Disclaimer: Merlin and its characters are not mine. No money is made from this. It's purely for the joy of writing.

Author's note: These are little pieces that float into my head from time to time. Merlin, Arthur, and company see so much darkness it's easy to forget moments of light. I don't know how many of these there will be, or how often I'll update it. It all depends on the muse, I guess.

Please send reviews my way. I'd love to hear your thoughts on any of these little stories.

Takes place after the S4 episode, 'His Father's Son'.

The King of Camelot stands alone in a field, picking wildflowers. It is a ridiculous sight, and a beautiful one. A knight in shining armor, his cloak billowing in the wind, his warhorse following behind him. A triumphant young king in glory, with his exultant army following behind, paused by the side of the road to pick flowers for a common born serving girl. An apology, I know, for his foolish words.

Gwaine's laughter floats over the tall grass. He mocks his king, as he always does, and the others do as well before they ride on, their spirits flying high as the clouds. I wait for him, as I always do. These moments of peace are too rare, too lovely to let pass by unnoticed. King Arthur, under a golden sky amongst a field of spring flowers. It might be enough to earn her forgiveness, assuming he does not trip over his tongue. One day he will give her a crown. For now, he settles on flowers from the side of a road. Sometimes love is so deliriously simple.

He finally settles on a handful of pale blue blossoms. Blue, because Guinevere is beautiful in blue. He walks back up the hill to me, and I hand him a cloth to fold the flowers into. In his gloved hands, the delicate stems are almost ridiculous and he tries to hand them off to me. I wave him away. They're his gift to give, not mine.

"I don't have saddlebags to carry them in. I'll crush them," he says, but I refuse to take them. It's a small enough gesture, these flowers. It will mean more if he carries them to her himself.

Arthur scoffs, but relents. From time to time, he does listen to me, even if he finds a way to make a joke of it in the end. "What do you know of love, anyway?" he asks.

'Many things', I want to say. I know what it is to find love, to hold it close and chase its fears away. I know the desire to abandon all duty and run far, far away with it; to bring everything your love wants and more; to sit and talk by candlelight half the night and stare into her eyes for the rest of it. And I know the heartbreak of losing such a love.

"Nothing," I say instead. "Nothing at all."