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Chapter Text

Morgan approaches, being contrary to Athyr as always, “Looks like the battle's already fought and lost.”

The men of Ealdor are no soldiers, they barely have enough food to build the necessary muscle to farm and even that has been stolen from them. The only fight they can muster amounts to nothing — they’re mere ants beneath the boots of the merciless raiders.

“They'll toughen up,” Athyr says dismissively, wishing she believes it as much as Ealdor needs her to.

Gwynfor agrees with her, looking to where the men are scattered as they take a break from Athyr’s strict training, “They need to.”

One man swings a shovel and laughs with a woman, his wife.

This village is full of stories from long before Athyr ever knew it existed. Peasants work, they fall in love with each other, babies are born and grow up, and every once in a while, someone like Merlyn will leave to spin the experience of this small existence into something life-changing. Athyr feels herself changing for every opinion she hears out and every goofy smile thrown to her because of Merlyn’s mystifying sense of humour.

She’s a different person for Merlyn’s presence, and she feels it as she hauls her own drinking water in a poor village just past Camelot’s borders.

If Athyr has any say in it, and she’s becoming less and less hopeful that she does, these people will have all the time in the world to continue their stories.

“How are we doing for weapons?”

Morgan frowns, following Gwynfor’s gaze to the resting men.

“There isn't much, but we should be able to scrape together what you need.”

Merlyn takes that moment to approach from where she hadn’t been hiding her eavesdropping.

“It's not the weapons that worry us — we don’t have enough people to use them.” Merlyn has that look on her face, like when she’d drunk poison for Athyr. “The women should be allowed to fight.”

Insubordinate and rude as usual, Merlyn doesn’t even pretend to phrase it as a request. It’s a demand, a challenge.

Athyr tries to protest, but Morgan is faster, arguing in Merlyn’s favour, “You haven't enough men. If they were trained soldiers, maybe you'd stand a chance, but they're not.”

Does Morgan think she doesn’t know that? Athyr knows the battlefield better than little Lord Morgan will ever dream — she would live and breathe battle if she were not a Lady, trapped by her sex and station.

And just as Athyr is a woman, she is intimately familiar with a woman’s heart. Morgan may command their affections at his whim, but Athyr has been like this since birth, fighting endlessly for her position and for her mother, halted again and again by her sex. Being a woman is Athyr’s greatest weakness and Morgan should know it well by now — having been near Athyr for nearing a decade — seeing every day the way Athyr fails for it.

Athyr has been raised with a weapon in her hand and that is all that keeps her elevated in spite of being a woman. Peasant women would have no chance, not that they’d even want to — Uthyr has always been sure to caution Athyr that she is set apart from all others, a warrior’s heart where would usually be the weak timidity of the fairer sex.

The common woman has no spirit for war, so Athyr must make do with the men.

“It's too dangerous,” Athyr says with finality.

Chapter Text

The room is dark, lit only by gentle candles, washing over all the people of Ealdor in brown and orange.

Athyr assesses the people gathered around her, who look to her deferentially despite having been against her upon the arrival of their small troupe. Their only aid is from another kingdom, their best bet a woman. Yet she has proven herself and now they wait for her to speak, as though she has always been their princess.

Athyr cannot let them down, but even with Merlyn’s insistence to believe in victory, she fears. Facing the raiders will not be easy. Athyr thinks it’ll be by luck if anyone survives.

“Tomorrow morning, the women and children should gather what belongings they can carry and go to the woods.”

Merlyn barely lets her finish, outraged, “We're not going anywhere!”

Athyr sees Merlyn, perhaps better than she ever has. Even amidst her people, Merlyn is set apart, stepping into the light to be the face of many, features glowing as she faces Athyr. Arguing, always arguing. She must do it just to bother Athyr sometimes, but there are times like now where Athyr discovers what Merlyn’s conviction truly sounds like.

Merlyn is the strangest woman that Athyr has ever met, headstrong and glorious and everything Athyr could more easily call a man. She confronts Athyr as though they are equal, with a heart not suited to warring yet placing herself in danger regardless for the sake of… once for Athyr, and now for her home.

“I know you want to help,” Athyr acknowledges, because Merlyn is nobler than some knights. “The women can't stay here. It's too dangerous.”

“The women have as much right to fight for their lives as the men do!”

Merlyn will not back down. Athyr knows this stubbornness now, has faced it and lost before, and knows there’s nothing she can do. She must try anyway, because she can foresee the bloody bodies piling up and desperately wishes for there to be more alive than dead in Ealdor by tomorrow night.

“But none of you know how to fight,” Athyr begs, cowering from the knowledge that the men aren’t much better.

Morgan speaks to support Merlyn, stepping up beside her, insisting, “The more of us there are, the better chance we stand!”

The women of Ealdor move as one, into the light, shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Athyr.

Morgan at last notices that this is not his fight, it never has been, and moves back to stand next to Gwynfor.

These people are determined, and Athyr can see their hearts.

More than any man, these women’s hearts cry for war — not for the conflict and adrenaline as Athyr’s selfish heart does, but for an end, for the peace of the aftermath and safety of those they love. It’s better than any trained army, in the end.

“This is your home. If you want to fight to defend it, that's your choice.” Athyr has never meant anything more, she thinks, when she says, “I'd be honoured to stand alongside you.”

Chapter Text

Willemina, Merlyn’s dearest friend, is dead- was a sorcerer. And Merlyn knew.

Athyr has never even seen Merlyn cry, for all she calls her a crybaby for her easy empathy. The first time Athyr sees Merlyn crying, she only catches the end, the quiet grief and not the profound loss everyone could feel from her as Wil died in Athyr’s place. Now, Merlyn stands in front of Wil’s funeral pyre, the fire a mockery of what would’ve been done to Wil if she’d been exposed in Camelot, if Athyr was the one felled by a crossbow and not the sorcerer.

There are no tears anymore but Merlyn’s face is blotchy and wet, impossibly paler than ever, evidence of her grief as she stares at the flames.

Athyr has never been good with words. For all that she’s trained to one day be a sovereign, Athyr cannot give a voice to the turmoil in her chest.

“I'm sorry. I know she was a close friend.”

Merlyn does not waver. There is no swell in her grief or even acknowledgment of Athyr.

“She still is.”

Willemina will probably always be carried with Merlyn, like a scar or a bracelet that can only be removed by sawing it off. Wil is dear to Merlyn, even with the magic and even as she’s long gone. (Merlyn had not been surprised about the magic, had even tried to prevent Wil confessing on her deathbed, and what does that make her?)

Athyr thinks of the Merlyn she’s known these last few months and wonders how magic fits into her life. It can’t fit like in Athyr’s, where it doesn’t fit at all and is instead fought off with barbed weapons, at first by her mother and now by her own steady hands.

Merlyn stares unseeingly, or perhaps seeing too much, at the flames of her best friend’s funeral pyre and Athyr tries to determine if magic is an old friend or more akin to drowning. Merlyn certainly looks like she’s drowning.

Merlyn is drowning for a sorcerer, not because of one, and Athyr doesn’t know how to do anything good for Merlyn. She does not have the soothing nature of a mother, nor does she know the right thing to say like someone who’s known Merlyn all her life.

Probably the only person who could truly be there for Merlyn is the one now burning.

Merlyn stands too close to the flames, staring emptily, almost angry, as though she can will her friend back to life with enough grief.

Athyr walks away when she finds the funeral pyre has become as unbearable as those erected in Camelot’s courtyard to burn witches.

She’s the first to leave.

She assumes she’ll be alone for a while, but Merlyn’s father speaks to her, forces Merlyn’s attention away from the pyre, and Athyr finds herself packing with Merlyn.

Gwyn and Morgan stay for so long that Athyr and Merlyn are already laying down to sleep when they return. Neither man had known Wil at all, but they mourned for a friend of a friend.

In the dark of Merlyn’s childhood home, Athyr can only see the slightest glimpses of Merlyn’s tears and redness, the way Merlyn is staring back at her as meaningfully as she’d done the pyre yet so much different, so much more. How can Athyr be more than someone so dear, so long-known?

Merlyn looks at her as though she’s the future, like Athyr is the reason she could walk away from the death of part of who she is. It’s more pain than hope, but there is hope nonetheless.

Athyr fears Merlyn — her stubbornness and strength and the way she makes Athyr feel weak — and this unfounded devotion that has made Merlyn give her life for Athyr, and Athyr for Merlyn.

Athyr fears the love she has always begged for.

Her selfish heart clings to it anyways, and she falls asleep reaching out for Merlyn.