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“Oh no,” says the creature, leaning back, a hand coming up to scratch the back of his head, fingers disappearing over short dark hair, “My bad.”

Arthur sits across the table from the fae creature, a game of cards between them. The creature looks surprisingly human, for someone the prince had to cross realms to meet, but it’s not hard to perceive the otherness of it. The blue eyes are sharp, with the occasional glint of gold, his ears peak out from a mop of dark hair and no human could have such defined cheekbones. The cupid bow lips, plump and pink, must be a trap.

This game between them seems like a trap too. Arthur came prepared, ready to barter a life for a life, but he had been warned by Gaius that the fae are tricky, and no challenge would come without a price. Arthur’s price, so far, appears to be bearing witness to the creatures’ fumbled attempts at playing.

“Do you even know how to play this?” Arthur asks, looking down at the card the fae puts down on the table. It’s a three of spades, a lower card would have been hard to find. “That was a lousy play.”

“Are you always a prat when you address those who hold what you need?” he asks in return, a smirk playing at the corner of its mouth as their eyes meet.

Arthur puts down a card. It had been difficult to scourge the forest surrounding Camelot to find the entrance to the fae world, but not so hard to find the fae creature afterwards. It had been standing not three steps from the passage, and when met with Arthur’s demand, it had nodded and claimed the game as the battleground for the prize. Arthur, familiar with the rules, had decided to risk it, prepared to fight his way through if the game was lost.

“Oh, would you look at that!” the creature says, eyes bright, dropping his cards on the table, “You’ve won! You’ve bested me, fair and square!”

“I... I did,” Arthur replies, frowning at the cards, and then at the creature. The fae are tricky, there has to be a catch somewhere, he can’t let his guard down. 

“Alas, I’ve been defeated!” the fey continues, his voice empathic, but ringing false. He sounds almost sarcastic, and it looks like he’s fighting back a smile. “How could I have not seen you for the champion that you are? A sharp player, at a game of my own choosing! Who would have foreseen this, when the looks don’t match the soul?”

“Right,” Arthur’s hand rests by his hip, curling around the hilt of his sword.

“And I, of course, have to be true to my word!” he raises his voice, “for we are nothing if bound to our promises.”

The creature waves a hand, and his eyes shine bright gold. Arthur is up on his feet, sword in hand, before he realizes the magic cast had done only what had been promised. Standing beside the fae is Leon, no worse for wear than usual, unbound, and confused.

“My lord,” he starts, glancing at the creature and then moving closer to the prince. “Art—”

“A lord, are you?” the creature says loudly, speaking over Leon, with incredible bad timing on his part. “Wasn’t aware I was dealing with royalty, no wonder you won the game!” he continues, as Arthur quickly checks Leon over, to make sure it’s him, and that he’s fine, “I know you royals do nothing else but sit on your arses and play cards while everyone else does the hard work.”

Arthur turns to the other again, frowning, “You can’t address me that way.”

“So terribly sorry, my lord ,” the fae says, in the same voice he had proclaimed his loss, and he bows, inelegantly and mockingly, eyebrows high on his forehead, eyes turned into half moons as he grins. “You did indeed just win a very difficult challenge! But perhaps it’s best to not push your luck in this place, I know a few fae who would call you fair game.”

“Right,” Arthur says, grabbing Leon’s arm and dragging him back to the portal, which is still visible from where they’ve played. 

He glances back right before stepping into it. The creature meets his eyes once more, and gives him a wink.

They only speak of it well on their way back, a last horse ride to reach the citadel, to avoid otherworldly spies.

“I must have just stepped into the mushroom circle during patrol,” Leon says, “One liked the way I tried to escape and decided to keep me in the court for hunting.”

“The challenger?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t know its name, and hadn’t offered his own.There is power in such knowledge.

“I couldn’t see their faces, they all wore hoods,” Leon answers, “but I think he came around once or twice, to steal my food.”

“Well,” Arthur says, shaking off his disappointment, and clasps him on the shoulder, “at least we’re done with that.”

The game, this time around, is draughts. The creature had brandished the board as soon as Arthur had stepped through the portal. 

“Our hostage for a game!” he proclaims, sitting down on the stump, assembling the game on the table they had used when playing for Leon. “The sweet lady goes if you win, stays if I do.”

“That’s not the deal,” Arthur says firmly, “last time, you said if you won, I’d take their place.”

“Well, last time I didn’t know you, now did I?” the fae finishes assembling the board, and motions for him to sit, “Why would I want a snotty lord when our current guest is far nicer?”

“Fine,” Arthur sits at last, “then I’m changing the conditions too. If I win, you also can’t kidnap any citizen of Camelot again.”

The fae gives him a long look and proclaims “A deal’s been struck. As a show of good faith, I’ll give you the first move.”

The game is as disastrous for the creature as the card game had been. By the time Arthur makes a queen, two thirds of his opponent’s pieces are gone. 

“That’s not good,” the fae says, tugging at his red scarf, but he doesn’t seem too concerned. He picks a black piece, moves it right into the path of one of Arthur’s white. 

“Why draughts?” Arthur asks, examining the board. The creature’s move doesn’t seem to be a trap, so he plays accordingly.

The fae shrugs, “Don’t get to play it much here,” he says, doing another ridiculous move.

“What do you do, beside kidnapping innocent people?” Arthur asks, as he plays again. Another two pieces removed from the board.

“Oh, you know,” the fae answers, grabbing one of his few remaining pieces, “human sacrifice, feast on their flesh. Sometimes I sew tunics from their hair.”

“What?” Arthur leans away, eyes darting all over the fae’s body, trying to spot which item could be made from human hair . Not the scarf, surely, the blue shirt? No, the brown jacket? Too sturdy.

The fae laughs, a joyful sound, mouth open in a grin, and Arthur can’t look at his clothes anymore. “Not really! I gather herbs, mostly. Got to do something, right? Ah,” he adds, before Arthur can reply, “forgot you’re a lord. You wouldn’t know.”

“I’ll have you know that I do my part,” Arthur snaps, “I train as hard as any knight, I have my duties.”

“Hmm,” is the reply the fae gives, as he carelessly moves his last piece on the board.

Arthur finishes the game in the next move, eyes on the fae's face.

“Oh, would you look at that, you’ve won once more!” the other says, “I’m a fool to test myself in a battle of wits against you, good sir, for clearly you’re not as dim as you look!”

“What—”

“Who could know the face of a toad would come with the brain of a man?” he exclaims louder, “A brute you may appear, but surprisingly clever! Bested me once again, will I never learn?”

“Now hang on—”

“My word is my bound,” the fae continues, with a wave of his hand, his eyes as gold as Arthur had recalled during the month that passed between their meetings. Guinevere steps in from thin air, looking around before she spots Arthur, rushing to him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, grabbing her by the elbows, giving her a quick look. As with Leon, she just looks a little wore out, but whole. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“My heart breaks, for the fair lady was such a delightful company,” the fae says, hand coming up to his chest, “But I gave my word. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you,” Guinevere says.

“And congratulations to the lucky winner,” the fae holds out a hand.

Arthur hesitates only for a moment before he shakes it. The  fae's fingers are long and calloused, and hold his palm in a soft, warm grip. “You’re fair in defeat,” he concedes.

The fae laughs, and is still smiling as he leans in, adding, “Luckier than you is a hard feat to achieve, my lord ,” he holds his gaze, his eyes too blue, “for not everyone here would be so receptive to a knight of Camelot.”

Arthur stills. “It’s a position of great honour.”

“You’re killing magic,” comes the reply, as neutral as one can be, but for the first time, Arthur sees him as something lethal. “There’s no honour in murder.”

“There is in protecting those who can’t defend themselves,” Arthur says calmly, his grip on the other’s hand firm.

“I admit there is some honour in what you’ve done here,” the fae tilts his head a bit, “for a lord to sacrifice himself for a servant, that is quite a feat.”

“A life is a life,” Arthur replies, “no matter their status.” 

The fae's grin is wide, and the most natural he’s seen so far. He gives another bow and, still holding Arthur’s hand, twists it to lay a kiss on the back of his hand. “Farewell, my lord, my lady,” he backs away, giving Guinevere a short bow as well. 

“Goodbye,” Guinevere replies, picking up her skirts and moving to the path. Arthur follows behind her, hand by his sword, looking over his shoulder. You can’t be too cautious with these creatures, he tells himself, as he takes in the fae one last time.

“He visited me where they kept me,” Guinevere tells him when they reach the castle. “I recognized his voice.”

“You spoke to him?” Arthur asks, surprised. He watches her. “What did he say?”

“He, hum, he asked about you.”

“About me? What did he ask?”

“He asked if I knew the lord... the lord prat who had saved the knight,” Guinevere says in a rish, eyes darting to meet his own, “and wanted to know more about you.”

“Did you answer him?”

“I told him you were an honourable, brave man,” Guinevere replies, “and that I would not betray you.”

Arthur is touched, despite himself. “Thank you.”

“He told me not to worry,” she adds, “that if you were so admirable then you’d come for me.”

Arthur nods, his right hand closing in a fist. The skin on the back of his hand, where those fae lips had touched, still tingles. He had known those were a trap.

“You broke your word,” Arthur says when he crosses the clearing, a few weeks later, and sees the fae waiting for him, already sitting down by the table. “You promised no more kidnappings.”

The creature looks up, giving him a shrug, “I promised I wouldn’t kidnap anyone. Not my fault if someone else did. What’s your bargain this time?”

“If you win, you keep both of us,” Arthur says, sitting down, “and if I win, we’re both free to go, and none of you will take anymore of my people.”

The fae leans closer, with a frown. “I don’t command those here as you do your own in Camelot. I can only answer for myself.”

“Then you have to swear to not induce anyone into doing this again,” Arthur insists.

“Sure,” the other agrees easily, “and you tell your people to stop stepping into pathways to this world, maybe? That sounds like a good idea. It’s not a good place for a picnic.”

“Then we have the deal. What’s the game?”

The fae grins, holding in a fist over the table with long wooden picks. He holds them straight up, and then quickly lets go, so they fall sideways all over each other. “The rules are simple. You pick up the sticks one by one, without moving the others. If you do, you lose your turn. The one with the most sticks wins.”

The rules are simpler now than they were in the previous games, but the action seems complicated. “Go first.”

“You sure?” he asks, and at Arthur’s nod he turns to the table, a frown of concentration on his face as he gently grabs one of the sticks. His tongue peaks out a little, pressed against his lip, and Arthur looks down at the table, swallowing. He manages one piece just fine, but the second attempt goes wrong. Another stick shakes slightly, and he drops it off. “Your turn.”

It’s harder than it looks, to get the sticks out one by one without disturbing the other, but Gaius deserves the patience it takes.

“What do you do for fun? Beside practicing with your knights and rescuing people from the tricky fae lands,” the other asks, chin resting on an elbow. A lightstream pours between the tree tops, his hair gaining a warm, brown hue, his cheekbone striking, his eyes almost as gold as when he releases his prisoners.

Arthur has to look down. He needs to focus on the game. “What do you care?”

“Just making conversation,” he replies, tone slightly hurt. “Do you agree with the king?”

“I agree that silence is a virtue,” Arthur says evenly.

“Don’t be a prat, I mean about magic,” the fae insists. “Don’t you think he’s wrong?”

“That’s treason,” Arthur glances at him.

The fae sinks down on his stump, elbows on his knees. “The old physician gave me his actual opinion.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“To speak for yourself?”

“Magic, you idiot.” Arthur says, exasperated, and a stick moves when it shouldn’t. 

The fae takes his time thinking over his choices. “So are you, if you want to be”

Arthur nods, conceding his point. “But anyone can match my skill.”

“Can they?” the fae replies, as he picks a stick, in a fast, quick gesture that leaves the others still. “How young were you, when you started training? How many can eat as well as you do, as often as you do, and then rest on silk sheets? Do you have time to train weekly, daily? Does everyone else?”

“Well—”

“No fight is fair,” the fae says, looking at him, “there’s always someone at advantage. Someone will always be more dangerous.”

“But magic can be far more dangerous,” Arthur argues, “the power that comes with—”

“Everyone has some amount of magic.” The fae hasn’t looked away, “Even you carry it. Magic is nature.”

“In the wrong hands—”

“Then shouldn’t you judge the hands, rather than the ability?”

“My fa- king will never make that distinction.”

“Will you?” 

Arthur doesn’t answer, brows furrowed as he thinks. The fae doesn’t wait, and loses his turn. There are five sticks now, and removing the one on top will free all others. Arthur has won already, no matter if he makes this move, but he takes it anyway.

One by one he collects the sticks.

“You’ve won once more,” the fae says, looking up at the sky, “oh no, woe me. What does it say of me, to be struck down thrice by a mindless beast?”

“Really—”

“But a deal is a deal!” he says once more. At a wave of his hand, eyes shining, Gaius steps into the picture. The old man looks at the table, then at the creature, and finally at Arthur, a single eyebrow high on his forehead. 

“My lord,” he says calmly.

“Listen,” the fae says to Gaius, as he gets up “you must be sick of dealing with this royal prat. Tell you what, you can play me now, and stay, wouldn’t you want to stay?”

“Dear boy,” Gaius says, far kinder than Arthur would expect, “there’s an entire world out there.”

“You promised his freedom,” Arthur says firmly.

The fae smiles, but it lacks its usual life, “And my word is my bound. Go.”

Arthur steps closer, and holds out a hand for him. “It was an interesting game. I had never seen it.”

“Ah, beginner’s luck, then,” the fae takes his hand, giving it a shake. Their touch lingers.

“Or perhaps a clumsy host shouldn’t suggest such a precise game.” Arthur says, “Only an idiot would think that was a smart choice.”

“That’s an odd way to be humble,” the fae replies, “To call me dumb so no one would have to be smart to beat me.”

“No offense to you, dear boy,” Gaius says, making both of them jump, “but perhaps we should be on our way. I’ve overstayed my welcome, I believe.”

“Nonsense,” The creature says, his fingers dragging on Arthur’s as he retreats his hand. “You could stay as long as you wish.”

“Well, I wish for my bed, then,” Gaius says. “Shall we?”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur goes with him towards the portal, hand closed and pressed against his side, phantom touch still on his fingertips.

“What did you make of it?” he asks Gaius as they retrieve his bag of herbs, minutes away from the portal.

“Of what, sire?”

“The creature,” Arthur says, turning to look at him, bag over his own shoulder. “The fae, with the games.”

“Sire,” Gaius says slowly, eyebrow impossibly high, “you are aware, of course, that the young man we’ve just spoken to is human.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking over his shoulder at the mushroom circle. “Of course, yes.”

“You can’t blame me for this one,” the fae- the man says when a week later Arthur returns. The pathway lined with crisp autumn leaves is starting to look too familiar at this point. “I think no one could stop her from coming in and demanding an audience.”

“You’re probably right,” Arthur sits across from him once more, eyes fixed on the other. “But some would be upset if she weren’t to return.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Not you?”

Arthur lifts one shoulder in the pretense of a shrug. “Don’t let her know.”

“Add it to the bargain and we’ll see,” he says, eyes bright with amusement.

“If I lose, I’ll take her place,” Arthur says, hand resting on his knee, “and if—”

“No,” the man says, crossing his arms, “I told you I have no need of your pratishness around here for all of eternity.”

“You can’t keep her,” Arthur says. He doubts he’ll lose the game, but if he does, he doesn’t wish to harm this man in order to free her. He can escape on his own, he thinks, but only with Morgana securely away. “Ask for something else.”

The man looks back at him, thinking it over, “I want a lemon pie.”

“What?”

“You’re right, I want ten lemon pies, you’ve got the money for it,” the man nods, “haven’t had them in ages.”

Morgana’s worth ten lemon pies, isn’t that something. Well, he seems to rank below that, so perhaps he shouldn’t mock her. Arthur nods along. “Done. If I win, she and I walk free, and I get one honest answer from you.”

“You think I’ve been dishonest so far?” 

“No,” Arthur replies, “but if so, then it should be no issue.”

The man thinks it over. “As long as answering doesn't endanger anyone.”

“I accept those terms. The game?”

The man responds by placing an elbow on the table, holding up his hand towards Arthur.

“You could at least pretend you want to win,” Arthur replies, but doesn’t really argue, mimicking the position and grabbing the other’s hand.

“Best out of three?”

Arthur nods, only because it might drag this a little longer. “On your mark?”

“Three, two, one…”

Arthur puts some strength into it, trying no to hurt the man, but is surprised to find their arms still, hands clasped in the middle, not having moved an inch. Arthur gives it a little more strength, but the man is like a stone wall. A look up, to see if he’s making too much of an effort, finds his eyes glowing gold.

“Hey!” Arthur exclaims, “no magic, that’s not fair.”

“And our strengths are evenly matched otherwise, you think?” the man replies, smirking as he pushes his hand a bit, forcing Arthur to lose ground. “Besides, we didn’t agree I couldn’t use it.”

“You—” he starts, but the other doesn’t let him finish, suddenly pushing hard enough that Arthur’s knuckles touch the table. The strength goes away just as fast, leaving their hands in their clasp, resting on the table. The man laughs, and Arthur’s heart is pounding against his ribs as he stares at their hands.

Arthur straightens them up, glaring at the other.

“First win is mine, but as a good host, I will do as you bid,” the man says. His thumb, for a moment, strokes over Arthur’s knuckle. “No magic in the remaining challenges.”

“Good,” Arthur says. “Two more to go.”

“Unless I win the next round,” the man grins cheekily, and Arthur contains the impulse to reach across the table.

“Are you sure you want to keep her around?”

“I would like those pies,” the man laments, “they don’t make them here.”

“How long have you been here?” Arthur asks, curious.

“Oh, ages,” the man says, “Some years now.”

Arthur looks him over, deducting the man should be around his own age. No one stays that long in fae land without eating or drinking. “Are you trapped here?”

The man gives him an odd look, and almost smiles. “Not the way you think. Next round?”

Their hands are still clasped together between them. “On your mark,” Arthur says, and as soon as the countdown is done, he presses hard, the other’s arm and hands landing on the table in less than a second.

“Oh,” he says, a little breathlessly, and when Arthur meets his gaze he finds it warming him up inside. The other shifts his elbow, almost testing Arthur’s grip, but without any effort to escape it. “Knew you were a brute.”

“What, did it hurt?” Arthur asks, “Figures you’d be as weak as a dandelion. No wonder you need magic.”

“So I should use it again now?”

“Absolutely not,” Arthur says.

“Hmm, too bad you can’t tell me what to do,” the man says, smiling.

“I don’t believe you’d listen anyway,” Arthur says, pulling their hands up at last.

“Yeah, you’d have to say something worth listening to,” the other is still smiling cheekily. Arthur can’t understand how so much spark is trapped in this place.

“Last round?”

The man nods, and counts down. Arthur starts pushing, but takes his time, slowly pressing on the other’s hand. He doesn’t look away from those blue eyes, leaning closer, as he watches the man’s face react, the hitch of his breath, the biting at his lower lip, his cheeks spotting red, and those eyes, brighter now than when they glow. 

At last Arthur presses his hand on the table again, landing them carefully.

“I win,” he says, barely containing his pleasure over it.

“Yeah,” the other nods, sounding just as pleased “you did. I mean—” his demeanor changes, voice louder, “How could I lose yet another time? Oh, the hubris! I can’t bear the shame of another loss, to such a clotpole, no less!”

“Clotpole?” 

“And I almost had it this time! Failed to win against a bear of a man, could there be a bigger disgrace? Say no more, have your prize!” he waves his free hand, and Morgana appears beside them.

Arthur pulls his hand free, getting up. “Here’s the damsel in distress.”

“Don’t gloat, it doesn’t suit you,” she says, lifting her chin. “And I am not in distress. Emrys,” at this she turns to the other man, “I wish to stay.”

The man shrugs. “That’s not for me to—”

“Emrys?” Arthur asks, looking between them, and he crosses his arms. “You told her your name?”

Emrys looks at him again, and gives him a shrug as well. “Emrys is what I’m called, the same way you’re called a prince.”

“How did you...” Arthur trails off, surprised. He doesn’t recall sharing that detail. He turns to glare at Morgana.

“It wasn’t me,” she says, “In any case, you can go along now. I’m staying.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I came to rescue you,” Arthur says, and uncrosses his arms to grab at her wrist, “Come on.”

“No!” she yaks her arm out of his hold, “I came here on my own volition, and I want to stay! There’s so much to learn,” she turns to Emrys again. “You can’t make me go.”

Emrys shakes his head. “You don’t want to be a prisoner here.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and surprisingly Morgana is the first to turn away. “I don’t want to be a prisoner anywhere ,” she spits out, facing the portal and walking towards it. 

“One moment,” Emrys touches Arthur’s arm before he can follow her. “You still have a question to ask.”

“Right,” Arthur looks at him, having forgotten it with all the comotion. “Why are you trapped here?”

“Oh,” Emrys is surprised by the question, and lowers his hand. “I thought… alright. I’ve always had magic, I was born with it. A few years back, my village started getting suspicious, and my mother feared for me. Your king killed my father, at the beginning of the Purge, and she feared the same fate for me, but where could I go? Uther’s influence reaches beyond his kingdom, and we both knew it wouldn’t spare me.” He pauses, shifting his weight on his feet, and looks at Arthur again. “The fae agreed to host me for my protection, in exchange for my services.”

“Because you’re magic,” it’s Morgana who speaks, coming up to them again. “You’re here to be protected from Uther’s law.”

“I’m here for my safety,” Emrys confirms. 

“And I can’t be?” Morgana asks, her tone almost shaky.

“What?” Arthur asks, confused, “Why would you need—”

“I have magic,” she tells him, voice shaking now, but she lifts her chin in defiance. “I’m in just as much danger. I want to stay.”

Arthur looks at her, wide eyed, heart pounding. Morgana, a witch? “If you stay,” he says, trying to gather his thoughts, “the king will assume you’ve been kidnapped.”

“And he could listen to you,” Emrys says, “you could change everything.”

Morgana lets out a dry laugh, “He doesn’t listen to me at all.”

“He cares about what you think,” Arthur says. “And he cares about you. If you stay, he will not allow me to barter for your return again, he’ll have everything in here killed until we get you again.”

“Fine,” she says, crossing her arms, “Let’s go then, before dear Uther decides to burn out the entire woods out of spite.”

“Maybe one day we’ll meet again,” Emrys says, as he watches them cross the portal.

Arthur pauses, one foot already on the other way. He looks at Emrys, and his long, graceless body, at his otherworldly face. “Could you leave, if you wished so?”

“I’m bound by servitude,” Emrys replies, “and by common law. I’ve taken my fill of food and drink.”

Arthur nods, having figured as much. 

Emrys tilts his head a bit, giving him a smile. “In another world, we might have met in different circumstances.”

“I’m sure I’d find you just as ridiculous,” Arthur replies, and when he leaves, it’s to the sound of Emry’s laugh.

Morgana keeps taking in shaky breaths, her eyes red and watery, as they walk towards the horses. Arthur hesitates, unsure of how to offer comfort, and lands a hand on the top of her head, patting it awkwardly.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he vows. Morgana might be a pain in the ass, but he’s always considered her the annoying sister he never had. Apparently, magic doesn’t change that.

“Get off,” she says, but she leans a little closer to his side. “I know that.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Arthur asks, glancing at her.

“I didn’t really know it,” she says, “not until just now. Emry’s magic, and you still like him.”

“I do not,” Arthur says quickly.

“Really?” Morgana asks, sounding more like herself, raising an eyebrow, “Pity for him, then. He kept talking about you, while teaching me about magic.”

“He did? And what did he have to say?” Arthur asks, and as soon as he sees her smirk he adds “Nevermind, I don’t care.”

“You’re right, I can’t see why I thought you might care for him.” she answers dryly, stopping as they reach the horses.

Morgana ignores the hand he offers to help her up on the horse, climbing up on her own and riding it in stride, as a man would. 

“I don’t,” he insists, holding up the reins for her.

She gives him a long, judgmental look, before her face softens into something patronizing. She leans down and pats his cheek. “Arthur, you darling buffoon. What are you going to do about this?”

Emrys isn’t waiting for him, a week later when Arthur steps into fae land again. Without his presence, the empty clearing feels eerie, but the fact he’s as nervous as he was when he first came for Leon doesn’t help. 

The forest on this side comes with silence. There’s no wind rustling through the trees, no birds finding nests, just the isolated sounds of crushing leaves with every step he takes. He walks straightforward, to be sure of his way back, for what feels like ten minutes before he calls out “Emrys?”

“Emrys is not available,” a voice comes from behind him, but there’s nothing there when he turns around.

“Wh-”

“But perhaps I could be of service.”

Arthur turns around again. It’s obvious now, that Emrys is not a fae, because whatever is in front of him must be it. The fae's skin is blue, their ears pointy, the eyes too big for the face.

“You would have my thanks, if you’d lead me to your court.”

“Everywhere is court,” the fae replies, sliding closer, “why are you here?”

“I’m here to barter for someone’s freedom.”

“Ah,” the fae's eyes glint, and their eyes are sharp, “I know you. The famous warrior, who’s bested Emry’s four times now. He did say you look as smart as an ass.”

“I do not!”

“I concur,” the fae moves closer, “that would have been an insult to the ass. Now, a man of your intelligence and class, should be speaking to a lord.” The fae turns, walking away, and Arthur is quick to follow it.

He keeps track of the path, of every twist and turn, but something tells him the way back will keep shifting the further he goes. He’s taken to a clearing, heavily decorated with wooden sculptures. There are a few fae around, looking similar to the one who led him, except for one, sitting in one of two thrones, who is taller, with a crown upon their head. 

“My lady,” the fae who led him bows to her, “I bring to you the human lord, who has won four matches against Emrys.”

“Ah” she says from the throne, resting her chin on her hand. “Your fame precedes you, sir.”

“An honour to meet you, my lady,” Arthur bows. “Can I enquire where Emrys is?”

She looks at another fae, who nods and leaves. “He’ll be around shortly.”

Arthur nods. “Thank you.”

She’s smiling as she looks at him, but it doesn’t feel like a kindness. “I have heard much about you. It takes great luck to visit us so many times and hold on to the freedom to leave.”

“Your people have been wonderful hosts.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I’m sure.”

“What do— Oh, it’s you,” Emrys stands still by the tree line, holding a basket filled with plants. “What are you doing here?”

“My lady,” Arthur addresses her again, “I’m here to barter for Emry’s freedom.”

“You’re what ?”

They both ignore him. Her face shows nothing. “I believe you know the rules. What do you offer?”

“If you win, you’ll keep us both,” Arthur says, “I’m a warrior like none you’ve seen, and an adept leader. You would find me an asset in your court.”

“You dollophead, you can’t-”

“And if you win?”

“If I win,” Arthur continues, not daring to look away from her. “Emrys and I walk free, and you shall take no more guests who do not wish to stay.”

“That’s not a fair trade,” the Lady says, “even more so when your wit and strength are of such legend. You’ve defeated our dear Emrys fourfold, and he has told us tales of your wisdom, your strategy, and your luck in games.”

Arthur does glare at him now, and Emrys has the decency to look like he regrets overselling him.

“And even more importantly,” she continues, “Emrys is not merely our guest, but a powerful wizard, and very dear to our hearts. Should he leave, it would cost us.”

“I wouldn’t dare to presume your loss, fair lady,” Arthur speaks calmly, “but I will sweeten the failure. If I win, I will also swear to allow passage of yours in Camelot, and to lift the ban on magic. As heir prince to the throne, this is something I can do, when my turn to reign arrives.”

She nods, passively, “And in my victory, another clause. If I win, Prince, none will be allowed to barter for either of you. Your lives will be mine.”

Arthur hesitates, and nods. “I agree to these terms.”

“So do I. Are you familiar with archery?”

"I am." 

"I have yet to meet my match," she says pleasantly, at last getting up from the throne. "A single shot for victory." 

"I do not doubt your skill with a bow, my lady, so I must insist on a second round in case of a draw." 

"Very well." she twirls a hand, and a longbow grows from her throne for her to pluck. "Do you have your own?" 

"I have brought none with me."

"I see," she says, as she materializes another. "Emrys did say you kept your wisdom hidden beneath a veneer of idiocity." 

"Did he now," Arthur says, sending Emrys another glare. 

"Allow me, my lady," Emrys says, and they both watch him go to her, get the bow, and move to Arthur's side to deliver it to him. "What are you doing?" he whispers accusingly. 

"I figured that was rather obvious, but I shouldn't expect much from you, should I?" Arthur replies in a low tone, before raising his voice again. "Shall we, my lady?" 

She comes down the throne until she stands before him. "Over there," she motions with a hand, and the path clears, fae and tree moving aside, and at a few yards distance, a target grows from the ground, as precise as any found in Camelot's training grounds. 

She holds out a hand, and from the earth sprouts grow quickly into arrows, four in total, and she plucks one. "As our guest, you may have the first shot." 

"Thank you, my lady." 

Arthur plucks an arrow of his own, and tests the bow on it, getting used to the bendiness of the wood, the strength of the rope. Then without hesitation, he pulls back the arrow, and aims at the target. He takes a deep breath, and releases the arrow. 

It flies straight all the way through, and hits the target on the smallest ring. It’s not dead center.

“You are skilled,” the lady remarks.

“Thank you, my lady,” he says politely, as he stares at what could be his fatal error. A hand grabs at his wrist, and he glances at the side to see Emrys, looking at him with concern.

The Lady takes her time setting up her pose, drawing the bow and aiming at the target. Arthur’s arrow is still in, leaving just enough room to hit the bull’s eye without an obstacle. She quickly shoots, aiming upwards.

“Oh no,” the Lady says, deadpan, as the arrow flies into the sky. “My bad.”

“What?” Arthur asks, dumfounded.

“You truly are too skilled,” she continues, lowering the bow, “How it saddens me to lose the one human who kept setting all my other human pets free. Oh, what a disgrace.”

The arrow lands fast right by her feet, but she doesn’t react to it at all, still deadpan as she continues. “But let it be known I keep my promises. Go, be quick, before my heart gives out.”

“You don’t want me around?” Emrys askes, insulted.

“I’m bound to my word, dear Emrys,” the Lady says, sounding just as honest as he did when losing a game, “You are free from us.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Arthur says, and it’s his turn to grab at Merlin’s wrist. “Let’s go.”

“I can’t believe—” Emrys starts, but he follows Arthur’s lead until they reach the edge of the clearing, and then he’s the one guiding the way to the portal. Arthur had been right, the path is not the same, and it seems much shorter. The Lady really must want them gone.

Emrys stops before they cross the pathway. “It’s been so long since I’ve been out there.”

“You’re probably useless.” Arthur agrees, “It’s going to be a nightmare to fit you in.”

Emrys looks away from the portal to watch him. “What if I don’t want to go with you?”

Arthur is still holding his wrist. “Did you hear me say you had to? You can go wherever you want.”

“Really?”

“I said you’d be free, you idiot, what do you think that means?” Arthur asks. “Besides, if you go on your way, I’m more than capable of eating the lemon pie waiting for me in my chambers.”

“Hmm,” Emrys smiles, seemingly against his will. “Better not, you really don’t need all that filling.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Arthur asks, trying to sound threatening.

It doesn’t work, because Emrys just grins, and goes into the portal, no longer apprehensive. “Not at all, my lord !”

Arthur puffs out, following him across the realms. Emrys is waiting on the other side, holding still, a grin on his face as he takes in the familiar world. He’s still smiling when his eyes land on Arthur again. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You really are dim, aren’t you?” Emrys asks, coming close.

“You’ve told an entire realm otherwise,” Arthur replies, unable to look away.

Emry’s lips are soft when they press on Arthur’s, gentle and hesitant, barely giving Arthur time to kiss back before he pulls away. He had known from the start that those lips were a trap.

“I’m Arthur,” he says, cupping Emrys’ cheek.

“Merlin,” he replies, grinning.

“What a ridiculous name,” Arthur says, his heart booming in his chest, “it suits you.”

Merlin laughs when he kisses him again, and as they race on horseback towards Camelot, and as he tastes lemon pie for the first time in years.

“This is so good,” he says, mouth filled with food, somehow smiling still, “I’m never leaving now.”

“Oh no,” Arthur deadpans, as he shoves his own plate towards Merlin, “My bad.”