Chapter Text
Arthur hesitated outside the doors to the council chamber, suddenly finding himself overcome with an unfamiliar nervousness. Behind him, Merlin and Gaius’s footsteps came to a halt, and they remained just as still as he was. Waiting, patient and silent—as patient and silent as Merlin could get anyway—and Arthur tried to pretend like he couldn’t feel their eyes on him, burning into the back of his head.
His father’s voice echoed out from beyond the thick wood separating them, as strong and commanding as ever, such an unbearably familiar sound and one Arthur had wondered if he would ever hear again.
An odd thing, since he hadn’t been able to face hearing his father’s voice or to see his face last night, when he had sent Gaius to deliver the news to Uther that this was finally over. It had been too raw, his head still spinning with it all, with Merlin eyeing him so warily, and it had been all that Arthur could do to force out the command, “Let my father know this is over, but do not let him come here. He will want to, and you must not allow him to.”
“And how am I supposed to stop him?” Gaius had said, his voice patronisingly soft and his eyebrow raised. “He is the king.”
“I don’t know, tell him I need my rest,” Arthur had hissed back. “Tell him I’m exhausted, tell him anything he wants to hear. Just do not let him come to me.”
And his heart had quickened in his chest, the way it did again now, at even the thought of lying to his father, keeping secrets and conspiring with others.
But the sorcerer had been dead at his feet and his father would have wanted the body gone, and Arthur knew he couldn’t have respected what Uther would have ordered for him to do in that moment.
It had been the right thing to do. He couldn’t have seen his father then, but he had to face him sooner or later.
Arthur took a breath and pushed the doors open, blinking at the morning light streaming into the room with glowing white rays, tinged red and yellow where they passed through stained glass, painting colours onto stone pillars and walls. Walking into it, hearing his own boots echoing off stone, he felt a strange mixture of tension and of relief at the sight of his father, standing near the head of the table in conversation with one of his council members.
He hadn’t thought he would see his father again, but here he was. Just as he remembered him, even if the lines of his mouth seemed a little more grim, his shoulders a little more tense.
Arthur led the way inside, as casually as he could, and called, “You’re looking tired, Father. Didn’t sleep well?”
And Uther looked up at him, startled, frowning at first, and Arthur saw the moment realisation dawned on his father’s face.
Uther’s eyes brightened in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time, soft and warm, and he dismissed the man he was in conversation with to come closer to Arthur, with a wondrous smile and hands reaching as he said, “Arthur? It is true, then?”
“Yes, my lord,” Gaius quipped from behind Arthur, “Arthur’s curse has been lifted and his senses have been restored.”
“This is good news, indeed!” Uther grinned, more than delighted. His hands gripped at Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur basked in the attention for a moment, letting it wash over him and warm him. Desperately wishing it could last forever, trying so much to pretend he couldn’t feel that distance between them again.
But, of course, the moment didn’t last long. His father’s hands slipped away from him and he looked between Arthur and Gaius, demanding, “What happened? What of the sorcerer?”
He’d already had Gaius report to his father the events of the night, but Uther, as always, wanted Arthur’s own account of it. A king requesting his soldier to report back to him, as he would any other time. As he had done so many times before, after battles and campaigns, after assassination attempts and bandit raids, after other malicious attacks from witches and sorcerers and conjurers alike.
It was just like any other time, he tried to tell himself. Except it wasn’t, was it?
Arthur fought to keep his face neutral, but he was suddenly so aware of Merlin’s presence just behind him and to the right. Where he always seemed to stand. Where Arthur always felt him, waiting and ready.
If ever there was a moment to expose him, this was it.
It was his duty to do so. It would be what his father—his King—expected of him.
And Arthur could see what would happen even now. It wouldn’t matter that Merlin had used magic to defend him, or to heal him; Arthur could already see the way his father’s face would harden and his eyes would turn cold and hateful, and he would shout for the guards to come and drag Merlin to the dungeons and have him locked away in a cell.
And Merlin, damn him, probably wouldn’t even fight it. He would look at Arthur, most likely apologetically, he would be so very sorry, and he would let himself be dragged away and thrown into the dark to await his own death.
He could already smell the pyre burning.
Arthur cleared his throat. “The sorcerer attacked me last night. Hoping to finish what he started, but, fortunately, I managed to fight him off.” He half turned and gestured to Merlin with his hand, and Merlin met his eyes, something like dread in them, and that—the sight of that cut deeper than any blade. “During the scuffle, Merlin managed to help me keep my bearings, and I was able to plunge a dagger into the sorcerer’s heart. It is to Merlin that I owe my recovery to, really. I couldn’t have done it without him.”
The dread in Merlin’s eyes turned to gratitude and relief, and, oddly enough, Arthur felt something like relief come over him too.
Uther deigned to merely give Merlin a brief nod of what could pass for gratitude, and Merlin bowed, hands behind his back, suddenly the perfect, obedient servant with all the right manners.
“It appears the curse wore off with the sorcerer’s death, sire,” Gaius added, his tone very matter of fact. “Not unusual with these sorts of spells. Without a tether to hold onto, the magic placed on Arthur was snuffed out like a candle. And with some much needed bed rest, I dare say Arthur is back to normal. I have examined him again, I see no more signs of the affliction, or the influence of magic.”
Arthur watched his father, searched his face for any sign that he could see through the deception, but Uther seemed to accept Gaius’s words without question. Hearing only what he wanted to hear, seeing only what he wanted to see, that the sorcerer was dead and the magic was gone and the people around him were as committed to his mission as he was.
“The sorcerer?” Uther’s eyes returned to Arthur. “What of him?”
Arthur resisted the urge to shift under that steely gaze. Forced himself to stand tall. “He’s been dealt with appropriately,” he answered simply, and he could almost hate himself for the evasion.
Almost.
Because the sorcerer hadn’t been completely innocent in all of this, but Arthur had refused to be rid of his body in the way his father would have done for the countless sorcerers before him. It wouldn’t have solved anything. It wouldn’t have fixed anything. It wouldn’t have brought Sir Baudwin back from the dead, and it wouldn’t have eased any of the guilt in Arthur’s chest.
It had been the right thing to do, and something he knew his father would never understand.
“Good,” Uther said, with such obvious faith in Arthur to have done what he would have wanted him to do, with no suspicions whatsoever of his disobedience. His hand came up to grip Arthur’s shoulder again, something soft in his eyes, and his voice grew almost as soft. “I feared you were almost lost to us.”
Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat. “At least it’s over now.”
“Yes, at least it is.” Uther pulled away, and something in his eyes hardened, his face twisting in anger. “Though it never should have happened in the first place. This proves, once again, that there are no bounds sorcerers won’t cross. They will do anything to spread chaos and harm throughout this kingdom.”
Arthur thought back to Merlin’s traitorous gold eyes, speaking treason with every strange word that had left his mouth.
And he thought about the hurt in Merlin’s voice, when he thought he couldn’t heal Arthur. He thought about the hope in his eyes when Arthur’s senses had returned.
Uther half turned to look at him. “We must be vigilant, Arthur. Magic could be anywhere around us, at any time. And we must do everything we can to see its evil wiped from this land.”
Arthur wondered why his feet felt stuck to the ground, why his hands and arms felt frozen, why a cold chill ran down the back of his neck—and his heart, thud thud thudding in his chest, blood roaring in his ears.
They really were worlds apart, Arthur thought, and though he already missed the warmth of his father’s near-embrace and affection, he certainly didn’t miss the cold of standing in that world with him.
He could only nod in return, hoping his face revealed nothing as he said, “Father.”
*
He wandered the castle, feeling almost as though he was walking through a dream. He took in the sights and sounds of the courtyard, his knights on the training grounds, servants and nobles making their way through the corridors.
He wandered without purpose, simply to feel the ground, solid and unmoving beneath his feet, and to feel his heart beating in his chest, and to think about his father’s face. His cold, cold eyes, and his tone, so reasonable, so sure, so certain, the way he had always been. And the way, Arthur knew, he would always be, forever frozen in his old ways as he was.
Merlin followed him in silence. Choosing to remain behind him, when, more often than not, he would be right beside him, so close Arthur would be able to feel their arms brush, and Merlin would look him in the eyes with that snarky, stupid grin on his face, and he would be in range for Arthur to push and prod and pull at him, and he would duck out of the way of Arthur’s swatting hands and skip off to do the duties he constantly complained about.
The distance now felt tangible, so much that Arthur’s chest twisted at it. They were worlds apart, but Arthur only had to reach out—
He couldn’t yet. He wanted to, damn it all he wanted to, but he just couldn’t, not yet—
He stopped walking, turning just enough so that Merlin knew he was addressing him. “Go and find something useful to do,” he said, quietly, though it wasn’t likely for them to be overheard when the corridor was empty.
Merlin stood still, not quite meeting his eyes, and there wasn’t that grin on his face, and there was still that distance, as he nodded his head obediently and murmured, “Sire.”
And, just like that, Merlin turned and left, off to do his duties without a single mutter.
Arthur watched him go. Stared at his retreating back until Merlin disappeared around a corner and was gone from his sight.
Arthur stared at the empty corridor, at the cold stone, at the Pendragon banner hanging on the wall at the very end, and then he turned back around, letting his own feet carry him. Focused on nothing but the sounds of his boots hitting the stone as he walked and walked, through corridors and around corners, up staircases, until his hand was clenched into a fist and knocking against a wooden door.
Morgana’s smile was instant, and genuine, and beautiful, as she beckoned him into her chambers, Guinevere closing the door behind him with a small smile of her own but no less genuine in its warmth.
“Arthur,” Morgana said, with so much relief it nearly floored him, and Arthur’s chest ached at simply being able to hear her voice again, to see the curls of her long hair and smell her perfume as he closed the gap between them. She took his hand in both of hers, fingers gentle and cool, and she said, “It’s good to see you back to yourself again.”
“It’s good to be myself again,” Arthur muttered, squeezing her hand. He looked over at Guinevere, chest warming at the open relief on her face. Arthur said, “I’m glad you’re both unharmed.”
Morgana shook her head. “It was you the sorcerer wanted.”
“And there is more than one way to harm me,” Arthur pointed out.
Morgana let out a soft laugh, and it seemed like forever since he had last heard that sound. “Why, Arthur, are you implying that you care about people other than yourself?” she teased, but there was none of that mocking in her voice and in her eyes. Her smile waned, turning a little more solemn. “At least we can put this all behind us now.”
Arthur stared at her, unsure how to answer, his throat closing up around that damnable lump again. He looked to Guinevere, standing off to the side with her hands clasped before her, watching them curiously. Whether to share in the conversation or awaiting Morgana’s requests, he couldn’t tell, but her presence made it all the more obvious how empty the space behind him felt.
“Arthur?” Morgana asked, drawing his attention back. “The sorcerer is dead, isn’t he? You had your knights stand down from guarding my rooms, so I just assumed—”
Arthur nodded, forcing out, “He’s dead. I killed him myself.”
Morgana’s fingers clenched around his, gentle and encouraging, as her eyes searched his face. “You don’t sound pleased about that,” she said eventually. Cautiously.
Arthur sighed and gave Morgana’s hand another squeeze before, reluctantly, letting go. He headed to the table, to pick at some of the grapes in the fruit bowl, half-wanting to distract himself from the things swirling in his head, and half-wanting to simply taste the flavour again, savouring it as it hit his tongue.
His eyes caught the wardrobe up against the back wall, its broken doors held shut with a chair in place. He would have to have something done about that.
Like many other things, he thought. It seemed there would be a lot of cleaning up to do.
When he let the silence go on a little too long, Guinevere hesitantly asked, “Would you like me to leave, my lord?”
Arthur blinked, then looked back at her. “No,” he said. “There’s no need.”
“Arthur,” Morgana said pointedly, watching him. “Is something wrong?”
Arthur turned and offered her a grin. “Could do with the company, that’s all.” Which seemed too much of a vulnerable thing to admit, and Arthur fought back the urge to wince at himself, lightening his tone, “I have no duties for the day, recovering from my terrible ordeal as I am. I’m bored. Indulge me.”
Guinevere’s lips twitched, eyes warm again and crinkling as she bent her head, and Morgana offered her familiar mocking tone, however weak it was, “Yes, I can see you’re in dire need of recovery.” Before he could retort, she said, “Why not have Merlin entertain you? Isn’t that what you like to do? Torment the poor boy for your own amusement?”
Arthur felt his smile slowly fall, another grape he was chewing on turning almost sour against his tongue.
How could Arthur torment him, when Merlin could barely look at him? How could he tease and poke and prod when everything was suddenly so different, so changed? When the person he would call his right hand man had looked at Arthur with such dread at the thought that he would call for his execution, and then in an equal amount of relief when Arthur made it obvious that he wouldn’t do so? And damn Merlin to hell for it all, because it hadn’t even been a day and Arthur already missed the easy way things had been between them.
Or, more honestly, the easy way it had been for him. It couldn’t have been as easy for Merlin, a sorcerer hiding in plain sight, listening to Arthur repeat Uther’s teachings about the treacherous ways of those with magic. Was it really such a surprise that Merlin was so hesitant to meet his eyes now that he knew?
And was Merlin really to blame, when Arthur was the one avoiding the things that needed to be said, the things that needed to be done? Hesitant to cross this final threshold as he was. Because he knew there would be no going back from this. There would be no undoing any of this.
He had faced countless battles, he had gone up against armies and monsters, and yet this, even giving mere consideration to stepping away from his father’s teachings, stepping out of Uther’s shadow, this was one of the things to frighten him the most—but if he didn’t do something then it would be just more of the same. The never-ending cycle they had all fallen into.
He couldn’t avoid this forever. He couldn’t hide away with whatever tasks he could find within the castle walls, or with the company of knights, or Morgana and Guinevere.
He wondered at the way his heart still felt a little too quick in his chest. A cold prickle down his neck almost like the rush he got when charging into battles. His palms itchy and clammy even when he rubbed them against his coat.
Morgana and Guinevere were still watching him, quiet and observant, both of them so worried about him, worried for him, and clearly so ready to help the moment he should ask for it. More than ready to—they wanted to.
His father would never tolerate that sort of thing. He would seek advice and opinions from those around him, but he would never ask for help. Uther believed a king should rule alone.
Arthur wasn’t his father. He could never be his father.
“Arthur,” Morgana said again, quieter this time. “What is it?”
He thought of how to say what he wanted to say. If he should say what he wanted to say. “You told me I should think more for myself,” he settled on. He looked up again, meeting Morgana’s gaze. Like Merlin, she was never afraid to challenge him, to meet him head on, to say what she really thought. It was something he shouldn’t rely on, something he shouldn’t search for, not as a prince, not as their future leader—but it was something he found he desperately wanted all the same. Arthur said, “Do you really think I should? With anything?”
Morgana’s brows furrowed, confused, not understanding, and of course she wouldn’t understand, she couldn’t, not unless Arthur told her everything—which was something he couldn’t do, the words stuck in his throat, unable to come out. Not out of fear, he found, not out of a worry of her reaction, but because, somehow, it didn’t feel right to share those particular thoughts. It didn’t feel right to go exposing Merlin’s secret.
And wasn’t that already a damning thought to have.
“You know I do,” Morgana said softly. She shared a long look with Guinevere. “What is this about?”
He shook his head. “I should think for myself, even if it goes against the things my father has taught me?”
Morgana took a long moment to answer, her eyes searching his as if she could find all the information she needed. And perhaps she did, perhaps she saw right through Arthur. Perhaps she always could. “I think,” she said slowly, almost conspiratorially, “some of the things your father has taught you have not been good for you. Even Uther’s teachings aren’t infallible.”
“No, I suppose they aren’t,” he agreed softly, and there was surprise in Morgana’s eyes at that. Surprise, and something else. Something almost like hope.
Arthur said, “I can’t be like my father.”
“No,” Morgana replied gently. “He rules with a cold heart, and that is something you could never do.”
Arthur stared at her, and then at Guinevere. He couldn’t tell them the truth—Merlin’s truth—but he could at least give them something. “There are some things that are going to change,” he said slowly. “I can’t ask either of you to stand with me—”
“You don’t have to,” Morgana cut in fiercely, her eyes burning into his. “I will anyway.”
Guinevere nodded. “As will I.”
Arthur couldn’t fight back his smile, shaking his head. “You don’t even know what it is I’m about to do. I haven’t explained myself yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to.” Morgana said. She swallowed audibly, but she met his gaze head on, without fear. “Arthur, I give you my word, you have my support in whatever it is. I know you would never do anything you didn’t think was the right thing to do.”
Arthur could only stare at her incredulously, wondering at the way his heart swelled at such an admission, at the conviction in her voice. He hadn’t even explained a thing to her and yet she already had such trust in him.
And Guinevere too, when he looked to her, when he saw the faith in her eyes, heard the sheer, unmistakable belief in her voice as she said, “For as long as I’ve known you, everything you have ever done has been for the good of Camelot.”
He thought of his father, ready to find an enemy within every face that surrounded him. Unable, unwilling, to let himself truly trust anyone but himself, choosing to rule the kingdom on his own. A lonely path that Arthur couldn’t find it within himself to follow.
“I guess that seals it,” Arthur murmured, though more to himself than to them.
He couldn’t run from it, and he knew he didn’t really want to anyway. His father’s reign would inevitably come to an end one day. It was time Arthur began forging the beginning of his own.
*
Arthur was standing by the window next to the fireplace when Merlin quietly let himself into his chambers.
Nearly midday, the castle was already buzzing with noise below, and Arthur revelled in it. He found himself still fascinated by the clear blue sky above, the small figures of moving people down below, the sounds coming in from his other open window across the other side of the room. Servants and knights and horses.
“You wanted to see me, sire?” Merlin said, quiet and hesitant, and when Arthur looked at him he seemed so fidgety and nervous, drawn into himself. Not at all like the servant he had become used to, the one bumbling about his chambers obnoxiously loud and mocking Arthur at every opportunity that presented itself.
Arthur simply watched him for a moment, taking him in. He said, “I’m curious about something. When did you find the spell that would heal me?”
A pause, and then Merlin said, “The day you lost your taste.” An expression flickered over his face briefly, the slight twitch of his lips, the amused glint in his eyes, and Arthur could hear the joke already, he didn’t even need to say it out loud—but then Merlin’s small smile faded and he said, “I tried healing you while you were asleep, but it wouldn’t work.”
Arthur thought back to it. “That’s what you were doing, when you were standing over me,” he said, realising now, and he wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt so scandalised. He knew it had sounded like chanting, when he had been pulled from his dreams to the presence hovering over him. “You weren’t trying to wake me up at all!”
“Of course I wasn’t.” Merlin had the grace to look a little sheepish. “I was trying to cast a spell.”
This ridiculous little— “So why didn’t it work?”
Merlin grimaced. “The sorcerer’s magic was blocking any counter spells. So…he had to die for it to work. He was never going to cooperate otherwise.”
Spoken with such confidence, such certainty. The same way he’d spoken in the hidden passageways, standing over a trashed make-shift altar and a sorcerer’s tools. Of course, now his certainty made perfect sense, and Arthur couldn’t believe he hadn’t realised why earlier.
Arthur pushed away from the window and sat at the table, never once letting his eyes stray from Merlin. He let the silence linger, just because he could. Because he wanted to see the way his manservant would react.
Sure enough, it made Merlin even more cautious, his eyes lowering almost shamefully, teeth worrying at his lower lip.
And wasn’t that an interesting thing. This boy could probably kill him with a few words, before he would even have the chance to leap out of his chair to stop him, and here he was practically cowering in front of Arthur.
“You have magic,” Arthur said finally.
“Yes,” Merlin said. He paused and, softer, he said, “I was born with it.”
Arthur blinked, thrown off by that. He hadn’t even known that was possible, and with it came a horrifying whirlwind of thoughts.
He had always been led to believe that people chose to study sorcery, it was a path they willingly stepped onto. If someone could be born with it—to think that there were people out there who never had a choice in the matter at all, who never had a say to begin with—it brought a shiver of dread down his spine.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Arthur murmured, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. He eyed the water jug, silver shining in the daylight. The bowl of grapes, still ripe and fresh. He let his eyes drift back up to Merlin, continuing, “Living in Camelot as a sorcerer. Working as my manservant.”
“I use my magic to protect you, Arthur,” Merlin rushed out, his eyes coming back up to meet Arthur’s, wide and sincere. “I swear it. I would never wish any harm on you or Camelot.”
His father always said sorcerers couldn’t be trusted, their words were poisoned with lies—and yet Arthur believed him. Merlin had been his servant for a while now, he had a thousand opportunities every day to hurt him, and yet he never did. He didn’t seek any rewards, he didn’t scheme for a better, strengthened position within the castle and the court. He could use his magic to acquire so much, and yet he remained in shadows, a lowly servant.
“You used your magic to heal me,” Arthur said, still trying to wrap his head around it, the mere concept that magic would be used for such a purpose.
Merlin nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?” Arthur drummed his fingers on the table again. “If you’ll recall what I said to you, we are enemies. In the eyes of sorcerers, I am the enemy. Surely this latest incident has proven that to you.”
Merlin stared back, fierce and unwavering. “You’re not my enemy. And you never will be. I know the kind of person you are.”
“And what kind is that?”
“The kind worth saving.”
His own words shot back in his face, just like that, and Arthur found himself staring at Merlin wondrously. This skinny, belligerent, hopeless boy that had stumbled his way into Arthur’s life, who couldn’t fight worth a damn and ran straight into danger without hesitation anyway, who was born with the magic Arthur had been taught to hunt and to hate, and yet he showed a devotion and loyalty Arthur had never seen before.
The law said Merlin must die. Hanging, the chopping block, the pyre, any would do. Sorcery was a danger to Camelot and her people, it was a constant threat hanging over their heads. Someone always lurked in the shadows, looking to harm them in some way to gain power or exact their revenge over what the Purge had taken from them. For every enemy his father struck down, pre-emptively or not, he always inevitably ended up making more. This latest mess had all but proven that.
And yet—Merlin.
Arthur looked away from him, his eyes straying to the bright light shining in from the window. He could even see dust floating in the golden rays.
Keeping Merlin’s secret was a betrayal to his father. If he opened this door, if he allowed Merlin to remain at his side, then he himself would be guilty of conspiracy.
He thought of those sorcerers again. Their horrified, frightened faces as Arthur and his men descended upon them with their swords and their rage. Striking an enemy before they could become an enemy.
He didn’t want to rule through fear. He didn’t want his kingdom to be built on blood.
Arthur rose to his feet and approached Merlin slowly. “Will you use your magic to help me protect Camelot?” he asked, and it felt strange just saying the words, he felt he was shaking from it, adrenaline coursing through him even though there was no battle to fight.
Treason, the voice in the back of his head shouted. The one that sounded frighteningly like his father. Treason treason treason.
He ignored it.
Merlin stared at him, frozen to the spot, wide eyed and hopeful. “Of course,” he breathed. “You don’t even have to ask.”
“Swear it to me,” Arthur insisted.
Merlin didn’t hesitate. “I swear it, Arthur.”
Arthur let out a heavy breath, feeling dizzy and yet strangely hopeful. Merlin could offer insight his father would never listen to and would run the risk of weakening the kingdom just by ignoring it. But the two of them, with steel and magic both—they could protect the kingdom together.
Even a prince could betray his king, he had told Merlin, only a few nights ago. For Camelot, he told himself now.
This was how he could break that never-ending circle.
Arthur held his hand out, and Merlin only took a moment to glance at it before he returned the gesture, gripping Arthur’s forearm, a smile forming on his lips.
“Well, then,” Arthur said, with a smile of his own. “It looks like we have a lot of work ahead of us.”