Chapter 18: Merlin's Melancholy

"A strange world, indeed." In the great hall of Camelot, the old man stood below the throne, his form draped in a simple, pale blue robe. He looked ancient. Time had carved deep lines into his face, his skin wrinkled like the bark of a weathered oak. Strands of white hair escaped the deep brown turban wrapped about his head, and a sharp, hawkish nose sat above a neatly trimmed mustache. But his eyes… age had not clouded them. They held the piercing clarity of youth, deepened by the vast wisdom of the centuries. Three generations of Britain's kings had listened to his counsel, trusting him above all others. Aurelius. Uther. And now, Arthur.

"Yes, Merlin." Artoria sat upon the throne, her posture regal but her gaze warm. This man, a century old and more, was not just her advisor. He was her mentor, her prophet, her dearest friend. He had guided her before she was ever a king. He had stood by her side after, offering counsel, lending his magic to her cause. More than once, the old sorcerer had mended the broken walls of a fortress after a siege, or casually flicked enemy soldiers from the ramparts as they tried to assault their King. He had been there when her first sword, the Sword in the Stone, had shattered in a duel against King Pellinore. It was Merlin who had saved her then, and guided her to the Lady of the Lake, where she had received Excalibur.

"We know little," Merlin said, his voice a low murmur. "But we can surmise this: the denizens of that other world have no interest in our lands, our kingdom. The threat of the Anglos… that is the serpent at our door." His voice trailed off, his gaze becoming distant. He often drifted into his own labyrinthine thoughts, whether he was alone or standing before the King of all Britain. Artoria did not mind. She waited, patient. After a few minutes, Merlin blinked, returning to the present. "Ah—Your Majesty. My apologies. Where were we?"

"You were speaking of the sorcerer from that other world," Artoria replied gently. "The one who helped me return." 

"Ah, yes. The sorcerer. And the… 'Witch-hat' who protected you?" Merlin fumbled with the word, his tongue thick with age. Born of an incubus and a mortal woman, he had a lifespan far beyond that of normal men. But time was still his enemy. It wore on him, and his magic could not halt its slow decay—the slight tremble in his hands, the way his memory would sometimes slip, the difficulty with strange, new words. "A peculiar name. Their ways are not our ways, it would seem…"

"It is 'Witcher,' Merlin. A slayer of monsters," she corrected him gently, a hint of concern in her voice. "He warned me of creatures called the Wild Hunt. The blizzard, a fortnight ago? He says it was their doing. I fear they have not yet left our shores." She thought of the ghouls, the drowners, the nameless dead she had seen with Zeilin. She could not bear the thought of such horrors unleashed upon Britain.

"A blizzard from nothing… a grave threat indeed," Merlin said, shaking his head. He, more than anyone, understood what supernatural forces could do to a kingdom. An unnatural storm at harvest time, wiping out the crops? Camelot would starve, and the Anglos would sweep down from the north. The lesser lords, still resentful of Artoria's reign, would surely use the chaos to rebel. She was a master of the battlefield, his King. She could lead her knights against any army. But she had never quite grasped that building a kingdom was a far harder, slower battle than winning a war. "My King, with your return, I must travel to Wales. I need time in my tower, to study what you have told me. And I suggest you speak more with this Witcher… about the…"

"The Wild Hunt." 

"Yes. The Wild Hunt." Merlin cleared his throat. "He will know more of them than I. When I have consulted with Vivian, we may find some answers. But tell me, Your Majesty, what is your impression of this Witcher?"

"He is a knight," Artoria said without hesitation, a memory of Zeilin's pragmatic honor in her eyes. "He bears no title, but his actions are worthy of one. I was honored to have met him."

"Then if he has acted as a knight, my King, you must reward him as one," Merlin urged, tugging at his turban. He had tried for so long to teach her this. How to be not just a king, but a person. Since drawing the sword, she had become a flawless monarch, an icon of justice and strength. But she had drifted away from the simple, human things. Men would follow a king. But when that king was also a saint, remote and perfect, only the most devout knights would follow with true heart. Her father, Uther, for all his faults, had understood that. He knew when to reward, when to punish, when to show mercy, when to laugh. Artoria, his perfect king, saw only duty. Only black and white.

"You are right. I must reward him. A king, as you have said, should not be ungrateful for aid freely given." She nodded, her gaze turning thoughtful. The small cowlick of golden hair atop her head began to twitch and spin as she thought. Gold? No, that held no sway over him. A title? He was not a man to be bound by fealty, she knew that instinctively. But beyond gold and rank, what reward was fit for a man who had saved a king? After a long moment, her eyes lit up. She slapped a fist into her open palm, and the cowlick came to a sudden halt. "I have it! I shall host a great feast in his honor! A banquet! That will surely please him! Yes, yes, I must have the kitchens prepare. There must be enough food. And plenty of wine and meat!" She was lost now, caught up in a vision of a perfect meal, a grin spreading across her face. Merlin could only watch, and shake his head with a weary sigh. The only person who would be truly overjoyed by such a feast was Artoria herself. She didn't notice his expression, already counting on her fingers. "Roasted bear with salt, and grilled sardines… we can finally open the good wine from the cellars! Guinevere will have no cause to object this time. Just a small banquet, for myself and Zeilin. No one else to eat all the best parts and leave us hungry. Oh! And the main course, I must not forget! It is almost time for the fishing season to begin. Stargazy Pie! That shall be the centerpiece! Merlin, what do you think of my plan?"

"Whatever pleases you, my King."

At that very moment, walking down a street in Camelot, Zeilin sneezed. A sudden chill, seeming to come from the direction of the castle, ran down his spine. He rubbed his nose. "Damn coastal wind. I'll need another shirt under this leather." He saw Bedivere looking at him curiously and waved a hand, returning to their conversation. "Sir Bedivere. You mentioned rumors, about the King. What kind of rumors?" After winning their 'duel,' the knight had finally opened up, just a little. Zeilin had been surprised. A knight of his station, paying attention to common gossip? Most nobles he knew either laughed off rumors or took their anger out on whoever was foolish enough to repeat them. They never understood. Rumors were a mirror, reflecting what the common folk truly thought, the things they dared not say aloud but couldn't keep locked away. And so they festered, spreading in taverns and dark alleyways.

"It has been more than ten years," Bedivere began, his voice low. "Our King has not aged a day since she drew the sword as a girl. It is… unnatural. During the wars, the people saw her as a savior sent from heaven. But now, in times of peace, other whispers have begun. That she is a demon in disguise. A changeling." His face was not angry as he spoke, but deeply worried. "And… there is a grain of truth in some of the whispers. Ten years… and she has become more of a king. Only a king. A being called 'King,' who wields a holy sword. But not… not a person. I know my words are presumptuous. But she should not be this way. I wish she could have a life of her own. Not just be…" He bit his lip, unable to continue.

"Not just be a symbol," Zeilin finished for him, his voice quiet. "A symbol named Britain, to be put on a pedestal and worshipped. Or to be torn down." He didn't need to be told. The cries of seagulls echoed from the distant port. The evening sun cast long shadows over the orderly streets of Camelot. Farmers trudged home from the fields. It was all so peaceful, so perfect. And it was all built on her. On her strength, her legend. If she were to fall, this whole perfect kingdom would shatter like glass. "Power," Zeilin said, his gaze distant, "it doesn't just draw followers. It draws jealousy. Suspicion. And sooner or later, that turns to fear. And fear turns to hate. I know that road well, knight. All too well."