Chapter Text
Hunith wrapped the entire loaf of freshly baked bread. Glancing over her shoulder, she slipped the bread into her son’s haversack and placed another tunic on top. She then joined him at the window. A storm threatened. Eyes frightened for the days to come, she gazed upon the dormant landscape and at the winter skeletons that now passed for trees.
“Mother, can you feel it,” Merlin heralded the coming Spring. "Can you feel her energy in the air," he asked with excitement dancing in his own half-frightened eyes. “It’s like millions of little lightning sparks waking up the ground and shooting from the treetops to join the coming storms.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I don’t feel it,” she sadly replied.
“It won’t be long, now,” he promised her. “We'll soon plant and the crops will grow. What food we have left will surely last 'til then.”
Hunith rubbed small circles on his back to soothe them both. “I’m more worried for you, my dear,” she voiced her fears. “I hate that you must always leave and when the storms are at their worst.”
Merlin placed an arm across her shoulders and drew her nearer. “You’ve always told me that I have nothing to fear. That it’s just the earth waking itself. Besides, I’ll be gone for less than a month.”
“I know," she said. "But you’ll be all alone and at your most vulnerable. The bounty hunters still come around,”
“Not often, Mother,” he quickly corrected to quell her worry. “Not for over two years, now. And I know the land and caves around here like I know the back of my hands. They don’t. I’ll be fine.”
She still worried for him. In her worry, she made a suggestion that surprised him. “I was hoping that you'd let Will go with you, this year, since I've learned that he knows about your magic.”
Merlin smiled down at her in disbelief. “And lose my only friend,” he joked but awkwardly shifted his feet. Embarrassed by the conversation with his mother, both knew that Spring aroused inside him far more than his magic. “Will would probably run from me, screaming in fear.”
“But if he’s a true friend, he’d stay and try to help ease you,” she reasoned.
He voiced astonishment, "Mother," that she would suggest he seek comfort in another male.
"Better Will than all alone," she said, far more worried for his safety and his suffering.
A distant rumble of thunder echoed in the skeletal trees. Merlin whirled his face back to the window as he proclaimed, “Spring is here! I can hardly wait to share her powers, after she lights up the sky!”
Hunith remembered a phrase she once heard as a young woman. “With thunder and lightning, earth creates her new life,” she repeated but her lips silently said the rest. "In the ultimate intercourse." She knew that her son was special to feel that intercourse with earth, special to physically unite with nature, yet it worried and saddened her. People of magic continued to be hunted. Forced to keep his own a secret, she feared that he never would know another human’s love.
As Merlin turned from the window he noticed her sad and frightened face. He gave a gentle kiss to her temple along with the reassuring words, “I’ll be fine, Mother. Don’t worry about me.” Time to go, he went to the table to retrieve his haversack. Shielding it from her, he took out the wrapped bread. "I'll see you soon," he said as he slung the pack onto his back and rushed out the door.
Three weeks later, powerful energy that permeated the air now dissipated. The thunder and lightning storms grew less severe. Merlin knew the worst had passed. A sexual desire that strained his body beyond a normal human's limitation had passed, too. He stood among the blooming foliage and rejoiced in a lesser rain. His magic sensuously mingling with the afterglows of earth’s ultimate intercourse, he reached his hands toward the heavens and admired her energy that sparked visibly from his fingertips and high into the sky. He had survived another Spring's beginning.
“Get him!” A voice yelled out.
Another said, “Don’t let him escape!”
A third ordered, “Surround him!”
Merlin whirled in a circle. Three big burly bearded men approached him from three different directions. Dressed in thick animal hides and dirty bear furs, the clothes told Merlin that the men spent most of their lives up in the snowcapped mountains -- hunting, trapping and skinning for fur trading…
The second man warned, “Be careful! This is a powerful one!”
The first proclaimed, “He’ll fetch us a king’s ransom!”
…and bounty hunting, too, Merlin now knew. But no match, he held out a hand and stopped time, itself. With the men frozen in place, he ran back to the cave and grabbed his belongings. Leaving no tracks as he ran for home but he knew that Ealdor no longer would be safe. The men had seen his magic. Had seen his face.
---------------Seasons Later----------------
“You imbecile!” Arthur yelled. The king of Camelot, he glared at Merlin from his chambers' dining table. Already irritated, Arthur labored over his kingdom's financial documents. “Then, what about your ceremonial fleece,” he asked, offering Merlin another solution.
Guinevere stood gazing out the chambers' window. Dressed in her own winter cloak, boots and mittens, she had hopes that Arthur would take a walk with her today. Overly burdened, he spared her so little time. A cold but brilliant day, she still found bits of happiness in the rare sunshine sprinkled amid a season of gloom. Her first smile all week, she followed their silly conversation behind her. “Merlin,” she interjected. "He means the coat that I had specially made for you, for our wedding.” As she gazed out the window, she saw a small crowd gathering on the snow-covered cobblestone. The little crowd lifted her spirits a bit more.
Merlin stood hunched and shivering in his time-worn jacket. Seeking warmth near the fire mantel, he yawned out, “Oh. That fleece. It’s hanging in my room.”
“Then, hang it on your back,” Arthur insisted. “I give you permission to wear it, winterlong.”
“But it’s for ceremonies,” he objected, and to Arthur’s fourth suggestion.
"Damn it, Merlin!" Arthur shouted, again.
Guinevere giggled, but more so at the pleasing sight, below. Sir Lancelot continuously tossed a snowball into the air. With each toss and catch, he playfully beckoned for her to come down. Behind her, Arthur continued to yell at Merlin. “Reasoning with you is hopeless, this time of year,” he barked. Beyond irritated, he went to his wardrobe and started rummaging. From the bottom drawer, he retrieved a wool-blend tunic, thick long underpants and socks then threw them at him. “I will not be subjected to another winter of your chattering teeth!”
The underpants landed splayed across Merlin’s head and one sock landed dangerously near the fire. Standing half asleep, he never saw the clothes coming nor did he make an effort to gather them together.
Arthur stood at his wardrobe, staring at him. He wondered how long it would take the dimwit to find the wit to take the underpants off of his head. His wait was short-lived. Guinevere playfully snatched them off and rescued the sock with a quick kick in her joyous rush to exit. “A snowball fight is breaking out in the square,” she explained gleefully her rush.
"Guinevere," Arthur called, in a cautioning tone. “Queens do not engage their subjects in snowball fights.”
The words nearly deflated her newfound happiness but still she managed to smile. “Don’t be silly, Arthur," she said from the doorway. "I know to keep my distance and just watch them.” The instant she closed the door came the sound of her quickening boot heels tapping on the flagstone.
Arthur listened to the sound speed and fade as he returned to his tedious task. He hated dealing with money matters. He hated dealing with food matters, too, and staff matters, maintenance matters, legal matters and the list went on. A born warrior, he longed to be outside hunting, training or fighting bandits. As he sat while sighing in the endless boredom, he looked up to find Merlin still standing near the mantle.
Yawning, his hair sticking up from static, a sock stuck to his jacket and the other underclothes crumpled near his feet, he awaited further orders.
Arthur sighed, again, at his winter stupor. "Merlin," he said in his sigh.
“Yes, sire?”
“Get out.”
Guinevere soon discovered that watching a snowball fight was no fun, at all. It was more like torture. Her bits of happiness completely robbed, she returned to the royal chambers. Arthur was not there but Camelot’s financial papers still cluttered the table. Glancing at them as she removed her winter frocks, she knew that she always had been good with numbers. For years, she happily had maintained the forge’s finances.
A season ago her days were filled with hard work. Some of it was considered even a man’s work. Besides forging, she had cleaned, washed clothes, sewed and cooked for her brother, herself and often cleaned and made beds in the castle.
Now, her life was miserable. A queen with no responsibility was not a queen. However, Camelot had no previous queen for her to emulate. Surely, she could help her husband with Camelot’s finances, she thought. After she shed her cloak and boots, she sat at the table and started studying the documents. She then gathered more financial scrolls from Arthur’s desk.
It soon became apparent to Guinevere. Morgana’s brief reign had taken its toll. Camelot was broke. Guinevere also discovered that few taxes had been collected on the fall’s harvest. A very prosperous harvest, too, she knew, ample money could be had. Each year, Camelot's farmers sold their surplus to villages in the marsh and ship-fairing kingdoms with poor planting soil. Morgana or Agravaine had ordered their fields be burned, the commoners told their common queen, but the mercenaries sent said they had no quarrel with the farmers. Instead, they simply filled a sack or two and moved on, seeking their next battle.
The moment Guinevere decided to advise Arthur to impose a new tax, he returned. “Arthur,” she started to advise him, looking up from the papers.
“Interesting reading,” he asked, interrupting and with a peck of a kiss to her forehead.
“Quite,” she replied, and she lifted the papers eager to share her findings.
Arthur laughed aloud. “My beautiful court jester,” he said, implying that she must be joking to say that she found such tedious documents interesting. “No need for us, both, to fret over these,” he said, and he spared her the drudgery by taking the papers from her hands.
Guinevere forced a smile at his joke. However, her forced smile became an enormous effort when he beckoned her up from his chair. Arthur never noticed. He stood frowning at the parchments in his hands while waiting for her to move. “Perhaps, you could have your maidservant bring me a bit of lunch," he asked. "Merlin is acting his usually dimwitted winter self. He failed to bring enough breakfast for one of us. Let alone, two.”
Slowly and reluctantly Guinevere rose. She changed the topic with him to disguise her hurt. “Merlin will be better by spring," she assured him. "He always is. Once he’s helped Hunith clear and till the soil for this spring's planting, he’ll return as the Merlin of old. The one that we all know and love.”
“If he earns a holiday, this year,” he replied, dismissing the conversation as he sat. Offhand, he added in an utter, “I’m beginning to think that winter physically changes him, somehow.”
Guinevere stared at him a moment as he sat hunched, muttering and frowning at the financial papers. She wanted with all her heart to help him but fearing another laugh at the maidservant who was trying to be a queen, she sadly offered, “I’ll get your lunch.”
She got no reply.
Something about Merlin definitely was different from other people. Arthur now felt convinced. He sat on his blanket chest at the foot of his bed and stared at Merlin. The sixth winter they had known each other, Merlin had gotten worse. Winter always had left him dull but now he seemed as dead as the dormant terrain that surrounded Camelot. The precious sunshine failed to lift his listless haze. All of Camelot rejoiced in the few spectacular days, including his wife, yet Merlin continued to walk about as if in a state of hibernation.
And cold. Perpetually cold. It seemed, another year older, another year colder.
So cold now, Arthur had given him warmer clothes to wear. The clothes did little good. Merlin’s teeth no longer chattered but Arthur watched him practically sleepwalk into the royal chambers, that morning.
Guinevere sat at Arthur’s desk. She basked again in the window’s rays and gently hummed in efforts to lift her spirits. While she hummed, her mind debated her best approach. She simply had to ask Arthur for more responsibility or die from boredom. Forcing her own cheer, she said, “good morning, Merlin,” in greeting.
“Huh,” came his almost catatonic reply. A breakfast tray in his hands, he meandered over to the bed beside Arthur, stopped and propped himself against a bedpost. Within seconds, he started to snore.
Arthur continued to stare up at him from his blanket chest. In the middle of putting on his boots, he suddenly jumped to his feet while grabbing the teetering tray a split second before it dropped to the floor.
The snatch startled Merlin awake. Confused for an instant, he regrouped to see Arthur’s twisted and fuming face staring directly into his own. He then noticed the tray now in Arthur’s hands. “You didn’t have to snatch it from me," he grumbled. "I was already giving it to you.”
Arthur clenched his teeth to keep from yelling, “Get out.”
Guinevere laughed at more of their silly bromantic behavior. After Merlin had gone, she said, “Don’t be so hard on him, Arthur. You know that he gets like this, every winter.”
“It’s hard to believe that ploughing fields in Ealdor snaps him out of it," he spoke as he put their breakfast tray on the table and returned to his boots. "Ploughing fields in stormy weather, at that," he added while shaking his head to comprehend. "Merlin doesn’t strike me as the hardworking farmer type.” Without thinking, he asked, “Have you noticed his hands? They’re softer than yours.”
Guinevere was crushed. She fidgeted nervously with her own hands, resting in her lap. Noting their rough texture, she feigned humor and she joked, “You didn’t marry a princess, Arthur,” but her humor missed its mark.
Arthur heard retaliation instead and he whirled his face to look at her. Seeing the hurt in her slumped shoulders and downcast eyes, he suddenly realized what he had said and he apologized, “Gwen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply,” however, he stopped while searching for the right words.
“Imply what, Arthur," she asked sadly of him. "That I'll always be a maidservant?”
“Guinevere,” he said, tenderly, as he stood with one boot on and approached her. “You are my queen and the love of my life. Don’t you know that?”
She fought the tears that had been stored inside her the season long. “Then, Arthur, let me help you," she finally asked.
“Help me,” he repeated, confused. “You’ve always helped me. You are my comfort in time of worry. My conscience, in time of doubt. You’re perhaps the wisest person that I have honor to know.”
“And yet, not wise enough to attend Camelot’s council or to oversee her finances or her harvest.”
Arthur furrowed in his confusion. “And you wish to do these things,” he asked, stunned, since he certainly did not.
“Arthur, a queen with no responsibility is no queen, at all.”
He now realized that her sense of uselessness caused her tearing eyes. “I see,” he uttered, and he slowly paced before his desk. He also knew that wisdom and diplomacy were separate virtues. One innate but the other taught. All his life, he had been schooled in royal mediation. A maidservant had not. Concluding it his responsibility to teach her the finer points, he stopped pacing and gave her a broad smile as he said, “In three days the council is scheduled to reconvene after my much-needed hunting trip. There, I will announce you my legal regent and sovereign, beside me. Please, Queen Guinevere, do me the honor of ruling Camelot with me.”
He extended his hand across the desk to help her rise. As he extended it, he gave her a suggestive ogle.
Guinevere smiled in earnest but subconsciously, she balled her hand and rubbed again at its rough texture before extending it to him. Engaged in a playful waltz around the desk, she followed his lead to their bed.
Unfortunately, Sir Leon knocked, to remind him of his scheduled speech to the new knight recruits.
The next morning, Arthur was furious. Long in need of his leisurely hunt, he stormed into Gaius’ chambers and demanded, “Where is that lazy idiot?”
Gaius sat before his cooking fire near the center of the room. Huddled with a blanket draped over his shoulders, he feasted on a steamy bowl of morning porridge. Calmly, he asked, “is something wrong, sire,” since he already knew the answer. Merlin still was in bed.
Arthur yelled, “I should have been out hunting an hour ago!”
Gaius nodded toward the steps. “I’m afraid, it’s the cold weather, sire,” he explained, although he refused to say more.
“I know that,” he yelled, again. “I’ve endured his laziness for five winters, now. If you wish for him to remain my manservant for this sixth, then I suggest that you give him a tonic of some sort!” Turning to leave, he ordered, “If he doesn’t have the horses supplied and saddled to go in one hour, tell him don’t bother to come! Ever again!”
“Yes, sire.”
The instant Arthur slammed the door, Gaius put down his bowl and scurried up the steps. “Merlin!” He pulled the covers off his head.
Merlin pulled them back up. "I heard him. The whole castle did," he chattered out, feeling chilled to the bone.
“Then, get up,” Gaius insisted, pulling them back off.
“Don’t worry,” he chattered again while huddling tighter under his covers. “Within the hour, Arthur will be thanking me. A blizzard is coming.”
Guinevere feared the fierce wind-driven sleet might break the windows. “Thank the heavens you’re not out in that,” she said to Arthur as she closed the window drapes to lessen the noise. “Or, shall we thank Merlin’s winter laziness,” she teased. Her spirits were high despite a major ice storm. She finally had her husband all to herself.
Arthur, however, resembled a trapped lion, pacing in a cage. He practically growled at her teasing.
She remained undeterred by his attitude. Walking from the window, she happily suggested, “You can spend the time between studying Camelot’s laws with me and making you an heir.”
Arthur stopped pacing. Three days later and the land still iced over and slippery as… ice, he had forgotten about his hunt. He also had forgotten about firing Merlin. However, he never thanked him.
Guinevere was nervous. Her first court council since becoming queen a season ago, she dressed meticulously for the occasion in her finest royal gown. A beautifully crafted dress, Arthur commissioned that it be made for her, himself. Colored in Camelot’s brilliant red with countless gold strands shimmering about her neckline, down her sleeves and around her blossoming hem, she looked the envy of any queen. The dress, however, did little to ease her anxiety. As she sat in Morgana’s old council chair that she pulled closer to her husband's side, she found ample reason to be nervous.
A mixed audience, the older knights, nobles and a few commoners who had business that day showed their disapproval with condescending glances at their new sovereign and legally appointed regent. Many had spent a lifetime loyal to Uther Pendragon and did not want a maidservant sitting on the throne. Nor could they rightly respect their young king for placing one there.
As Guinevere sat, she sought acceptance in the faces of the knights and commoners who knew her best. Elyan gave her small head nods of encouragement. While Gaius remained wisely neutral in his facial expression, Leon, Gwaine and Percival showed exceptional kindness in their eyes. Merlin simply yawned a lot. Lancelot, however, braved an open smile for her. That endearing smile drew her nervous attention, most of all.
The council’s first business concerned a legal matter. Two noblemen, Claudius and Devain Egnok, each claimed inheritance of their father’s estate and grain fields. Each also claimed Lord of Manor over the peasants who worked the land.
Lord Claudius rushed to speak first. “Sire, my brother has no claim here, whatsoever. He makes a mockery of your court by bringing this matter before you.”
Devain countered, “Lord Egnok was my father, as well. I have an equal claim as Claudius.”
Guinevere knew that inheritance passed to the eldest son. Observing both men, wisdom told her that Claudius was at least ten years older. Seeking to exercise her new authority, she began to speak. “I believe that Lord Claudius is older and therefore, is,” but Arthur quickly yet calmly placed his hand upon her hand to silence her as he asked, “Lord Devain, by what reason do you challenge your brother’s inheritance?”
Devain answered with condescension dripping from his tone. “Granted, my lord, Claudius is much older as that is plain to see," he said and with a dismissive glance at the lowly maidservant pretending to be a queen. "But eldest by our dear father’s first wife. I am eldest by his second wife, therefore, entitled to half of his estate.”
Guinevere’s heart raced. She had no knowledge of Camelot's law concerning such a circumstance. Inadequacy cowered her posture as her eyes wandered the room, searching for a friendly face. Arthur sensed her cower and he tenderly squeezed her hand but her eyes already had clung to Lancelot, still smiling bravely for her.
Arthur noticed their clinging connection. He noticed that others noticed it, too. He even noticed that Merlin had stopped yawning and had woken up a bit. From experience, Arthur remained unemotional but his words were an unmistakable chastisement to the one that he addressed. “Lord Devain," he said. "I’m afraid that you misinterpret Camelot’s law. Half of the estate, if Lord Egnok had no other sons by his first wife. But once a virile man, I believe he had three. Your inheritance, by law, is one-twentieth the estate’s current value and henceforth, divided equally amongst those surviving sons in the event of Lord Claudius’ unfortunate demise. That is, if Lord Claudius has no male heir of legal age, himself."
Lord Devain felt chastised, indeed. Five percent. He curtly bowed, turned and with his head forced high, he strutted from the council. Lord Claudius left, too, but showing a more pleased face.
With a curt dismissal of his own, Arthur immediately addressed the next person having business that day. Another legal matter, Guinevere remained silent. In fact, the next seven matters concerned the law and she offered no opinion.
Two hours of silently sitting settled her into feeling useless, again. Many in the council seemed to share her view. Those disgruntle souls who bothered to look at their new sovereign gave more condescending glances, as Lord Devain had done. The council growing weary, Arthur announced that old farmer Brilsing’s frozen cow would be the final business of the day.
Guinevere suddenly became disconcerted. What about Camelot’s finances, she thought. Surely, Arthur would announce a new levy. Camelot was broke, except for his few personal funds hidden beneath his bed during Morgana's reign. However, those funds were dwindling fast. She also had heard Uther announce special levies often enough.
After Arthur ruled no compensation to farmer Brilsing although his cow froze on his neighbor’s land, he started to adjourn the council.
“Arthur,” she interrupted and quickly stood. Addressing the court, she spoke, “I have a few words to say.”
“Gwen,” he whispered in meek objection, feeling caught between hell and his wife.
Guinevere, however, needed to show her mettle. Her love for Camelot was strong. With that same strength in her voice, she said, “Camelot is in financial distress. The brief reign of Lady Morgana wreaked havoc upon her coffers,” but she stopped, flabbergasted by the murmuring roar that drowned her out. Mainly, from the older knights and nobles. The others simply stared in shock. It was shocking news indeed, she thought, but at least she had gained their attention. And hopefully, their respect. She started to speak louder but Arthur already had come to his feet. Speaking first, he announced, “The council is adjourned.”
“But Arthur,” she protested, turning to face him but the quick look he gave her said hell had won.
Now in hell, Arthur gazed stoically over the crowd to gauge the damage done. While he gazed, he slowly took Guinevere by the hand. Calmly, he started leaving but once beyond the columns and into the king’s private exit, he paced so fast that he practically pulled her.