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Then it was, that magnanimous Arthur, with all the kings and military force of Britain, fought against the Saxons. And though there were many more noble than himself, yet he was twelve times chosen their commander, and was often conqueror. [...] The twelfth was a most severe contest, when Arthur penetrated the hill of Badon. In this engagement, nine hundred and forty fell by his hand alone, no one but the Lord affording him assistance. In all these engagements the Britons were successful. For no strength can avail the will of the Almighty.

--Historia Brittonum, 8th century, attributed to "Nennius," but considered by most scholars to be anonymous.

* * *

Their leader at that time was a certain Ambrosius Aurelianus, a discreet man, who was, as it happened, the sole remainder of the Roman race who had survived this storm in which his parents, who bore a royal and famous name, had perished. Under his leadership the Britons had regained their strength, challenged their victors to battle, and, with God's help, won the day. From that time on, first the Britons won and then the enemy were victorious until the year of the siege of Mount Badon, when the Britons slaughtered no small number of their foes about forty-four years after their arrival in Britain.
--The Ecclesiastical History of the English People, completed c. 731, the Venerable Bede.

Arthur let the parchment slip out of his fingers as his right hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The king was the very picture of frustration. He sighed and peered across the table at Lancelot, who wasn't looking much better than Arthur felt, and said, "Well. We'll have to bring the army out there again, won't we?"

"We won't win, your highness," Lancelot reminded him unnecessarily, weary and wary, "Olsa's men outnumber ours three to one."

"I know," Arthur groaned and almost tore the parchment apart in frustration. It was a lost cause. They were going in circles. There was nothing for it, the Saxons had a superior fighting force. Their commander Olsa, the grandson of Hengest, the very man that had lead the foreigners into Albion to begin with, was an even more feared general than any Arthur had heard of and his men were a sight a man hoped he'd only ever see in his nightmares. And in a few weeks time, that army would devour Camelot and the Pendragon line would be no more. Everything his father had worked to build...Arthur shuddered at the thought and reminded himself to keep his head in the now. No use in focusing on the inescapable future before it arrived.

Presently, the door opened and Gwen appeared in the threshold, looking exasperated and fond, but, Arthur noticed, even she had the same lines of worry etched into her skin that he and all his advisers had. "Are you boys going to be heading to bed any time soon?" she asked, "This isn't going to miraculously solve itself just because you keep staring at that report, Arthur, so come on, get to bed."

Arthur shook his head stubbornly, feeling like a child but not willing to give up. This was too important, Camelot had too much to lose and he could not let his people down. The Saxons breathing down their necks were a barbaric people who, if they could, would overrun Arthur's kingdom and impose their foreign laws and customs on the people who had trusted in Arthur to preserve their way of life. Time was scarce and they desperately needed some semblance of a plan before they called it a night. "If I go to bed I'll never sleep, Gwen," he told her. "This isn't a problem we can ignore and hope it goes away."

Gwen nodded and let out a stressed sigh, falling into the chair next to Lancelot's. She pursed her lips and looked like she might say something, but didn't. And Arthur knew that look, that was the she has something to say and she knows she shouldn't but she's about to say it anyway look. And a moment later, sure enough, the queen hedged, "Well, you know..."

Arthur took pity on her, there was no need for her to get flustered. "What is it, Guinevere?" he asked gently. He wouldn't have prompted her if he'd known what she had in mind.

"Well, it's just Morgana--" Gwen started and stopped quickly when Arthur's hand, predictably--even he had to admit it was predictable--flew to pinch the bridge of his nose, in a gesture he always found himself making whenever the topic of his estranged foster sister was brought up. But after a moment Gwen didn't look like she was completely certain that this was a train of thought that should be completed, but seemed to decide to go ahead anyway and continued, "Morgana is living with the Druids now."

Arthur looked across the table at her, nonplussed. "So?"

"So...we could contact her." Gwen looked even less sure of herself now.

It suddenly clicked in Arthur's head. "No," he said flatly.

"But--" Gwen tried.

"No," Arthur repeated, trying to ignore the way Lancelot was looking at his wife like she'd just had the most brilliant idea in the world.

"Your highness," Lancelot cut in, his voice far more polite than it would normally be, and Arthur sighed in resignation, "she has a point." Of course Lancelot would side with his precious Guinevere, Arthur thought, with only a touch of bitterness.

"Arthur," Gwen placated, infinitely patient, "the Druids are fighting the same fight we are," she said, "and they're losing too. There just aren't enough of them to be able to mount a worthwhile defence, just like us." She paused, seeming to search for the perfect phrase.

"An alliance would be useful to both parties, sire," Lancelot finished for her. Out of the corner of Arthur's eye he saw Gwen give Lancelot a small but grateful smile, which he returned sweetly. No doubt they'd hatched this plan together, earlier. Wait until it was late and Arthur was tired and run down and have it be Gwen to come in--of course it would be Gwen, Arthur valued her sense like none other's, it was why he'd married her--and let her start making suggestions they knew Arthur would never agree to if not for his desperation.

Arthur sighed. He couldn't argue the logic, of course. The two of them were too good for that. Of course more manpower couldn't hurt their situation any and Arthur had learned from previous experience how effective magic was in a fight. He shuddered at the memory of the look on his late father's face when he'd had to tell the man that the Druid assault had forced his army to retreat. But that was it, wasn't it? Magic and all its wielders had been the sworn foes of Camelot for as long as Arthur could remember. He'd grown up with his father, the king, giving speech after speech condemning the use of magic as a dark and evil art, one that would lead to personal ruin as well as the ruin of Camelot. And Arthur had believed that his whole life.

But now Camelot's ruin really was drawing near, and Arthur was running out of options.

"Let me sleep on it," he conceded and Gwen smiled like he'd already agreed.

And when, after a largely sleepless night, he visits the queen's chambers the next morning with news of his decision to contact Morgana, Gwen and Lancelot were both pleased.

The morning after that, Arthur and Lancelot travelled together to the Druid encampment. Gwen had wanted to be there with them--Arthur knew that she missed Morgana something awful--but it would have been considered improper for her to come along and, normally, that wouldn't have stopped her but the prospective alliance with the Druids would be hard enough for the people of Camelot to swallow and Arthur wasn't about to go insulting their delicate sensibilities while he was at it. Gwen had scowled a lot but ultimately been understanding.

And so the king of Camelot and his head knight found themselves no more than a thousand paces outside of the Druids' territory. Arthur was nervous. He had led his men against these people in battle for years, he would not blame them if they turned him away and sent him back to his crumbling kingdom to face the Saxons alone. The bright side to this was that they'd soon be with Morgana. He hadn't heard from her since that day years before when he'd awoken to the sounds of the warning bell ringing and his father, the king, stomping through the castle in more of a temper than Arthur had ever seen him and a note beside his bed telling him that Morgana was sorry but she couldn't stay any longer and that she loved him, really, even if it didn't always seem that way and could he watch out for Gwen, please.

As Arthur and Lancelot neared the edge of the clearing that the Druids had made their home, two figures broke apart from the mess of tents and people and made their way towards them. It soon became apparent that one of them was Morgana. Arthur's heart skipped a beat when he saw her; he remembered afternoons in the sun when they'd sparred together in their early adolescence (and, Arthur still insisted, she'd never, ever managed to beat him) and mornings when it rained and they couldn't talk themselves out of lessons, with Morgana sticking her tongue out at Arthur behind the tutor's back as he puzzled over the Latin and then pulling her hair in return when the tutor turned his back to him. Now, his sister in everything but blood was walking towards him, looking as ethereal as ever, even more so in the garb of a Druid instead of those dainty dresses she'd worn at court. Arthur was pleased to see that she was wearing a fond, if surprised, smile and not an angry frown. They hadn't sent word ahead that they were coming.

"Arthur!" she exclaimed happily as they got within earshot, "It's so wonderful to see you." She did not bow, the sign of respect for her king that would have been assumed from her years before, but the beaming smile across her face assured Arthur that he was a welcome sight.

They embraced swiftly, a little awkwardly. "I've missed you, Morgana," Arthur told her, "we all have."

"Yes," Morgana answered him, still smiling. Then she paused momentarily and her smile faltered slightly before she looked back into Arthur's eyes and said, "I've missed you too," as sad as Arthur had ever seen her. Then, seemingly catching herself in a moment of weakness, she turned brightly to Lancelot and greeted him warmly. "I see you've managed to overcome and become a knight at last," she observed.

"I have, my lady," he told her, looking proud of himself. "Arthur saw fit to adjust the Knight's Code a bit when he came into the Crown."

"Did he now?" Morgana commented, managing to sound both approving and snide at once and turned back to Arthur, coming as close to a grin as the lady ever did. Arthur allowed himself to grin back happily. Then, someone cleared their throat.

Tearing his eyes away from Morgana, Arthur's gaze fell on her companion, whose hand was falling down from where it had been politely covering his mouth a moment before. He was a skinny, wiry fellow who, Arthur thought in his limited experience, looked exactly as a Druid should. The fringe of his not quite jet black hair fell down to almost his eyes and Arthur got the impression he spent a lot of time pushing it out of his sight line. His prominent cheekbones caught the light winding down through the trees that was also making his hair and cloak shine slightly. The fall day was warm for such a thick cloak and the man had the sleeves of the navy blue fabric rolled to his elbows, revealing two long, spidery, pure black lines of ink running up and around the pale skin of each of his arms. Arthur's breath caught as he took him in. The man was very fetching but also, Arthur reminded himself sternly, very, very magical.

"Oh," Morgana jumped. She too had obviously momentarily forgotten the man on her left in her excitement over Arthur and Lancelot. "Gentlemen," she gestured towards them, "this is Ambrosius," she pointed to the man, "Ambrosius, this is King Arthur and Sir Lancelot."

Ambrosius, Arthur thought. Yes, of course. This, then, was the leader of the Druids. The one who had not only overseen the construction of their settlement here (illegally, within Camelot's borders, Arthur remembered slightly resentfully, but pushed it to the back of his mind), he'd also built their army up to the formidable force that it had been when Arthur's men had faced them and led them in countless battles against Camelot as well as the Saxons and even finagled the signing of a handful of treaties between the Druids and nearby kingdoms such as Gwynedd and Mercia.

The Druid looked Arthur up and down, obviously sizing him up as much as Arthur had been. "So this is King Arthur," he said, sounding unimpressed. "Huh. I thought you'd be taller."

"I'm sorry to disappoint," Arthur answered him, unsure of how to respond to that. "If it's any consolation, you're a lot scrawnier than I expected."

Ambrosius' eyes flashed and Arthur could tell he'd managed to hit a nerve but Morgana intervened before the jibe could be returned. "Boys, boys," she chastised, "don't we have more important matters to attend to?"

Right. Like the imminent downfall of Camelot. Arthur nodded, "I'm sorry," he said to Ambrosius, "We've actually come because," he paused for a moment, biting his lip, finding it even harder than he had anticipated to swallow his pride, "because we need your help."

Because, yes, he had to swallow not a small amount of his pride to get the words out; he knew that what he was saying would give the stranger in front of him all the reason in the world to be smug--how long had Camelot insisted that he and his people were good for nothing and blight on the land? But Ambrosius' small smile was sad, not triumphant. "You must be very desperate," he observed, voice quiet.

"And you're not?" Lancelot interjected, defensive, but Arthur shook his head and called him off. There was no need for further antagonism. "Yes," he told them, "we are extremely desperate.

Morgana's eyes flitted between Arthur's face and Ambrosius', she seemed nervous. "Why don't we sit and discuss this elsewhere?" she suggested. That seemed to all parties to be a sensible idea and she led them into the Druid camp proper.

The camp was unlike any place Arthur could ever imagine living in. Sure, he'd spent more than his fair share of nights out in the cold woods on the ground, but he'd never seen a permanent encampment in such a wilderness before. The dozen and a half tents scattered here and there were made of the same material as Morgana and Ambrosius' clothes with fires between them burning of something sweet smelling. The camp had only been in place for a few years, but there was already ivy growing up the stone walls surrounding the place and it was beginning to look something like an old Roman ruin. Without exception, the Druid people turned to stare as they made their way by. Arthur couldn't blame them. He suddenly regretted wearing his blazing red cloak with the unmistakable Pendragon dragon on the side.

Morgana led them all into the tent on the far side of the camp. Inside another fire was burning, the smoke making its way out of the small hole at the top. It was largely barren, the only thing cluttering the relatively small space were the three blankets lying on top of a feather mattress on one side of the fire and a small, rickety wooden chair on the other side.

"So, this is my home," Morgana told them as she took a seat on the chair and Ambrosius rather gracelessly plopped down on the bed, looking about a thousand times more comfortable than Arthur felt. Arthur and Lancelot were left to stand awkwardly by the door, but Arthur was grateful for the way out if this meeting should turn sour, never mind the fact that he'd have to get out of the entire camp.

"It's a nice place, my lady," Lancelot complimented sincerely, but then again Lancelot did everything sincerely.

Morgana looked pleased and opened her mouth to respond, but Ambrosius interrupted. "Shall we get down to business?" he asked, loud and abrupt. Arthur was finding it difficult to believe that this was the same man who had literally had Camelot's troops running away from him. He seemed to be not much more than a boy and an unsophisticated one at that.

But Arthur did get down to business. "The fact of the matter," he said, "is that Olsa's men have more fighting power than either of our armies on our own, but together we might stand a chance."

Ambrosius nodded thoughtfully. "I see your point," he said quietly, shaking his head, "even we can't effectively fight against Olsa. There are just too many of them."

"So you agree to fight with us?"

Morgana shook her head, "We can't. It's not up to either of us individually. That's a decision that needs to be made by the elders. We can only make suggestions."

Well, Arthur thought, that was a supremely inefficient way of doing things. Better to just have one man making all the decisions. But he was in no position to argue with the Druids.

Lancelot, however, seemed to be of a similar mind. "But sir," he addressed Ambrosius, "I thought you were their leader?"

Ambrosius only scoffed and smiled shyly at the same time, a feat he pulled off impressively. "Yes," he said, "you would think I was, wouldn't you? Now if you two will excuse the lady and myself, we'll go and consult the elders." With that, he and Morgana left the tent, leaving Arthur and Lancelot on the own. They stood there in the cramped tent, shuffling their feet. Arthur sometimes felt that perhaps he and Lancelot knew each other a little too well; they didn't need to say anything, each knew what the other was thinking.

Eventually, Ambrosius and Morgana returned. Ambrosius gave Arthur a small smile as he told him, "The elders have decided that your proposal is a sound one. We don't have very many more options. But we do have a few conditions."

"Of course," Arthur said. He hadn't expected any less.

"Firstly, we will go into battle as nothing less than allies. The Druids will not be your subservient, King Arthur. You and I will be commanders of our own armies and we will coordinate the attack, of course, but you will have no direct control over my army."

Arthur nodded, this sounded fair.

"Secondly," Ambrosius continued in an official tone that Arthur got the distinct impression he was not accustomed to using, "although clearly there are more pressing things to deal with today, as soon as we are victorious in these matters, the Druids will expect to sign a treaty of coexistence with Camelot. You will recognize this camp as a legal fortification and cease all military expeditions against us."

This was not as easy for Arthur to swallow. King Uther had been a young king when he made it his life's mission to stamp out magic from Albion. Almost his entire reign had been dedicated to the eradication of the Druids and people like them. Agreeing to become the official allies and to grant them legal recognition went against things that had been all but bred into Arthur's bones. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures, and Arthur nodded his assent. "When this is all over, Ambrosius, I will be happy to host a party of the Druids in Camelot for treaty negotiations."

Ambrosius smiled almost sweetly. "Call me Merlin," he said.

"Merlin?"

The man looked Arthur directly in the eye and it suddenly felt like there was no one in the world but the two of them. “I am called many things, Arthur," he said. "Ambrosius, Emrys, Myrddrin. But my mother named me Merlin and that is what my friends call me."

"So we're friends now?"

"Allies at least, apparently. Until you break the terms of our agreement."

"I will not," Arthur told him fiercely. He was a man of honour.

"Good."

Then Arthur turned to his one time sister. "You should come home, Morgana. We miss you."

But she shook her head sadly. "This is my home now, Arthur," she told him, "But I will come for the treaty signing, if you will have me?"

"Of course I'll have you. You are always welcome in Camelot."

She smiled and turned to Lancelot. "Give my regards to the queen," she said to him.

They went their separate ways after that. Morgana and Merlin returned to the camp and Arthur and Lancelot made the trek back to the castle in Camelot. Gwen was waiting in the council chambers when they arrived. He face fell when she saw that Morgana had not returned with the men. "So?" she prompted.

Lancelot said, "They'll help us if we make peace with them. So we'll make peace with them."

Olsa and his army were on the move, marching day by day closer and closer to obliterating Camelot. Time was of the essence. A week after their initial meeting in the forest, the Druid delegation arrived in Camelot. Arthur, Lancelot and Gwen waited in the courtyard by the castle's front steps as Morgana and the man Arthur kept reminding himself was named Merlin stepped out, followed by a tall man in a red cloak who was introduced as Aglain, one of the elders.

Gwen stepped forward to formally greet them. "Welcome to Camelot," she said, curtseying. "I hope that you enjoy your stay here."

"Thank you, m'lady," Merlin replied, but he didn't bow, not seeming to understand that that it was standard procedure when addressing the queen and that the many onlookers expected it from him. Gwen, for her part, didn't miss a beat and only smiled indulgently at the man, ferrying him down the receiving line to Arthur, who tried his level best to act the part of the regal king and not get too distracted by the way the blue of Merlin's eyes seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.

He held his hand out jovially for the Druid to shake it, like he'd seen his father do when welcoming foreign dignitaries so many times before, "Welcome to court, Ambrosius. We hope your stay here is peaceful and productive one."

Merlin looked slightly pained. "I thought I asked you not to call me that," he said.

Arthur only smirked. "You have no head for formalities at all, do you?"

From there, Merlin was ferried away and Arthur greeted Morgana and Aglain before they all retreated from the summer heat into the king's council chambers, where the treaty negotiations began.

Seeing Morgana back in the council chambers was harder on Arthur than he had expected and more than he would ever to admit to anyone. She looked as regal as ever sitting there, almost like she had never left. But there were lines on her face that had never been there before and Merlin was sitting by her side, looking completely out of place in the royal environment. But somehow, Arthur couldn't keep his eyes off the man; Merlin in this setting was a sight to behold. He was focused and no amount of choreographed distraction could draw him away from his goal. The Druids were going to get their ceasefire, and may the gods help whoever got in Merlin's way.

Arthur knew that the political fallout from Camelot granting the Druids what they wanted would be severe. But then, he thought, what political fallout? The only political structure existing in Albion anymore was the Britons versus the Saxons, at this point all smaller political divisions had ceased to matter.

Across the table from Arthur, Aglain was ranting on about the atrocities against people of magic committed by Arthur's father when Arthur interrupted him. "My lord," he said, "I am confident that we can make peace with one another, no matter what unforgivable things my father did. You will get your ceasefire and your recognition. Not that it will matter much soon. The governments of Albion are crumbling, soon we will be forced to all work together, whether we like it or not. Isn't that why we're all here in the first place."

Next to Merlin, Morgana smiled for the first time that afternoon. And Lancelot and Gwen both looked suitably pleased with Arthur, so he counted it as a success.

Later, at the feast that had been thrown from the last surplus Camelot had in its stores, Merlin leaned to whisper in Arthur's ear, "Thank you, sire."

"You've never called me sire," Arthur observed.

"You've never deserved it before."

In the weeks that followed, Arthur trained his army harder than he had for quite some time. He tried to impress on them the importance of this fight, but he didn't think it needed much doing. More and more news of Olsa and the Saxons' successes were coming each day.

At last it was the day before the assault. The combined armies of Camelot and the Druids met at the appointed place and time, at the foot of Mount Badon at sundown the night before they planned to attack. As they approached the hill (because that's what it was, more of a hill than a mountain), Arthur could see Merlin out in front of his fellow Druids, riding high on his white horse, dark fringe blowing in the wind. Arthur called out to him and Merlin smiled and waved back, looking more like an excited child than a commander.

The Saxons were on the march. News had come the day before of a great massacre by the Saxons of the people of Albion in Pevensey.

The combined army made camp for the night two miles from the foot of the hill. Arthur made himself comfortable in his tent, more lavish than the rest because of his exalted position of commander and king but by no means over the top. He was sitting there, going over the strategy for the next day, trying to find any holes Olsa might notice, when Merlin slipped through the flap.

"Arthur," he greeted.

"Merlin," Arthur returned, nodding.

Merlin smiled. "Thank you for calling me that," he said, "like we're friends."

"Of course we're friends," Arthur countered, "I signed that treaty, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you like me."

Arthur studied Merlin curiously, could the man honestly think Arthur sincerely didn't like him?

Merlin shifted on his feet, looking more nervous than Arthur had ever seen him. "Anyway," he tried to change the subject, "I just--I wanted to--"

Arthur took pity on the poor man. He motioned to the bedroll next to his makeshift desk. "Have a seat," he said.

Merlin sat awkwardly, and was there anything he didn't do awkwardly? "Did you hear about Pevensey?"

"Yes. We're not going to let that happen again."

Merlin shook his head. "I'm not sure we'll be able to stop it, Arthur. Even if we do win this battle--which is unlikely--"

"Don't say that!" Arthur snapped, "You start thinking like that and the whole this is lost u it's even begun." He sat down on the bedroll next to Merlin and gripped his thigh tightly, looking into his eyes. "We. Are going. To win. Do you understand?"

Merlin nodded dumbly, returning Arthur's gaze with just as much intensity as he was receiving from king. They sat like that for awhile, not saying anything, silently reassuring each other that everything would be okay, that they were not on the precipice of a new world where they would have next to no power and no real control over their lives. When a lord faces the prospect of becoming nothing but a vassal, it terrifies him.

"My father--" Merlin began a short time later, "he was a Roman. That's where my name comes from. Aureilianus. He was a general, he lived with my mother in Ealdor for many years until they recalled the army when I was a boy."

"Ealdor?" Arthur asked, he'd never heard of such a place.

"It's a small village just over the border in Cendred's kingdom. I doubt you'd ever have heard about it, not much going on there."

"Oh, I see," Arthur teased, "you're not even really a citizen of Camelot, I shouldn't have even have granted you asylum!"

Merlin huffed and fell silent for a minute before he continued, "He wanted us to come with him to Rome, so we could be a family together, but my mother wouldn't go."

"Why not?"

"Because of me. She knew a big city like that wouldn't be safe for someone like me. My magic was too strong not to attract the kind of attention that would get me killed. So he went along without us." He paused and stared up at the top corner of the tent the walls met the ceiling, but Arthur had the distinct impression that he wasn't seeing the material. "I wish I could have known him," Merlin finished wistfully.

"Well, I never knew my mother," Arthur responded ."She died giving birth to me. So we're a pair of sorts."

"Yeah," Merlin agreed, looking back up into Arthur's eyes, "I guess we are." And they fell back into a comfortable silence.

Eventually, Merlin looked down at where his hand had come to cover Arthur's where lay on his thigh, blushed, and awkwardly excused himself. And if Arthur was kept awake that night only partly because of pre-battle nerves, well, no one ever had to know.

The next morning, Arthur sought Merlin out again. He found him climbing out of his tent, on his way to breakfast. Merlin's entire face lit up with a grin that looked like it was nearly wide enough to split his face. "Good morning," the man greeted cheerfully.

"Good morning," Arthur returned, smiling himself despite the fact that he was feeling pre-battle nerves in a way he never had before in his life. "I just wanted to say good luck out there today," he mentally winced at how awkward he sounded.

But Merlin only smiled again. "Walk with me," he said, and Arthur could only do as he was told. They made their way down towards the bank of the river and Merlin crouched down to splash some water on his face. Arthur found himself distracted by the long tendons of his neck that stuck out so much from where Arthur was standing when Merlin looked down and then, the water that trickled down from the man's cheeks and disappeared under his shift. Arthur shook himself and took a seat next to Merlin on the ground.

"You know, Arthur," Merlin was saying, "I appreciate the sentiment but you really don't have to worry about me. I can handle myself."

Arthur couldn't help but chuckle. "I know that better than anyone, don't I?" he retorted, "I was just trying to be polite."

"Of course you were," Merlin placated, with an annoyingly appeasing voice and with a smirk on his face that made Arthur sort of want to hit him. But, Arthur realized with a distressingly small amount of shock, it also made him sort of want to kiss him. That could not be good. Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat and had to look away for a moment. He glanced down at the ground he . was sitting on and saw a twig lying at his feet. Mindlessly, he picked it up and gripped it tight, making little pictures in the dirt. When he looked back at him, Merlin was staring up at him contemplatively. "Did you marry for love, Arthur?" he asked.

Well, he hadn't been expecting that. "Excuse me?" was Arthur's sputtering reply.

"Guinevere," Merlin specified unnecessarily, "did you marry her because the two of you were in love, or was it for political reasons?

Arthur had spent years avoiding having to answer that question. He knew that it was obvious to anyone who observed the two of them that he and Gwen were not the most passionate of couples, but he still lived in fear that someone would look further into it. If the truth of that matter got out, it could easily end with Gwen tied to a stake that was about to go up in flames and Lancelot either up there with her or banished from Camelot forever. Arthur would never be able to forgive himself if it ever came to that. But something about Merlin made Arthur feel that he could share this with the man. He felt certain that he wouldn't ring the alarm bells and ruin the life he and Gwen had created for themselves. He also figured Merlin wouldn't have bothered to ask if he didn't already suspect the answer.

And so Arthur found himself staring resolutely down at the twig in his hand and telling him, "I needed a queen. Someone sensible, you know. Someone who I could go to for advice and actually get a valuable opinion." He paused and looked back up at Merlin who was looking back at him, obviously paying avid attention and wearing an encouraging expression, so Arthur continued. "I've known Gwen most of my life, she grew up as Morgana's maidservant, you know, and I always thought she had this strength of character that is really admirable. She's a woman and she comes from the humblest of backgrounds, but she's not afraid to speak her mind to anyone. And she knows better than any noble ever could what it is to be a peasant. My people respect her for that. I respect her for that."

"But you don't love her," Merlin stated. It wasn't a question.

"No, I do," Arthur insisted. "She is very dear to me. But I don't love her as a husband should. It's alright, though. She has Lancelot. They're happy."

Merlin nodded sagely, as if sympathizing with Arthur for some reason Arthur himself couldn't fathom. "Yeah, but are you happy?" he asked. "Who do you have?"

"I have Camelot."

Merlin shot him a look that clearly stated that he'd never met a bigger idiot. Then, without prelude, he closed the distance between them and pressed his mouth softly against Arthur's. The kiss was chaste at first, just lips touching lips as Arthur tried to get his bearings and properly register what was happening. Then Merlin's hands slowly came up to cup Arthur's face and before he knew it, Arthur was threading his own hands through the other man's hair. Soon, Arthur's mouth was opening to accommodate Merlin's tongue, which ran up and down over and under Arthur's. Arthur thought this was something exhilarating. He'd never met anyone quite like Merlin, anyone who made him feel quite like Merlin made him feel. Sure, he had kissed men before, and women as well, but none of them had ever made his heart stutter in the same funny rhythm or his chest seize with that unfamiliar but definitely pleasant emotion. Parts of Arthur wanted to deny himself of this, but with Merlin's mouth covering his in that way, he realised he couldn't really have pulled back it even if he truly wanted to. When they couldn't put off breathing any longer. Merlin blue, blue eyes flickered over Arthur's face and Arthur's heart clenched in a funny way he couldn't quite describe. "As lovely as she is, sire," Merlin said cheekily, and Arthur could feel Merlin's breath on his ear, "I'm pretty sure Camelot won't keep you warm at night." And a small smile graced his features as he added, "Now you have me."

Arthur gathered the combined army for a pep talk. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, Merlin at his side, and addressed them. "Men," he said, "today you fight the most important fight you have ever fought. Nothing you have done, nothing you will ever do, matters as much as this. Today we fight for our kingdom's very survival. Olsa is coming to obliterate our political system and impose his own foreign ways on us all. You've been hearing about them all your lives, so have I. Olsa and his countrymen have already toppled many of the kingdoms surrounding Camelot, but let me tell you, men, it stops here!" The crowd erupted into cheers at that and Arthur waited for them to subside before he continued. "But I will not lie to you. This will not be easy and the casualties will not be few. But in this the Druids and the people of Camelot have overcome our differences and for once are fighting on the same battlefield. We have come so far from where we were only a few months ago. If we can do that, we can do anything. And if we succeed, you will be able to tell your grandchildren that you helped stem the spread of foreign influence. We have just thrown off the yoke of Roman influence and oppression, and I'll be damned if we bow to another outside force while I am king." More cheering, and Arthur glanced over to find Merlin smiling at him encouragingly. Arthur smiled back before he continued.

"Now, when we march to Mount Badon, I will lead Camelot's army up the front of it and we will engage the enemy, taking them by surprise. Now, hopefully, we'll be able to make some dent in their numbers and they will retreat. The Druid army, led by Ambrosius here," he gestured towards Merlin, "will have gone up the back of the hill and will meet them there and continue the assault my men started. If that is not the case, and the Saxons do not retreat, than the Druids will be there to provide us reinforcements. Understood?" There were general mutters of agreement and understanding among the crowd and Arthur allowed himself to smile. "Good," he said, "then let's get on the move."

The climb up Mount Badon was difficult. Any time hundreds of men trudge up a single hill together it is a challenge, but it didn't help that the wet weather recently had left the entire hill as muddy as it could possibly be. Arthur dreaded to think what it would be like at the top, where men would surely die, falling into mud and not getting up, so that those who were still alive could go on fighting, stepping over them and on them. Arthur grimaced against the wind; he'd never be able to admit it to his men, but as great a warrior as he was, he took no pleasure in the fight. He still hated battle as much as any young page on his first campaign.

By the time they reached the top trying to be as silent as possible was pointless. It was impossible to keep hundreds of chain mail clad men quiet, the armour clanged around noisily every time its wearer took a step, so Arthur could only hope that whatever level of surprise they could manage would be enough.

At the top, it was chaos. Olsa's men were quick to react, quicker than Arthur had hoped, and at first things looked dire. One after another some of Arthur's best knights fell under the Saxons' swords and Arthur could do nothing to stop it; he himself was embroiled in his own hard fought battle. The man he found himself up against was a good swordsman, and he fought dirty. Arthur was forced to stay on the defensive as his opponent lunged towards him again and again, relentless. Arthur had long been the best knight in all of Albion, so, he thought darkly, it figured that he would meet his match just now, when the stakes were so high; he knew he'd never be able to get the upper hand if he couldn't get a few good jabs in himself. Then, in a stroke of luck, the man stumbled over a root that Arthur hadn't seen there himself and Arthur was able to lunge forward and quickly direct his sword under his opponent's and get him square in the gut. The Saxon's face blanched in shock and pain and his eyes bore into Arthur's as Arthur pulled his sword out of the flesh and the man fell back onto the ground, red blood pooling on his mail and the ground by his side.

Shaking himself and willing the image to leave his memory (and his nightmares), Arthur moved on. The air around him already stank of blood. All around him knights were fighting knights and the magicians had even picked up swords of their own but, Arthur noticed, they seemed to be more interested in making the handles of their opponents' swords too hot to touch and then stabbing them in the heart while they were defenceless. Any other day Arthur would have been scandalized by the distinct lack of honour in that. War was brutal, yes, but it also had rules. There was no glory in an unfair fight. (But what was a fair fight, a voice in Arthur's head that sounded surprisingly like Merlin asked, if Arthur had brought sorcerers to a swordfight?)

The next man he faced was easier. He wasn't nearly as skilled with a sword as the first had been and Arthur got him in the chest with relative ease. But as soon as he was locked in combat with the next one, he was in trouble again. This time it was Arthur who tripped on a root but, to his amazement, as he fell backwards and the Saxon made to skewer him through his stomach, the tip of the blade deflected off his armour and reversed itself in mid air of its own accord and instead went directly through the stomach of its master.

Regaining his footing, Arthur looked around, startled, but his surprise completely disappeared when he saw Merlin standing just ten feet away, his eyes turning from gold back to blue with a cold, frightening look on his face. For the first time since they had been properly introduced, Arthur saw again the formidable opponent he had met on the battlefields of his previous campaigns against the Druids. It wasn't hard to imagine that he was standing on one of those battlefields now, Merlin's anger and aggression directed at him. The image didn't fade as Merlin took several steps forward, his arms rising slowly in front of him, fingers outstretched and a look of concentration creasing the skin between his eyes. The man didn't even say anything but as Arthur watched, Saxon after Saxon dropped their swords and fell to the ground, dead. The combined armies of the Druids and Camelot could only stand back and watch as their victory was ensured.

An hour and a half later Arthur still stood atop Badon, surveying the now quiet field. There were bodies as far as the eye could see, strewn on the ground one after the other. It was unsettling. Not because Arthur had never seen a battle this bloody before, on the contrary, in her heyday Camelot had seen more than a few margins of victory this wide, but it was that the battle actually had not been very bloody at all. Most of the bodies lying on the ground had no wounds at all, the men were just dead. And yes, it had secured the victory for Albion, but at what cost? Arthur had always prided himself on being an honourable man and there was supposed to be honour in victory, but could there be in this one? A shiver ran up Arthur's spine as he thought about it. This was the magic his father had always warned him against and he had invited it into his castle, into his life, he'd even gone so far as to let it into his heart and that should be a mistake he would regret for the rest of his life. The worst part was that he knew, deep down, that wouldn't be the case. Even then, surrounded by the effects of this magic, images of Merlin's smile, or the way he looked at Arthur when it was just the two of them, like he thought the king was something wonderful, crept unbidden into his mind and replaced the image of Merlin standing in the midst of the battle, a hard look on his face, bringing death to their enemies.

"Sire?" Lancelot approached, breaking Arthur's reverie. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Arthur insisted. He tore his eyes from gazing at the random stone on which they'd set and met his knight's eyes. Lancelot raised his eyebrows a bit, looking entirely unconvinced but kept his mouth shut and didn't press the matter. Arthur mentally shook himself and turned his attention to the matter at hand. "Do we have a count yet?" he asked.

Lancelot nodded gravely. "We lost about a hundred of our men, sire," he said.

"And the Saxons?"

Lancelot took a breath before answering, "Well, Olsa is being held down in the camp. Leon and Kay are guarding him." This was good, Arthur trusted that those two men were capable of handling even the dastardliest of Saxon commanders. Lancelot continued, "And the count isn't quite completely yet, but it looks like it will be somewhere just upwards of a thousand Saxons dead."

"And how many of those were...."

"Nine hundred and forty are without wounds, sire," Lancelot supplied, here unable to meet the king's eye.

Arthur nodded and dismissed him saying, "Thank you, Lancelot." And then he was left alone with his thoughts again.

A few minutes later, someone behind Arthur cleared their throat in a way that was probably meant to be polite. Turning around, Arthur was unsurprised to see Merlin standing there. "Merlin," he greeted, trying to sound casual, "I was wondering where you'd gotten to."

Merlin smiled at that, but it wasn't his usual smile. This one didn't quite reach his yes, Arthur noticed because he couldn't help noticing. Unlike Arthur, he had changed out of his mail and into a casual, worn out shift that he fiddled nervously with the hem of as he spoke. "I was, uh, helping them load the bodies on the cart to be buried," he said. "It's much easier with magic than by hand, so. But I came to find you as soon as I got a minute. We should talk. About what happened. Out there." He jerked his head in the general direction of the battlefield as if Arthur wouldn't know what he was talking about. Then, the man seemed to realize he was babbling unnecessarily and he stopped talking, his mouth clamping shut quickly. But his eyes continued to search Arthur's face, nervously and beseechingly. He obviously knew Arthur had been spooked.

Arthur managed a small smile, after all, this was primarily a very happy day. "We won," he remarked, "and it's all thanks to you."

Merlin grinned, for real this time, but said, "I can't take the credit, Arthur. You were the commander here today. I merely followed you."

"Do you think it escaped my notice that you saved my life out there, Merlin?" Arthur demanded, shaking his head. Without really realizing it, Arthur found himself walking towards the other man, until there was only half a foot between them.

They stood there for a minute, both unable to look the other in the face. Then Merlin sighed, brought his eyes up to Arthur's and said, "You know, I'm not proud of what happened out there, Arthur." And Arthur, who had very adamantly been not thinking about that, could have sworn his heart stopped beating for a moment before Merlin continued, "I know that it was wrong. And it's not the sort of thing I would ever condone from my men in battle. That's why we needed Camelot's help in the first place. But, just, that man was going to kill you. He was so close to killing you and I saw it happening and I couldn't just stand there and do nothing when I had the power to stop him. And from there it was just so easy to keep going and finish..." His voice cracked on the last word as he trailed off and Arthur couldn't help but wrap his arms around the man's waist and pull him close, but Merlin kept on talking. "I was just thinking that if we didn't win, we wouldn't have anything left to fight for and I couldn't..." He buried his head in the crook of Arthur's neck, taking desperate breaths.

And Arthur found himself rubbing soothingly up and down Merlin's back with one arm and holding him as close as he possibly could with another. "It's okay," he whispered, "it's over, we won."

They stood there awhile, Arthur holding Merlin so close to his chest that Merlin was almost having trouble breathing, and let their proximity reassure themselves that they had both survived the battle and the enemy had been destroyed. Eventually, though, they were forced to let each other go and return to the camp and the people under their command. Arthur was still uncomfortable with how the battle had been won but he was grateful that there was still a Camelot to defend and, he reflected as he sat by the fire that night with Merlin sending him a small smile from across the flames, he couldn't bring himself to regret enlisting the Druids' help.

And right at that second, as Arthur smiled back, if someone had told him that more than fifteen hundred years after the Saxons had achieved total control over Albion and the name of Ambrosius Aurelianus had been all but lost, people would still remember King Arthur and his wizard Merlin and still tell of the day Arthur killed nine hundred and forty men at Badon, he might just have believed it.

At this point, in fact, they would have collapsed completely, had not Vortigern's successor Ambrosius, the sole surviving Roman, kept down the barbarian menace with the outstanding aid of the warlike Arthur. This Arthur is the hero of many wild tales among the Britons even in our own day, but assuredly deserves to be the subject of reliable history rather than of false and dreaming fable; for he was long the mainstay of his falling country, rousing to battle the broken spirit of his countrymen, and at length at the siege of Mount Badon, relying on the image of our Lord's Mother which he had fastened upon his arms, he attacked nine hundred of the enemy single-handed, and routed them with incredible slaughter.
--Gesta Regum Anglorum, c. 1120, William of Malmsbury.