could not help but think… 

A breeze floated through the open window, causing the candle to gutter. On the wedding gown, something glinted. A stray pin. 

“Now that won’t do,” she muttered to herself. 

She tied off the braid and went to remove the pin, casting about for something to stick it in. On the dressing table, Merlin’s knotted neckerchief was still serving as a pincushion. She ran her fingers over the bristling enameled backings. Then, without really thinking about it, she started to take them out and drop them into the silver tray meant for jewelry. Soon, she held just the neckerchief, tattered by its misuse. 

It was blue. 

She pulled at one of the frayed threads. It unraveled with ease and she held it closer to the candle. Homespun wool, dyed with woad to a faded indigo. Her hands were shaking. 

The blade had been cold at her throat. Then Merlin was there and-- 

Her breath hitched sharply. She froze, teetering on the brink of revelation. For several heartbeats, all of Camelot seemed to tilt and she plunged over the edge-- 

“That’s all that matters,” she whispered to herself. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest.

The stonemasons had done their labor and her lady’s maids were asleep. But Gwen’s wedding gown was still lacking one last touch. 

This final portion would be hers alone to finish. 

Merlin woke well before sunrise on the day of the royal wedding. The stars overhead promised good weather as he tucked the enchanted bluebells into his jacket pocket. For a brief moment he considered them, untouched by time whilst their fellows wilted away. He felt the blood on his hands and the hollow echo of his name against his sternum. 

Emrys.

But it was not a morning to brood. It was a morning for the present. His dearest friends were getting married today. 

He hurried to the kitchens for a light breakfast and ensured that a hearty fair was being prepared for Arthur. There would be little time to eat until the feast tonight. He then checked on last minute preparations, ensured that Gwen’s maids were indeed awake, and started heating water for the king’s bath. Finally, he went to wake Arthur. 

Arthur, predictably, was already up and pacing in his nightclothes. His hair was sticking up in places, making him look even more deranged. 

“Sit down,” Merlin ordered.

“I don’t think I can,” said Arthur, with an uncharacteristic shake in his voice. 

Merlin sighed with fondness. Only Arthur, a brave warrior and firm ruler, would be this profoundly nervous on his wedding day. He allowed the king to fret while he prepared the bath with soothing herbs and just a little magic to get the water to the perfect temperature. 

As he predicted, the bath was a perfect remedy for Arthur’s nerves. By the time his hair was dry and he was dressed in his ceremonial robes, he was more relaxed. They exchanged gentle, teasing remarks until even these faded into quiet companionship while Merlin fastened Excalibur and adjusted the scarlet cloak. 

“No words of wisdom today?” Arthur questioned softly when Merlin finished. The changing angle of the sun through the window told them that the time was swiftly approaching. 

“Don’t trip,” Merlin quipped. 

A flash of panic, then annoyance scurried across the king’s face. “Merlin.” 

“Do you need any?” 

He had never asked before. Spontaneous, unsolicited advice was more typical for the secret warlock. But Arthur considered his question with an unexpected solemnity. Then his shoulders and spine straightened with renewed conviction. “Perhaps not,” he replied slowly. “There may still be those that disagree but… I love her. But it’s more than just something I know in my heart. I don’t know how to explain it but you were right. Camelot needs a queen who will serve it. Not just possess it. Especially after everything.” For a moment, the king’s expression was far away. “Maybe the kingdom can have some stability for a time.” 

Merlin guessed what clouded his friend’s mind. Death and betrayal. Sister, father, and now uncle. 

“Arthur,” he began, uncertain how to continue. 

Arthur met his gaze and smiled ruefully. “I know he betrayed me,” he confessed, “But I still miss who Agravaine was supposed to be. He should have been here.” 

Merlin thought of the bones he buried and the bluebells in his pocket. There was nothing he could promise him. Arthur had not seen the end of heartbreak. Merlin knew with a terrible weight of grief, that the next would be the work of his own bloodstained hands. But that reckoning had not yet come.

“You have loyal friends to stand by your side this day,” he said. “That is far greater than anything Agravaine could provide.”

As if on cue, the knights began to arrive, starting with Sirs Leon and Percival. They would accompany Arthur to the chapel. Merlin excused himself as Arthur’s mood lightened in their celebratory presence. There was but one thing left to do. 

He should have known it was only a matter of time before disaster struck. 

“Merlin.” 

Merlin halted in his path to Gwen’s chambers and turned toward the sound of his name. Lord Urien was partially obscured in an alcove, but now he stepped fully into view. A quick scan confirmed an empty hallway.

“Can I help you?” Merlin asked, trying not to let his impatience show. 

“Don’t think I don’t know it was you who persuaded Arthur to ignore my advice,” Urien said menacingly. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” 

“This wedding should not be happening. Ever since you arrived here in Camelot, you’ve had a terrible influence on the crown prince. And now this,” Urien spat. “It is unbefitting for a Pendragon to ignore his duty.”

Merlin clenched his jaw. “Last I checked, it was Arthur Pendragon on the throne. Not Urien son of Theodoric.” 

The next instant, he was shoved against the wall, two meaty fists twisted into his jacket. Absurdly, his first thought was that he was glad he had not yet changed into the brand new coat Arthur had gifted him. His second was the bluebells. 

“You--” hissed Urien. But it was all he managed before he was roughly pulled away. 

“Get off him!” Gwaine punctuated his snarl with a shove. 

Urien stumbled backwards. His eyes narrowed when he recognized Gwaine. “Of course,” he sneered. “One of Arthur’s peasants playing knight to the rescue.” 

Gwaine rested his hand casually on the pommel of his sword and grinned wolfishly. “I was just on my way to the King’s chambers. Perhaps you could join me to assuage your doubts as to my rank?” 

Merlin watched as the vein in Urien’s forehead throbbed. He glanced back and forth between the two of them, then without another word, stalked away. 

“Git,” Gwaine muttered darkly. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Merlin assured his friend. Urien was the least of his problems at the moment. He straightened the wrinkles caused by disgruntled lord’s manhandling. The motion caused the preserved bluebells to fall to the floor, hopelessly crushed beyond repair. Merlin’s heart sank. Gwaine bent to pick them up, slowly turning the limp, bruised flowers in his gloved fingers. 

“I hope these weren’t important,” he said. 

“No, just forgotten from the last time I went to gather herbs,” Merlin lied. He gently took the damaged flowers from the knight and pocketed them. 

“Those were bluebells, right?” 

Merlin could think of nothing to say. Gwaine watched him for several seconds, then shook his head. “Right. Well, I’d best be off. I’m telling Arthur, by the way. Urien’s attitude is stinking up the whole castle.” 

“Wait, Gwaine, please don’t bother him with this--”

“You can bet your scrawny behind that I’m bothering him with this--”

“ Today. I meant don’t bother him with this today,” Merlin corrected, rolling his eyes. 

“I think Arthur would want to know regardless of the day.” 

“I’m sure, but let’s not spoil his wedding day with malcontent lords.”

Gwaine huffed. “Fine.”

“Good.” 

“Are you heading to Arthur’s chambers too?” 

“Tell him I’ll meet him outside the chapel,” said Merlin. “I just wanted to give Gwen a final send-off.” 

“Try not to run afoul of any more pompous arseholes on the way.” 

“I’ll do my best,” Merlin laughed. “And Gwaine--thanks.” 

Outside Gwen’s chambers, Merlin finally allowed himself to panic in full. He scraped his memory for any spells that would restore the spoiled flowers, but was coming up blank. A crushing fear threatened to swallow him whole. If Morgana tried anything he would be completely unprepared. Before he could think of a remedy, the door opened. 

“Oh, Merlin!” trilled Amice. “We’ve just gotten her dressed if you’d like to come in. I was going to refill the water pitcher.” 

“Yes, thank you,” Merlin replied, wrestling his dismay down behind a practiced smile. He entered Gwen’s large living chamber. The oak table was laden with gifts and sweets. Ygraine’s ancient veil was draped over Imogen’s arms, steamed and ready to cover the bride’s head. Another reminder that the charm was not complete. Again, Merlin tamped down the dread. Maybe… maybe he could restore the blossoms without a spell. He was Emrys , for Albion’s sake. He could call forth lightning from the heavens and the stones of the earth trembled at his name. Surreptitiously, he prodded the flowers in his pocket with magic. The life in them stirred feebly. 

“My lady, Merlin is here,” Birgit announced.

“Birgit, I told you please, call me Gwen in private quarters.” 

Gwen entered from her bedchamber and all thoughts were struck from Merlin’s racing mind. 

She was completely transformed. Her hair was braided away from her face and glittered with crystals. The new gown wrapped her in a symphony of ivory, the skirts pooling at her feet. It opened up at the top and left her shoulders bare. Long sleeves of lace covered her arms to the wrists. On one glinted the dragon-charm bracelet his father once gave his mother long ago. 

“Merlin! Just the person I wanted to see. Come here,” Gwen beckoned. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed. Even her voice was brighter, clearer, and Merlin had yet to recover his, so he stepped closer without a word. 

That was when he noticed. 

A soft pattern of blue threads wove through the pearls and lace on the sleeves and the hem. He followed the delicate lines, tracing the faint outline of birds and leaves. A careful hand had worked the embroidery into the fabric, so skillfully it was like the blue had always been there, in perfect harmony with the rest. 

Inexplicably, a lump rose in Merlin’s throat. The dead flowers that had been sitting like stones in his pocket were suddenly light as feathers. 

“Do you like it?” Gwen’s expression was as gentle as her question. 

“I… Gwen, I… it’s…” 

“I used thread from the neckerchief you left,” she told him, unphased by his muteness. “I hope you don’t mind. You’ve always been there for us and… I wanted to honor that.” 

“Gwen,” he repeated helplessly. His awe swelled in size, making it even harder to speak.

“For a while I thought it was silly, doing everything in the rhyme,” she continued, grasping his hands in hers. “I didn’t understand why it was so important to you. But… oh , Merlin--” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat with a watery smile.“--I’m so sorry I didn’t even try to understand earlier. All the years we’ve been friends--I’m just… I’m just so grateful for you. For everything, I can’t even express…”

“Gwen,” he said one more time, interrupting her rambling. His tears finally escaped, even as he felt a smile inch across his face. There was no adequate way to express what he felt. So he held her wide-eyed gaze as he went down to one knee and, with deliberate reverence, touched his lips to her ring. It seemed only right, to pledge himself to her here, just before she made her vows to his Once and Future King. “It has and always will be my honor to serve you, my dear friend and Queen,” he murmured.

The whole room was still.  

“Merlin…” she breathed. He thought that she would protest his formality as she had the night he returned from Ealdor. Then he used it as a shield. But today that was not its purpose. A moment later she shook her head and quietly said, “You never fail to surprise me.” 

She bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. The overburdened shoulders of Emrys loosened. For an instant, all the death he had caused and the endless, shapeless future lifted away. 

“Thank you, Merlin,” she whispered sincerely. Then, she let out a merry laugh. “Now stand up, for heaven’s sake. I feel ridiculous enough in all this finery.”

He stood, grinning and brushing the tears away. “You look beautiful, Gwen,” he assured her. 

“Thanks to my hard-working friends,” she replied lightly. “Am I missing anything?” 

“Only this,” he said, and produced a silver penny from his pocket. “It goes in your shoe.” 

“Of course. Imogen if you could…” 

Merlin held her steady while Imogen and Birgit helped Gwen remove a shoe and place the penny inside. Then Elyan arrived with Amice, just in time to escort the bride downstairs. The maids gathered the veil, to be placed right before Gwen walked down the aisle. 

In the whirlwind of last minute touches, Merlin slipped away to don his new jacket and attend the King. A strange and wondrous joy permeated his entire being as he went. 

Something, he knew, had changed. 

Her brother’s eyes were misted over as he drew the front of the veil over her face. Within the chapel, the musician’s instruments rose to a crescendo as the procession proceeded. The knights went one at a time, Gwaine winking roguishly as he passed, Leon nodding, Percival bestowing a small smile. For an instant, she felt the sharp pang of Lancelot’s absence, a strange combination of grief and guilt. 

“Why the blue?” Elyan asked while they waited. 

“It’s a part of the rhyme,” she explained. When he looked confused, she chanted, “‘ Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue; and a silver penny in her shoe.’ ” 

“And all brides have to abide by that little piece of poetry?” 

“Each item is supposed to symbolize something for the couple, like prosperity and luck.” She did not add her private suspicion about the poem’s power. 

“What does the color blue symbolize then?” 

“Fidelity,” she answered simply. It was really not simple at all. With every thread unraveled and every stitch added, she had contemplated the price of faithfulness. 

The trumpets blasted and Elyan proffered his arm. “Ready?” 

The doors swung inwards. Arthur waited for her at the altar, resplendent in red and gold. The crowd blurred into a panoply of colors under the tall windows of intricately stained glass. As she and her brother walked side by side to the altar, Gwen only had eyes for Arthur. He was beaming and blinking rapidly. She was doing the same. 

Only at the end of the aisle did she meet the eyes of one other. He wore his new coat and was grinning from ear to ear. His eyes were crystalline as the sky. But as he turned, they caught a ray of stained glass light and for an instant, they were gold.