Unfortunately its unlikely you'll get the next chapter this week :\ I have about 4000 words written so far.
But for now enjoy the first scene of The Three of Swords 🗡
Merlin sits on the edge of his bed, hands tense as he grips the covers. His boots lay neatly in front of him, waiting for him to slip his feet into them. They had been waiting nearly an hour.
He had given himself a day, one whole day to process the loss of-
One whole day, it was too long really. His people needed him. Already he was going to be late, late to the meeting, late to the rebuilding. Late to the mass funeral he had organised for his people.
Not his mothers, that would be separate, intimate like all the small ones being held by families. Lancelot was doing a good job, he was told, leading in his stead. But it was not fair, he too had lost people.
Merlin had only glanced over the long list presented to him, all the casualties of the battle. He had still recognised many names, too many.
Sir Dove, fierce and brave. Her armour keeping her torso from falling apart.
Little Mia, who was not so little now. A statue had fallen on top of her while she tried desperately to carry her little brother to safety. It had killed them both. The baker was devastated.
Sam, his squire. So close to being knighted, mere weeks away from the ceremony. He had heard his knights planning a special ceremony for him, Merlin had offered to knight him posthumously.
He sighs, the act of remembering seeming to spur him forwards. He laces his boots with deft fingers, the action grounding him.
As he leaves the room his eyes glance over to his desk, where the blank piece of paper lies. Waiting for him to plan his own mothers funeral.
How do you even start that? Know what she would want. An echo of her still lingered in the quiet space between each breath, her presence still a weight in his life. And yet he still had to let her go?
He tried to think of what Arthur did for his father but the memories are fuzzy, slippery in his mind. He clasps one and then it wriggles free. But he knows deep down that Arthur did very little, that Camelot already had ceremonies in place from years of history. And Arthur loved him, he did, because he was his father. But it was not the same.
Merlin loved his mother because she was Hunith. She was just-
a tear trickles down his cheek and he does not bother wiping it away.
His mother was indescribably perfect. Unlike Uther who was Camelot’s to mourn she was Oplaria’s to mourn as Queen Mother and regent, but his, just his. To mourn as Hunith of Ealdor.
Emotion starts to bubble up inside him, breaking through the hard wall he had built around his heart. Darting into an empty room he tries to console himself. Now more than ever his crown weighed so heavy he feared he might collapse and never stand again.
