Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    The Plains of Blood were living up to the name, Arthur thought vaguely as he fought off two masked elves. The ground around him was littered with bodies, most still warm. Others twitched, clinging desperately to life even as their blood leaked from them, dying the ground an even darker red. From his place in the battle, Arthur couldn’t tell who was winning, but it was clear that both sides – human and elf – had sustained losses.

    After dealing with the two elves, Arthur stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow. His helmet had been knocked from his head some time ago, and he knew it was only luck that was keeping him alive. His hair, bright and blonde in the sunlight, made him an easy target for any elven archers still alive. One missed block from a sword would mean his death. He had a collection of nicks and cuts from where he hadn't been quite fast enough - the largest wound was a shallow cut across his forearm where an elf had managed to get him with a dagger before he killed her.

    Around him, the fighting continued, but no one was attacking him. They all appeared far too busy with each other. Arthur took full advantage of the respite, breathing in the dry air that tasted of blood in deep, laboured breaths. He glanced towards the sky, and caught sight of the war balloon making its slow way across the sky. He smiled grimly.

    The elves were defending a strategic town called Rosias, nestled in the Blood Canyon. Uther Pendragon, Arthur’s father, had decided that if they couldn’t take it, the town would be destroyed. The balloon Arthur could see approaching the town carried a bomb, a rather explosive piece of technology created by the trolls serving the King. Once it landed on the town… Well, there would be no more Rosias.

    Arthur was still watching the balloon with a satisfied expression when a roar shook the earth and made him flinch. He spun around, hand clenching the hilt of his sword. He barely heard the cheers of the elves as he gaped at the enormous beast suspended in the air.

    A bloody dragon. It shimmered like a ruby in the sunlight, its massive wings beating the air in huge, lazy strokes. Even from here, Arthur could see the bright yellow eyes that glittered with malice and an intelligence that had no business belonging to a beast. The dragon roared again, a small burst of fire spouting from its open mouth. Giant, gleaming white fangs flashed, and Arthur felt dread pool in his gut.

    It swooped lower, lips drawn back from fangs in a display so threatening Arthur felt himself begin to tremble. The dragon snarled, low in its throat, and Arthur watched as several of his men turned tail and fled, panic clear on their pale faces. Only one man stood where he was, hurling insults and firing arrow after arrow at the beast.

    Valiant.

    Generally speaking, Arthur didn’t like the man. He was brazen, crass and all too quick to hit/kill things first and then ask questions. But in this moment, Arthur felt a grudging sort of respect for him. Respect for a stupidly brave man. That respect lasted until the dragon swiped at him lazily with a paw, revealing claws as sharp as the creature’s fangs.

    A shrill scream rent the air. Arthur looked away from the dragon, abruptly remembering he was right in the middle of a war, and had no time to stare slack jawed at mythical creatures. His eyes landed on the source of the scream – a young elf woman, staring in horror at the war balloon making its steady way across the sky. Someone else had finally noticed it, then.

    She turned to the dragon and narrowed her eyes in apparent concentration. She didn’t appear to be aware of her surroundings. One of his men snuck up on her, raising his sword high and bringing it down on her neck. Arthur had the oddest urge to yell a warning, but simply watched the beheading with a fast beating heart.

    He heard an agonized shout. Why were there so many people screaming? They were all going to die, one way or another. A shorter man – human, Arthur’s shocked mind told him – rushed at the soldier who had killed the elf woman, and in a flurry of frantic attacks stabbed the soldier clean through the chest.

    The dark-haired man fell to his knees beside the fallen elf, cradling the still body gently and ignoring the gasping, dying man beside him. He was, Arthur was astonished to see, crying. Crying over an elf. He smoothed back the elf's hair, mindless of the blood that coated his fingers, his hands, and dripped onto his clothes. Arthur watched the almost dead elf – how was she still alive? Her head was almost cleanly cut off – raise a hand and place it against the man’s face. Her lips moved once, and then she died.

    Arthur wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed, so he turned and walked mechanically away. He glanced around, noting that the dragon had moved and was now hovering near the balloon, as though trying to stop it. But the beast never actually touched it, and after a moment it swerved away, shrieking in anger.

    Other creatures – griffins, wyverns, drakes, hippogriffs – suddenly appeared as though summoned. The air was filled with flying creatures of legend, and to say Arthur was surprised they didn’t attack was an understatement. Instead, they all headed towards the town of Rosias.

    Arthur was by now very confused. The elves clearly had more power than they had expected, so why weren’t the elves pressing the advantage? They could wipe out Uther’s entire army – instead, they were fighting as though the two sides were on equal footing.

    Freya?

    Arthur gasped at the intrusion, slamming up mental walls. Everyone, from the lowliest servant to the King himself, knew how to guard their thoughts. It was, as Uther said, so that they knew their minds were their own. If people guarded their thoughts, they wouldn’t fall prey to magic.

    His walls were batted aside as easily as if they were made of feathers. Where is Freya? the voice demanded. And who are you?

    I should be asking you the same question, Arthur thought furiously. Get out of my head, sorcerer!

    Only if you tell me where Freya is, the voice replied stubbornly. You know.

    She’s probably dead, Arthur thought back nastily. Like you all should be.

    There was silence, but Arthur could still feel the presence in his mind. He got the feeling the sorcerer would be glaring at him, if they could see each other.

    You didn’t kill her. She was avenged. There was no questioning in the voice. It was as though the sorcerer was telling him about the weather. Why are you doing this? Emotion made the voice angry. Why are you letting this happen, Arthur Pendragon?

    Why aren’t you stopping it? Arthur snapped back. The presence vanished, and his head was his own once again. Arthur took a calming breath and looked around, carefully rebuilding his mental walls. The flying beasts hovered next to the dragon, and they all watched as the war balloon approached Rosias.

    Arthur held his breath. This was it. If the bomb landed, the war was as good as won. The elves would be annihilated. The bomb fell, as though in slow motion, and when it hit, the resounding explosion made the earth shudder. Arthur stumbled forward, and was awed by what he saw.

    Rosias was gone. The bomb had rent a great black scar where the town had been, and the trees left standing where burning. Arthur had never seen such destruction, and the power of the bomb was amazing. With it, all evil would fall before the might of Camelot.

    The dragon howled. Arthur jerked his eyes away from the ruins and stared at the creature. It shot a great plume of fire into the air, and suddenly the air was filled with fire. Arthur stared in horror as fire shot from the backs of almost every flying beast.

    The elves. The bomb had been meant to kill them. And yet, on the back of each of the griffins, the drakes, the hippogriffs and the wyverns, sat at least one elf. The flying creatures hadn’t been an attack force. They’d been a rescue.

    As if on cue, the voice filtered into his mind again. I will always save before I kill, the voice thought fiercely. Your father has engineered a war that will last until we are all dead. I will not let that happen, Arthur Pendragon. You can tell your father that Emrys will not let that happen.

    The creatures left, screaming and shrieking and generally making a great deal of noise. The elves still on the battlefield ran and leapt into the air. They were caught by beasts and elves alike, hauled up to safety. Arthur caught sight of the dark-haired man sitting behind a fair-haired elf, resolutely clutching the dead elf's body. The last to go was the dragon. With a final roar, it flew passed Arthur, and he caught sight of a single figure seated on the dragon’s back.

    “Emrys,” he muttered, trying the name on his tongue.

    “You said,” Arthur snapped without preamble as he entered his father’s tent, “that there were no such things as dragons.”

    Uther looked up from his reports. “There aren’t.”

    “Then explain to me what it was I just saw.”

    “An illusion,” replied his father calmly. “I’m sure it was nothing more than an illusion.”

    An illusion. That made sense. But Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong. An illusion wouldn’t have been able to make the earth tremble with its roar. An illusion could not have been so detailed. An illusion couldn’t murder a man.

    “No,” Arthur replied firmly. His father looked back up. “No, that doesn’t explain it.”

    Uther sighed. “Arthur,” he said patiently, “there are no dragons left. And even if there were, a Dragonlord would be needed to control it.”

    Arthur took a calming breath. “Saying dragons don’t exist is very different from saying there are none left," he pointed out. "I suppose you’re going to tell me there are no Dragonlords, either.”

    “Of course not,” Uther scoffed. “I killed the last one three years ago.”

    “Of course,” Arthur muttered through gritted teeth. He regarded his father silently for a moment. “Who is Emrys?” he asked abruptly, and was rewarded with the sight of his father actually freezing.

    “Where did you hear that name?” Uther finally asked, his eyes alight.

    “Because apparently he’s not going to let you kill all the elves,” Arthur continued conversationally.

    Uther stood up, and Arthur belatedly remembered that even if his father was getting on in years – the silver hair was evidence of this – he was still a King and a warrior. “Where did you hear that name?” Uther repeated, a commanding note entering his voice.

    Arthur swallowed. “A sorcerer got past my walls,” he said, not admitting that he’d forgotten to put them up in the first place or that the sorcerer apparently hadn’t thought much of his walls. “He told me Emrys wouldn’t let you kill his people.”

    “He was there and he didn’t attack,” his father muttered, looking almost pleased. “I would never have pegged him for a coward.”

    “Father,” Arthur said, “who is Emrys?”

    “Emrys is the strongest sorcerer to ever live.” His father sounded excited. “He is a legend. According to the texts, he is magic.”

    Arthur could see why his father was excited. “So if you kill him…”

    “I kill magic,” Uther finished almost gleefully. “Magic will be destroyed and peace shall return to Camelot.”

    “But how are you going to find him?” Arthur couldn’t help but ask. “If he’s a powerful sorcerer, won’t he be difficult to find?”

    “He was there today,” Uther muttered. “I’m sure he will come again if we attack another village. He’ll try and save his people.”

    “You think a trap will work, father?” Arthur ignored the sick feeling in his stomach. Another village full of innocents. But no, they were elves. Magic breeders. He took a breath. Magic was evil. It hurt and it tainted. Those that used magic eventually went mad.

    “I do. Now leave me. I have things to do, and I’m sure you are tired.”

    “Yes father. Thank you. Good day.”

    “Good day Arthur.”

Chapter Text

    Kilgharrah landed just inside the borders of Ealdor, the earth shuddering beneath his weight. Merlin climbed down, his face a blank mask. Memories of the battle swirled in his head. He remembered the foolishly brave idiot who'd decided to fire arrows at Kilgharrah, as if tiny wooden sticks would have made any difference to the dragon. He remembered Freya's terror stricken message that had been abruptly cut off. He had hoped, at the time, that she'd just been distracted.

    He remembered walls that had been nothing against his magic. He remembered Arthur Pendragon. He remembered the deep seated hatred and fear he'd felt in the prince's mind. He remembered shouting, Kilgharrah roaring - a call for help that so many had answered. The hippogriffs and the griffins had been the first to respond, and then the drakes and the wyverns had come. Merlin was sure that this display of power had done little to dissuade his people from the ridiculous notion that he was magic itself, and he let out a tired sigh.

    “Are you not pleased with your actions, young warlock?” the dragon asked, interrupting Merlin's inner musings. “I could have destroyed them all.”

    “Yes,” Merlin snapped heatedly, “and how would that make us better than them?”

    “As true as your words are, I will point out that all you have done is prolong the suffering of your people.”

    It was difficult to argue with a dragon, Merlin mused, biting his lip. “There has to be another way,” he muttered. “All this magic and the only thing we can do is kill? Surely that’s not the case.” If he really was Emrys - which he didn't want to believe - then surely, surely something else could be done. The war had been going on for years now, and neither side had made any ground. Not that the elves were trying - they just wanted to be left alone.

    “Perhaps you should talk to the Seer,” Kilgharrah suggested as the drakes and the wyverns, the griffins and the hippogriffs, began to land around them. The creatures returned to the sky after delivering the elves safely to the ground.

    “Perhaps,” Merlin murmured, and looked up at the dragon. “Thank you for your help,” he said softly. “Do not think I am blind to the rage you feel, Kilgharrah. I appreciate you helping and not falling into the pit of revenge.” The dragon had enough reason to want Uther Pendragon dead, but strangely enough his hatred didn't extend towards the prince. Merlin had often wondered at that, but had never had the courage to ask. 

    The dragon snorted. “I think you many things, young warlock, but blind is not one of them. You are, indeed, most welcome.”

    Merlin nodded, satisfied, and headed into Ealdor. His people came up to him as he walked by, most only wishing for a reassuring touch or a kind word. Merlin was happy to oblige, helping some find their loved ones in the crowd or offering a shoulder to cry on when it became clear they had not survived the day’s events. He stroked the hair of a crying woman, conjured a sapphire butterfly for a newly orphaned child and watched a couple reunite with a small smile. Even among the darkness, light filtered through.

    Will found him later in his room, writing down the names of the dead. He’d already filled in several pages, the names running off his tongue like spices used in a favourite dish. It bothered him how little he was capable of feeling. These weren't merely names - they were people, once, and Merlin felt he should cry for them all. But his tears had dried up a long time ago, spent within the first year of the war. Merlin didn’t look up, hardly noticing he wasn’t alone until Will cleared his throat.

    “Will,” Merlin began, but whatever he’d been going to say disappeared at the sight of Will and what he held. “Oh Will,” he said softly. He really should have seen this coming.

    “The last thing she said,” Will said, his voice belonging to a man faced with his own execution, “was that she loved us.”

    “Will,” Merlin started again, but his friend kept talking, cradling Freya’s body.

    “You’re powerful, right Merlin?” Will asked brightly. The abrupt change made Merlin frown. “Bring her back, please.”

    “Will,” Merlin said sharply, rising from his chair. “You know I can’t so that. And you know – I know you know, Will – that she wouldn’t want you to go to Nimueh.”

    Will stared at him, a glassy smile on his face. “Bring her back,” he repeated. “Please.”

    “I can’t,” Merlin replied forcefully. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” He muttered a quiet spell, and caught Will as he collapsed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

    He hefted Will into his bed and stared at his sister’s body sadly. He wished there was something he could have done. If it hadn’t been for her warning, Merlin wouldn’t have been able to summon the creatures to rescue those still within the walls of Rosias. If Freya hadn’t felt the intent surrounding the balloon, Merlin would have let it go by him. And she had paid the ultimate price, saving everyone but herself.

    He touched his sister’s cold cheek, and carefully closed her unseeing eyes. Perhaps there was something he could do, if her spirit had not already departed from this world. It was a gamble – there was no guarantee it would even work. But he was willing to try, if not for himself, then for Will.

    The rise of the moon saw him standing at the edge of the lake within Ealdor’s borders, Freya’s body in a small boat. Merlin pushed the boat into the lake and began incanting, his eyes flashing bright gold. He’d spent the afternoon memorising the spell, reading through books as old as magic itself to make sure he pronounced everything correctly.

    As the words fell from his lips, Merlin felt the slight, subtle drain on his power. He watched the surface of the lake churn angrily around Freya’s boat, and then abruptly the boat was gone, swallowed by the water. The moon was reflected in eerily still water as Merlin continued to chant, his voice rising to a shout with the last line.

    When he’d finished, silence reined. No wind moved the leaves, no animals dared make a sound. The stillness that surrounded Merlin made him hold his breath, reluctant to break the sudden peace. A fawn carefully picked its way into the clearing, looking at the world with wide, beautiful eyes. A gentle breeze whispered through the trees. The spell was broken, and Merlin took a deep breath.

    Where the boat had disappeared, a hand rose. The limb didn’t break the surface of the water. It was made from the water, deftly twisted into a shape vaguely resembling Freya’s body.

    “Merlin?” she whispered, her voice the trickle of water over stone. “I… Where I am?”

    “Ealdor,” he replied, smiling reassuringly. He hoped he was smiling reassuringly. “What do you remember?”

    She remained silent for a time. Merlin watched the water that she was made from. It never remained still – it twisted and flowed in and around itself.

    “I died,” she said, turning piercing eyes to him. He’d never thought water could be piercing, but Freya managed it. “Merlin, I died.”

    “You did.” There was no reason to lie to her. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

    “Merlin,” she said urgently, the water picking up on her moods and beginning to swell in agitation. “What did you do?”

    He swallowed. “Freya. I saved you the only way I could. You didn’t see Will… I couldn’t just leave you.”

    “You had to try,” she whispered. She knew him so well.

    “There was no guarantee it would work,” he continued. “But it did, and Freya… I’m not sorry. I won’t apologise.”

    She stared at him, a sad smile on her face. “You made me the lake,” she murmured. “Here in Ealdor. You bound me to the lake, didn’t you?”

    “There was no other way,” he said stubbornly.

    Freya looked down at herself. “I can feel it,” she told him absently. “I never realised how alive water is.” She focused on him. “Does Will know?”

    Merlin shook his head. “I had to… I had to knock him out.” He winced. “He would have gone to Nimueh,” he added.

    “Thank you,” Freya said. They stood in silence for a time, watching the moon. “Today was a success,” Freya murmured eventually.

    Merlin snorted. “We lost Rosias. I lost you. I almost lost Will.”

    “Rosias was a town,” she replied sagely. “I am here, and Will shall be well. We did not lose, brother. Uther is a fool,” Merlin heard the hatred in her voice. “He’s looking for you. He thinks he can kill magic by killing you.”

    Merlin sighed and scuffed his boot against the ground. “Kilgharrah wanted to set the Plains aflame,” he replied musingly. “I didn’t want to be like them, Freya. Did I do the right thing?”

    She laughed, the sound of a bubbling brook. “I don’t think you should be asking me, Merlin. You know how I feel about all this. I would have killed them all if I was in your place.” She paused. “But that’s why I’m not. I think you should trust yourself more, Emrys.”

    “Don’t call me that,” Merlin muttered half-heartedly. “You know I hate it.”

    “Bring Will by tomorrow,” Freya ordered, her body loosing form. “And get some sleep, Merlin. You look exhausted.”

    “Goodbye, Freya,” Merlin whispered. He turned and walked away from the lake and Freya.

    “Where are we going?” Will demanded. Merlin didn’t reply, dragging him through the market place. Even with the war, his people still traded, offering song and music in a time where neither truly belonged. But the elves were optimistic, and none of the Seers had said anything about impending doom since the war had started.

    “I can’t believe you took her,” Will continued. His voice was sharp, biting. “I can’t believe you didn’t let me say goodbye.”

    “Shut up, Will,” Merlin finally snapped. “You would have gone to Nimueh, don’t even lie and say you wouldn’t have. You think she’d want you to give up your life for hers?”

    “Wouldn’t have mattered,” Will mumbled. “She would have been alive.”

    “I am not responsible for what happens to you if she ever hears you say that,” Merlin muttered in response.

    “She’s dead, Merlin,” Will replied sharply as they stopped by the lake. “You didn’t do anything to try and help her, Merlin! My god, she’s your sister! How could you just let it happen?”

    “If you’re quite finished,” Merlin said pointedly. “I didn’t sit and do nothing, Will. My efforts may not be as obvious as Nimueh’s would have been,” his lip curled at the thought, “but I didn’t do nothing. I thought you knew me better than that.”

    “You let her die!” The shout echoed around the clearing, startling a pair of ravens into the sky. Nearby, a griffin raised its head, regarding the two with a sort of wary interest reserved for predators that were debating whether or not you would make a good meal. Merlin nudged it with his magic, and the griffin squawked indignantly at him.

    “Oh, Will,” Freya muttered exasperatedly from behind them. “You really know how to make a person feel guilty, don’t you?”

Chapter Text

    The tavern was full of cheering fighters when Arthur arrived. He slid into an empty seat and signalled for a pint. He spotted Gwaine, Leon and Percival clustered at a table, laughing uproariously at someone’s joke. Owain and Galahad were muttering quietly together, pieces of gold being passed between them. Geraint and Lancelot were seated at the bar, where Lance was subtly flirting with one of the barmaids. Elyan was glaring daggers into the back of Lance’s head.

    Leon caught sight of him and beckoned him over, nudging Percival and Gwaine aside so that he would fit. Arthur grabbed his drink and made his way over. Owain and Galahad quickly followed him, shoving their gold pieces back into their pockets. Galahad smacked Geraint over the head as they passed.

    “So I hear we had a victory,” Lancelot said as he sat down at the table. Gwaine nodded, throwing a flirty smile at a pretty blonde who brought over another round of drinks.

    “Rosias is gone,” Arthur replied, smiling. “I’d say that’s a victory.”

    “I hear hundreds of elves died,” Owain put in, finishing his drink. “That the rest of ‘em ran like frightened children.”

    Arthur shook his head at the same time that Geraint said, “Barely any died in the bombing. There were a few that we got in the fighting, but the bombing killed no one.”

    “What?” Owain squawked, and Galahad smirked at him and held out a hand. “No, I heard from a reliable source!”

    “Well,” Arthur took a sip of his drink, “I was there when they dropped it.”

    Immediately, all eyes were on him. The cheering in the pub grew oddly muted as his men – his friends – leaned closer, each of them looking at him expectantly. Arthur glanced around.

    “I can’t exactly tell you here,” he finally muttered, exasperated. “My father has ears everywhere, and he wants this kept secret. Doesn't want to lower morale.”

    Gwaine was immediately on his feet, chugging down the rest of his pint. “Then let’s go, princess. Time’s a-wasting.”

    They made it to Gwaine’s tent with little fuss. People bowed or saluted Arthur when they noticed him, but otherwise they were just another group of soldiers celebrating a hard won victory. The prince was just another man who fought for the cause.

    “So,” Gwaine said, planting himself on the floor closest to the tent flap. “Start talking.”

    Arthur relayed everything he remembered, starting with the bomb and ending with the dragon. He spoke of the heat and the possibility of an illusion, but he knew his men could sense his displeasure with that excuse. He told them about Valiant and his death, the flames that had lit the sky after the bombing.

    He didn’t tell them about the elf woman and the human man, because the raw emotion of the scene wasn’t something he felt ready to deal with.

    There was weighted silence at the end of his narrative. There were no coins passed between Galahad and Owain, and even Gwaine was silent, his dark eyes thoughtful. Lance and Percival looked both frightened and intrigued. The rest of the men had narrowed eyes and haunted looks on their faces.

    “So,” Gwaine started, breaking the silence. The atmosphere tightened, and he took a breath. “This Emrys fellow is our best bet to end the war?”

    Arthur shrugged. “I don’t know. My father thinks by killing him he will destroy all magic, but that seems a little implausible to me.”

    “Imagine having that weight on your shoulders,” Lancelot muttered quietly, his eyes sad.

    “We could always take care of him, you know,” Geraint replied, miming chopping off someone’s head. A few of the men let out huffs that would have passed for laughter under normal circumstances. Arthur stayed quiet.

    “Are there any ideas about this Emrys?” Elyan asked.

    Arthur shrugged. “According to the old texts, Emrys is male. We’re pretty sure he’s an elf, since most human sorcerers have been… disposed of. Other than that there’s not much to go on. Some texts say he’s old, some say he’s young. All they really agree on is that he’s powerful.”

    Owain snorted. “That’s bloody helpful.”

    “If we find him, Uther will kill him,” Leon said bluntly. Percival nodded silently in agreement.

    Arthur looked at his men, making sure he met each of their eyes. “My father is doing everything in his power to find this Emrys and kill him,” he said quietly. “Don’t be surprised if we’re ordered to start bringing in prisoners.” He watched their faces lose colour as the implications hit, and left without another word.

    Another day, another fight. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on the new battleground. The Plains of Blood had been left behind that morning when Uther had given the order to move. Tents had been packed, horses mounted and carts loaded. Men had stumbled and groaned, but soldiered on, following the red flag that waved in the faint breeze.

    The elves had somehow discovered where his father’s army was headed, and had emerged from the Forest of Mists silently. Their appearance had startled the horses, but the men had rallied and attacked without pause.

    Arthur himself had killed several of the fey creatures, both men and women. Their blood turned his sword crimson, glistening wetly. Overhead, the carrion creatures soared, lazily circling in the warm air.

    A messenger scurried up to him, offering him a piece of parchment. He broke the seal and read quickly, half-alert should another attacker appear. He nodded once at the end of the message, and passed it back to the messenger.

    “I’ll pass it on,” he said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hurry back to safety.”

    “Thank you, sire,” the messenger squeaked, and then he was gone. Arthur turned and saw Percival and Gwaine fighting back to back, Leon almost casually beheading a young elf nearby. Lancelot and Owain were nowhere to be seen, but Arthur caught sight of Galahad and Geraint close to the trees, alert and ready.

    “How goes it?” Elyan called, appearing beside him. Ever since his sister had disappeared several months ago, the young man had been enthusiastic about slaying the elves. His sister had been the only family left to him, and Arthur imagined he would have reacted similarly if his father died.

    “Uther has given the order,” Arthur replied. “He wants them alive.”

    Elyan’s face betrayed his disgust, but he nodded carefully. “Would you like me to spread the word, sire?”

    Arthur nodded gratefully. “I can tell the men around here, but your help would be appreciated, Elyan.” He clasped the man’s shoulder gratefully before turning back towards the fighting.

    Painstakingly, he managed to spread the word to the men he fought with. Most seemed furious with the order, but Arthur gave them all a hard look and demanded to know if they were willing to betray their king. They all subsided after that.

    Arthur himself didn’t manage to catch any elves – they all seemed to avoid him for the rest of the day. But by the time the sun sank below the horizon, there was talk of almost ten elves captured. Arthur reported to his father that night, who looked more pleased than Arthur had ever seen him. Arthur pretended he didn’t see the almost mad glint in his father’s eye as he spoke of finally getting some answers.

     He went to bed exhausted, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

    Arthur kept his face blank as he walked purposefully over to the tent holding the few prisoners his men had managed to pin down. Arthur had been briefed by Uther early in the morning, and with no sign of the elves, he’d been ordered to observe the prisoners. His father had wanted to know which of them looked as though they might break the easiest.

    To say he was surprised to recognise one of the prisoners was an understatement. The dark haired human who’d cried over the dead elf was hurling insults at the guards, holding himself in front of the prisoners. Arthur listened to the man and wondered where he had picked up such an insultingly clever tongue.

    The man fell quiet when he saw Arthur, and for a wild moment Arthur thought he would burst into flames. The intensity of the man’s stare was frankly unnerving. He wouldn’t break, then. Arthur let his eyes travel over the rest of the prisoners. There were six elves huddled behind the shorter human, but none of them looked afraid, either. They stared back at him defiantly, eyes burning.

    “And what the bloody hell do you want?” the human snapped, deliberately placing himself in front of the elves. The guards had wandered off, but stayed alert. “Are you here to take this chains off?” He snorted to himself. “If you’re not, I’d kindly ask that you get the hell out.”

    “That’s no way to speak to me,” Arthur rumbled. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

    “No, but I’m sure you’ll be telling us soon enough. We’ve had every John, Dick and Harry in this place come in and stare at us. So unless you’re here to let us out, shoo.”

    Arthur bristled. “You are all prisoners of King Uther Pendragon,” he said coldly, but the dark haired man spoke before he could continue.

    “Thanks for that, we had no bloody idea where we were.” The sarcasm in his voice somehow twisted into something that was almost sincere. Or was he being sincerely sarcastic?

    “I am Arthur Pendragon, and if you want your head to stay where it is I suggest you shut up,” Arthur snapped coldly. He could see his father already, disappointed with him for what felt like the millionth time.

    “Your authority doesn’t exist in this tent,” one of the elves said calmly. “The Pendragon name means nothing to us but a reminder of that we have lost, and the sorrow we shall endure.”

    “We are not an easy people to rouse,” another added, and Arthur noticed that they were practically identical in every way, bar one. “But your father, and by extension you, have roused the greatest hatred we have felt for an age.” Two pairs of multi-coloured eyes blinked at him in unison. The elf who had spoken first had one green and one blue eye. The second elf had one blue and one brown eye.

    “We have our own King,” another elf said, placing a hand on the human’s shoulder and distracting him from the twins. “He has more power than your father shall ever wield.”

    Arthur saw his chance. “Is your King’s name Emrys?” he asked, and watched as all of them – including the human – recoiled from his words.

    “You dare use your filthy tongue to speak his name,” the twins hissed, faces twisted in fury.

    Arthur blocked out the insults as he retreated into his own head. It was clear to him that they wouldn’t say anything, but he couldn’t exactly tell his father that. He doubted that they valued their lives as much as they seemed to value Emrys – and here, Arthur’s stomach twisted in jealousy. It was not fear that endeared Emrys to his people.

    They loved him.

    The earth beneath Arthur’s feet trembled, startling him from his thoughts. The dark haired man grinned. “See, now you’ve gone and made the man mad. I’d leave. Before we decide to see just what colour your blood is beneath your princely skin.”

Chapter Text

    It wasn’t until Merlin went to visit Freya again that he realised he’d never seen his friend speechless. He would have laughed in any other situation. The sun was bright, the birds sang sweet songs and nothing seemed amiss. Will's gobsmacked face would have amounted to a ridiculous amount of teasing, had circumstances been different.

    But messengers had arrived early in the morning, bringing grave tidings. Pendragon and his army had marched, and were approaching the Forest of Mists. Oddly enough, Ealdor was found within the confines of the Forest, hidden away by ancient trees and shrouded by cool mist. The town itself was free of fog most days, but the surrounding area was dark and cold.

    The fact that Pendragon had known to come to the Forest bothered Merlin greatly. He didn't think the  King had simply stumbled into the Forest.  Merlin didn't believe in coincidences like that - there had to be something he didn't know, something he hadn't considered. The mounts had taken the elves to Ealdor, yes, but they hadn’t gone straight there. That was foolish – the army would have followed them straight to Ealdor. Admittedly, Merlin had rather hoped the army would follow the path the creatures had taken.

    Instead, they’d come to the Forest of Mists, coming perilously close to Ealdor in the process. So Merlin had decided to ask Freya if she could sense anything, because she was a part of the land now. Any magic working on the land would be felt by Freya. While Uther hated magic, Merlin couldn’t put it past him to have a pet sorcerer at his side to hunt down the remaining elves and magical folk.

    And so, the elves and their human allies - Will included - had returned to war.

    “Merlin!” Freya gasped, forming herself as soon as he was within range of the lake and looking so panicked that Merlin tensed, magic burning at his fingertips. “They have Will!”

    “What?” Merlin replied, the voice of eloquence. He winced slightly, dropping his hands. He sounded like an idiot.

    “The Pendragon monster has Will!” she snapped, her eyes blazing. “I’ve been trying to call you, but I don’t think it works anymore. Merlin, they’ve taken him and a few others prisoner.”

    Prisoners. The Pendragon army had never taken prisoners before. They left a bloody trail in their wake with no survivors. Something had changed, and Merlin had a feeling he knew what. He spun on his heel and strode away. Kilgharrah was away, hunting in the Wild Lands for food. That meant Merlin had to get to the enemy’s camp himself.

    Ancient words leapt from his lips as he walked, the air shifting and twisting in on itself. Merlin felt his eyes burn, flashing gold as his magic jumped to do his bidding. He would not be the cause of any more deaths. He wouldn’t allow it.

    He vanished in a crackle of golden dust.

    “Will!” Merlin shouted, striding into the tent. The guards had been taken care of, knocked into unconsciousness by two quick flicks of his magic. “What do you think you’re doing? You know Freya’d have my head if anything happened to you!”

    Will grinned. “Good to see you too.”

    With a jerk of a slender wrist, the manacles fell from the prisoner’s wrists. The elves rubbed at their wrists, already slightly burned from the silver, murmuring and bowing their heads towards him. Will leapt to his feet and slapped Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin felt a grateful smile tug at the corner of his mouth even as he checked over Will and the other prisoners for damage. When nothing immediately jumped out at him, Merlin took a step back, only to be grabbed by Will.

    “You just missed a visit from the prince himself,” he said in a stage whisper.

    Merlin jerked away from him. “Uther’s son?” he asked carefully. While it was possible the young man was nothing like his father, Merlin refused to take any chances. His people were relying on him to protect them from the Pendragon's - Merlin would not fail.

    Will nodded, suddenly serious. “They’re after Emrys,” he added.

    Merlin couldn’t help himself; he laughed, and it sounded almost like a sob. “Of course they are,” he gasped. He curled in on himself. This was exactly what he had been worried about the moment he heard the word ‘prisoner’ fall from Freya’s mouth. Somehow, Uther knew about him, had found out about Emrys and planned to kill him.

    “Hey,” Will said. “Calm down, my friend. They won’t... We’ll never tell.” The elves at his back murmured their agreement, faces pale but determined. Merlin could see that whatever had awaited them hadn’t phased them in the slightest.

    “Emrys will be protected,” the fair elf, Bella, proclaimed. “As he protects us, we shall protect him. That is the balance.”

    Will was nodding. “You know I don’t get your elf ‘balance’ crap,” he said urgently, grabbing Merlin by his shoulders and shaking him gently. “But she’s right. You know she’s right.”

    Merlin shuddered, fine tremors running down his limbs. His magic leapt and squirmed, reaching out and then recoiling angrily. It was distracting him from the conversation and Merlin struggled to reign it in, vying for control. It was almost as though...

    “Someone is here,” he choked out. “My power...”

    Suddenly terrified of the presence that didn’t belong to any of the people in front of him and was making his magic so unruly, Merlin spun and lashed out with his power. The tall, broad shouldered man - how had Merlin missed him? - slumped to the ground, unconscious. Merlin’s magic slowed his fall, gently placing the blonde head onto the ground. With the man's loss of consciousness, Merlin's power calmed down.

    “Hey, look. You took out the prince.” Will paused, chewing his lip. His dark eyes roved over the prone figure. “We should take him with us,” Will said abruptly, glaring at the Pendragon prince. “He’d make a good hostage.”

    “No!” Merlin replied forcefully, his eyes flashing. His magic had been gentler than he had expected of a potential threat. It had almost caressed the prince into sleep, instead of the usual shove it gave everyone else. Merlin’s skin tingled.

    “Why the hell not?” Will demanded hotly.

    “We’re not like them, Will.” His words were met with strained silence. After a moment, Will stepped away from the prone body on the ground.

    Needless to say, Freya was delighted when Merlin returned, dragging Will along by his ear. She pulled him into the lake, and Merlin very quickly returned to Ealdor, because he didn’t particularly want to watch the two... Of course Merlin ran.

    That night, Merlin snuck from Ealdor, desiring nothing more than a walk beneath the silver moon. He needed his space, because he wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. Arthur Pendragon – the son of the man who had caused Merlin and his people so much pain – had been right there. At his mercy. It wasn’t as though they would have treated him horribly if they had taken him. Merlin clenched his fist and glared up at the moon. Why couldn’t things just go back to how they had been?

    During his walks, which were becoming more and more frequent as the war dragged on and more names were added to the list, Merlin wondered if he would ever find what Freya and Will had. Merlin wandered alone, because he felt alone. Sometimes, Morgana or Morgause would appear and walk with him for a time. His loneliness persisted.

    He was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of a twig snapping nearby. Expecting Morgana, Merlin turned at the noise, freezing at the sight of a crossbow aimed at his head. He blinked and followed the line of a muscular arm up to broad shoulders and finally stared at cool blue eyes. He didn’t move, but his magic twisted under his skin, trying to reach out to the prince.

    “You’re the one that freed the prisoners,” the prince said softly, moving forward a few paces. Merlin didn’t, couldn’t, move. The prince didn’t lower his crossbow. “I was surprised when I woke up.”

    Merlin blinked at him. “It was only a sleeping spell,” he said, his voice sounding strangled. He was afraid, because he was alone and Ealdor wasn’t very far away. Freya’s lake was only a short walk up the trail. He was afraid because he didn’t want to kill the prince, but if he fired the crossbow, there was little else he could do. An act of violence on Ealdor soil was an act even Merlin wouldn't, couldn't, ignore. The very earth itself was sacred, and if blood was not returned, the elves would no longer have a place to hide.

    Arthur gave him an odd look. “You could have killed me while I was sleeping. You could have taken me, traded me for victory. But you just… Left me.” His voice was surprisingly pleasant, but his words caused a sliver of ice to crawl down Merlin's spine.

    Merlin stood up a little straighter. “We’re not like you,” he replied bluntly, watching Arthur flinch. “We don’t want victory. We want peace." Something that was increasingly hard to define. "We want to be able to farm, to raise families and have a home without worrying when the Pendragon royalty,” he spat the word with hatred, “will come to behead us.” He wanted to scream, to rage and cry and make the young man see, because the list of the dead was growing while Merlin felt his heart die. Each name carved itself into his skin, pale scars invisible to all except him.

    “We have reasons for fighting you, you know we do,” Arthur snapped back in a low voice. And of course he would believe that. He had no reason to think his father a liar, an oath-breaker, a murderer. Merlin wondered how many lies had been fed to him throughout his life. He wondered if the lies were twisted half-truths, a grain of truth wrapped in layer upon layer of lies, or if they were blasphemous falsehoods, the likes of which had the capacity to rot the mouth from which they emerged.

    Merlin wondered if it had ever occurred to Arthur that his father could tell him a lie, and that if he did, the Pendragon prince would never be able to tell.

    The crossbow forgotten, Merlin stepped closer, jabbing at Arthur with a finger. “You humans decided to kill us without any provocation,” he said, fighting for calm. He tried to remind himself of the lies Arthur had probably been told, of the honeyed words his father would have whispered into his ears. “Do you know what Rosias was to us, Arthur Pendragon? It was a hospital. The people you were trying to blow up were all sick or injured or dying, or they were healers. And do you know why it was a hospital? Because your father started this stupid war.”

    “The elves started the war with the murder of my mother!” Arthur shouted, and the clearing grew still.

    Merlin blinked at him, stepping back unconsciously. “We don’t kill our own," he said blankly. "We’re not humans.” Surely, surely he knew. Uther wouldn’t have kept this from him. Even he would not stoop so low.

    Would he?

    Arthur dropped the crossbow. “You – I – What?”

    “Your father never told you?” Merlin asked wonderingly, because he'd never imagined the King was that proud, so stubborn and blind to the pain he had caused himself. He didn't want to imagine what would have happened to those who had known the truth. This was where the lies began, Merlin was sure, and he didn't think he'd ever find the end.

    Well, the time for lying was over. Merlin had had enough. The truth wasn't subtle - it was a bull at athe gate, a splash of colour in an otherwise drab landscape. It would not be ignored forever. His next words escaped with a passion and strength that he was sure Arthur wouldn't be able to ignore.

    “Ygraine was an elf maiden.”

Chapter Text

    Arthur gaped at him. He wanted to shout at the elf, tell him he was wrong, but something in the way he had spoken made Arthur unsure. The two stared at each other, both tense and ready to fight, but unwilling to be the first to attack. Arthur wondered why the elf didn’t seem to want to kill him.

    “You’re lying,” he finally said, his voice wavering uncertainly. Arthur cursed himself for showing weakness. That was not the Pendragon way.

    “You know I’m not,” the elf replied sharply. “I can see it in your eyes. You believe me.” The elf bit his lip, unconsciously drawing attention to them. Arthur stared. He'd never felt so turned on because of a pair of lips before.

    “Say I do,” he managed, his voice oddly hoarse. “What then?”

    The elf looked up quickly, shrugging his thin shoulders. “We can go our separate ways, Pendragon. I will not kill you when your back is turned if you afford me the same courtesy.” Oddly enough, Arthur believed him. “You can ask your father for the truth, but I am inclined to believe he is not above twisting the story into his favour.” The elf glared bitterly. “Or you can kill me. At the very least, you can try.”

    “You don’t look very difficult to kill,” Arthur noted with a confident smirk.

    The elf’s lips twisted into something resembling a smile. “Looks can be deceiving, Pendragon.” His smile fell, and he looked at Arthur intensely. “Why did you come this way?”

    People often told Arthur he was smarter than he looked, and he liked to think it was true. Not that he appreciated the sentiment that he looked stupid, but because it gave him an advantage over everyone else. People looked at him and saw a spoiled prince, arrogant and proud. Very few could see the intelligence Arthur possessed. 

    “Do you mean me personally, or the army?” Arthur relished the elf’s surprised little start. Those pretty lips opened and then closed. Arthur was slapped – metaphorically – with a mental image of those lips wrapped around his cock. Or shaped into a gorgeous little O, moaning as Arthur took him from behind.

    “Either is fine,” the elf replied, and for a moment Arthur simply stared at him. What was he referring to? “I was asking about you personally, but knowing why your army didn’t follow the creatures would be nice.” He shrugged.

    Arthur gathered himself. “I was hunting. The game would have moved away from the camp. We would have scared them away with our tents and our noise.” The elf shot a look behind Arthur, perhaps not realising he was so close to the enemy. “And my father moves in mysterious ways.”

    The elf grinned. “You’re right about the game, although I’m surprised you would hunt at all in the Forest of Mists.” At Arthur’s blank look, the grin faded and the elf groaned. “Do you humans know anything?”

    “Insults are not a good idea, elf,” Arthur snarled, grabbing the crossbow without taking his eyes off the elf.

    He held up his hands but snorted. “Oh please. If you were going to kill me, you’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so.” Arthur glared at him wordlessly, absently noting that the elf had very nice hands. “The Forest of Mists isn’t the best place to hunt, Pendragon, because it is full of an old magic. Would you have used the entirety of the kill?”

    “We have no use for the entire thing. Just the meat.”

    The elf winced. “I thought as much. The magic within these trees demands the prey be respected. Each kill must be cleaned and cared for, thanks offered and any wild predators appeased. You cannot just take, Arthur Pendragon.”

    Arthur scoffed. “I am a prince,” he sneered, stepping forward. “I can do as I like.”

    The elf stood his ground. “Magic does not care for titles, Pendragon,” he hissed. “Whatever you take from the Forest, the Forest will take from you. Killing with no regard is not tolerated within these trees.” Arthur could practically hear the capital letter each time the elf said ‘forest’.

    “They’re just trees.”

    “These trees have stood for thousands of years and watched the world pass them by. They have forgotten more than you will ever learn. Don’t insult them, Pendragon, because I can assure you that you will live to regret it.”

    The elf was gorgeous in his anger. His pale skin flushed red, his eyes darkened and took on a golden hue. His hands were clenched in fists at his side. His whole body trembled, as though the emotion within him was too great for him to contain.

    He was beautiful.

    Enthralling.

    Captivating.

    “Is that a threat?” Arthur demanded, shaking himself free of his stupor. He was an elf, for crying out loud!

    “It’s a fact,” the elf snarled in return. “Do you want me to prove it, Arthur Pendragon?”

    The sound of his name curling from those lips sent another shudder down Arthur’s spine. “Yes,” he snapped. In all honesty, he hadn’t any idea what was happening to him. Perhaps the elf had cast a lust charm on him.

    Without another word, the elf spun on his heel and stalked further into the Forest. After a slight hesitation, Arthur followed, trying very, very hard not to stare at the pert bottom in front of him. Needless to say, he failed spectacularly.

    They didn’t say anything to each other, although Arthur was sure he could hear the elf muttering to himself in what sounded like another language. A few times, he heard the unmistakable sound of a large animal crashing through the Forest, but each time the elf muttered a word and the animal abruptly changed direction. Each time, Arthur was left feeling nervous and altogether too jumpy, but one could hardly blame him! He was following an elf into an apparently magical Forest that would kill him if he didn’t obey some stupid rules. Barely an hour ago, he’d been hunting.

    Ahead of him, the elf stopped - Arthur almost ran into him. He caught Arthur’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip and dragged him forward – dragged him into the largest tree Arthur had ever seen. Arthur instinctively cried out and shielded his eyes.

    “You can open your eyes,” the elf said a moment later, and he sounded insultingly amused. Arthur opened his eyes, intending to glare at the elf, but his gaze was caught by something much more impressive.

    They had somehow managed to emerge in a glade, the likes of which Arthur had never seen. There was a quiet little stream running past their feet, its gentle voice filling the clearing. In the centre of the glade stood a tree with silver fruits. A bird with rainbow coloured feathers screeched at him rudely, and Arthur felt his mouth drop open when he realised the ‘bird’ was actually a feathered serpent.

    “Where are we?” he asked quietly, watching the serpent a little warily.

    The elf, it seemed, had no such qualms. He stepped forward, offering his hand, and the serpent regarded him for a moment with coldly intelligent eyes. It finally chirped at him and fluttered from the branch to his wrist, curling its sinuous body around the offered limb. The elf smiled in delight, crooning gently to the little creature.

    “Elf?” Arthur said, a little annoyed at being ignored.

    The elf turned to scowl at him. “Did no one teach you patience, Pendragon?” he asked, but answered anyway. “It has been an age since a mortal man has laid eyes on lignum vitae est. You speak of it in legends, but you have forgotten it exists.” The rainbow serpent chirped and flitted away. “This is what grants the magic within the Forest, Pendragon.”

    “What is lig –” Arthur cut himself off before he embarrassed himself.

    “Lignum vitae est,” the elf repeated, his voice soft. He placed a hand against the bark of the tree, and Arthur could swear he saw the tree shiver in response. “The Tree of Life.”

    Arthur gaped at him. There were only so many things Arthur could readily comprehend, and it seemed he’d hit his limit. The Tree of Life? Please! “If this is the Tree of Life, why would you risk showing it to me?” The scepticism was clear in his voice.

    The elf smirked. “You would never be able to find it again, Pendragon. Lignum vitae est can only be found by those pure of heart, or who possess magic. You are neither.”

    Arthur bristled. “What do you mean by that?”

    The elf shook his head. “Tell me, do you think yourself as pure as a unicorn? As innocent as a fey child? It was not an insult against you, personally.” The elf muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Even though you are the biggest prat I’ve ever met”. "Besides, you don't have magic."

    “What did you call me?” Arthur demanded, ignoring the last comment. The elf jumped, reminding Arthur oddly of a deer with his big eyes and strange grace. He aimed the crossbow at the elf’s chest.

    “I, uh, didn’t think you’d hear that?” the elf offered weakly, looking flustered, but seemed to recall himself enough to rearrange his features. “You can’t hurt me here, Pendragon.”

    Arthur could privately admit to himself he liked the flustered look the elf gave him. He could also admit that he hated the imperious way the elf spoke to him. “How sure about that are you?” he growled.

    The elf flashed him a quick, bright smile that almost made Arthur drop the crossbow. “Completely certain.” Arthur released the bolt the moment he finished talking, and watched it fly toward the elf. For his part, the elf looked comically surprised.

    And then the whole glade shifted. Arthur couldn’t think of any other way to explain it. One moment, he was surrounded by warm, golden light – the next, the glade had moved and he was back in the Forest of Mists. Alone.

    It was as though the whole incident had never occurred. But the bolt he’d fired hadn’t come with him, and Arthur felt a grim sort of satisfaction that there was a chance the elf had been hit. He surveyed his surroundings, and realised he was quite close to the camp. He hesitated and stared into the Forest, but could see no movement beyond the lazy swirling of the fog.

    He realised the elf had never actually said anything more on his mother. There were many questions he had, but Arthur had the feeling the elf would be difficult to find again. And he wouldn't ask his father. Not because he didn't think Uther would tell him the truth, but because he didn't want to hurt his father with memories of his mother. Arthur glared into the Forest a little longer, wondering if the elf would appear again. There was nothing he could do now, of course, but he felt a strong desire to see the elf again. Perhaps another day. He'd take the magic-cancelling manacles with him the next time he went hunting. Even if the elf gave him no answers, Arthur could bring him back as a prisoner. He nodded to himself, trying to ignore the images his traitorous mind conjured at the thought of manacles around those slim, pale wrists.

    With no other options, he returned to camp.

Chapter Text

    The pain was secondary to the shock. He’d been shot. Arrowed. Bolted. Was that even a thing? Merlin stumbled back, leaning against the Tree of Life as he gasped for air and stared at the place where the Pendragon prince had been only moments earlier.

    “What a prat!” he panted. “What an utter – ow! – prat!”

    The rainbow serpent chirped at him cheerfully, gnawing at the bolt that had stopped just short of impaling his shoulder. Merlin grabbed the bolt and pulled it free, mouthing several colourful curses as the pain clamoured for his attention.

    “That – utter – arse,” he gasped, pressing his hand over the wound. The serpent chittered, and Merlin glared. “Don’t – laugh!”

    Merlin’s magic danced across his skin, gently stopping the bleeding and slowly closing over the hole. The serpent watched the procedure with interest, and Merlin hissed when it poked its claw at the almost healed wound.

    “Don’t touch!” he yelped. The serpent hissed at him. “It hurts!” he added, glaring at the serpent even as it glared straight back. “Don’t even think of making fun of me – you don’t even feel pain!”

    Wound healed, Merlin passed the serpent back into the Tree. The little creature squawked and fluttered up, curling its feathered body around one of the silver fruits. It looked back at him, and then at the fruit, chirping questioningly.

    “Oh no, don’t try and apologise with that,” Merlin muttered. “We don’t take from the Tree, little one. If we did, we’d be no better than the humans.” He offered the serpent a smile. “I must leave now.”

    The rainbow serpent watched him go, but nothing stopped him leaving. He gave a relieved sigh as his feet touched slightly soggy ground and the light from the glade disappeared. The mists curled around his feet in an oddly welcoming action.

    Merlin smiled. “Alright,” he said, turning and walking towards Ealdor. “The next time I see that Pendragon prat, I’ll return him his bolt.”

    It was, surprisingly, only a few days later that Merlin encountered Arthur in the Forest of Mists. Merlin didn’t approach – the prince was hunting, stalking a herd of deer. Merlin rolled his eyes, because of course the idiot knew best. He twirled the bolt in his fingers, thankful that the metal wasn’t silver. He’d never appreciated the burn of silver.

    Just as Arthur was taking the shot, Merlin sent the bolt back to him. It landed with a solid thwack in the tree right in front of the prince’s face. The deer fled as he swore. He grabbed the bolt and then turned accusing eyes to the Forest around him.

    “Elf!” he thundered, and Merlin winced, his magic automatically searching the Forest for any threat. Merlin was just relaxing – the shout hadn’t interested any predators, thank the Gods – when the idiot shouted again. “I know you’re there, elf! Come out!”

    His magic shivered, and Merlin paled.

    Drakes.

    Instinctively, he jumped from his hiding spot, catching the prince’s hand and dragging him away. He heard the prince shouting protests, but with a flick of his fingers the sounds were gone. Merlin pulled him behind a tree and froze, listening.

    The first shriek sent shivers down Merlin’s spine. Drakes travelled in flocks, and Arthur had managed to attract the attention of one of Merlin’s least favourite flocks. Old One Eye had never been the nicest of the drakes, and his flock contained some of the nastiest individuals. Needless to say, this particular flock had ignored his pleas in Rosias.

    He pressed his lips to Arthur’s ear. “Listen up, you idiot,” he breathed, ignoring the indignant spluttering that made no noise. “You’ve attracted the attention of some very nasty drakes. The chances of us getting out of this unscarred are pretty slim, even if I am to assist. I could leave you here, and you will die if I do that. If you want my help, you’ll have to listen to everything I say. Do you understand?”

    After a tense moment, during which the screeching grew worryingly closer, Arthur nodded. Merlin felt himself relax minutely in relief. He waved a hand, and the silencing spell disappeared. “It’s your fault,” the prince hissed immediately.

    Merlin spared him a disbelieving stare. “Now? Really?”

    “You called me an idiot!”

    Merlin had a second to cast a shielding spell before the drakes were upon them, alerted by Arthur's shout. Six drakes screamed and tried to damage Merlin’s shield, but he gritted his teeth and the shield stayed strong. The drakes snarled and hissed at each other, abruptly quieting when the final member of the flock landed heavily in the little clearing.

    The old drake snapped at his flock, and they got out of his way. His single eyes, glaring red against his dark scales, peered straight at Merlin.

    “One Eye,” he said in greeting, keeping his shield in place. Unlike the blonde behind him, he wasn’t stupid. And he didn’t have a death wish. Shields were always a good idea when you spoke with a drake. Especially this one.

    The drake hissed, baring sharp fangs. “Hello little elf,” he replied, reaching up to drag a claw down Merlin’s shield. It made a hideous noise. He heard Arthur gasp quietly. “Won’t you speak with me face to face?”

    Merlin cracked a smile. “Oh, you know what? I prefer being alive, thanks. Maybe next time.” He gestured with his head. “There was a lovely herd of deer back that way a bit. Quite plump, surprisingly.”

    “You have a human with you, little elf. They are much tastier.”

    “Right, yes, of course. How silly of me. A single human better than an entire herd of deer?” Merlin nodded thoughtfully.

    One of the other drakes crept forward. “One Eye,” he hissed. “The human isn’t worth it.”

    One Eye turned, pouncing on the unlucky individual. It hardly counted as a fight – within seconds One Eye had his fangs clasped around the other drake’s throat. While the two were distracted, Merlin considered running again. But One Eye was still staring him down, and he knew any move on his part would be a bad idea.

    The two drakes snarled at each other, but the other drake eventually pressed his scaled throat further into One Eye’s mouth. A sign of submission, and Merlin watched the tension drain from the rest of the flock. One Eye returned his attention to Merlin.

    “I want him,” he snarled. “Give him to me and you will live.”

    Merlin laughed. “Oh, One Eye, it’s like you think I’ve never done this before. Seven of you against two of us? You won’t let me go. I’m not an idiot.” He shot Arthur a glance over his shoulder as he said it.

    The drake nodded, stalking closer to press his snout against the shield. “You are not stupid, little elf, so surely you must know there is no options for you and the human?”

    “I could kill you,” Arthur snapped bravely, and Merlin wanted to roll his eyes. He wished he’d thought to rework the silencing spell.

    The old drake barked a laugh. “You, little human? I think not.”

    “Shut up,” Merlin hissed under his breath. “I’d make you, but I’m a little busy keeping us alive.”

    Arthur snorted. “We’re sitting ducks,” he grumbled, but shut up after that.

    “Right, so the odds aren’t all that great,” Merlin said, nodding his head slowly. “But you know me, don’t you One Eye? We’ve had this kind of chat before. You’ve met Kilgharrah.”

    The name made the old drake pause. “He is known to us,” he admitted slowly. “But he isn’t here.”

    Merlin gave the drake a smile that was all teeth. “I know you guys have a habit of forgetting about me,” he said. “But you do know who I am, don’t you?”

    The drake nodded reluctantly. “Yesss,” he hissed in displeasure. “We remember." He paused. "You would save the human?”

    “Uh, what does it look like I’m doing right now?”

    One Eye glared at him. “You betray your father’s memory,” he accused.

    “I betray myself if I just let you kill him,” Merlin countered. “What’s it going to be, One Eye? Do you really want to test me?”

    Merlin’s answer was a snarl and an angry shriek. The flock startled and took to the sky, but One Eye remained on the ground, staring at Merlin thoughtfully.

    “You are not Balinor,” he said.

    Merlin nodded. “Deer is that way,” he replied, and then the old drake was gone. Merlin kept his shield in place until the shrieks were too far away to hear.

    “What was that?” Arthur exploded behind him, grabbing Merlin’s shoulders and slamming him against a tree. Merlin’s shield disappeared with a fizzle. Merlin struggled against the human’s hold but Arthur’s fingers dug into the tender spot where his bolt had entered his shoulder and he yelped. “What was that?” Arthur repeated dangerously.

    “I just saved your life! Again! For the second time today. Why are you yelling at me?” Merlin demanded.

    “You’re not supposed to save me!” Arthur sounded ridiculously frustrated. “You’re an elf!”

    “Yes, thank you for pointing that out. I hadn’t any idea. I told you already! We’re not like you.” Merlin shifted a little, but Arthur’s fingers clenched tighter and he froze. “Let go!” he hissed. “You’re hurting me.”

    Arthur gave a disbelieving laugh. “I’m hurting you?” He pinned Merlin to the tree with one arm, his free hand searching for something in the bag he carried. Merlin’s magic stretched out curiously, finding nothing interesting.

    And then it touched something – brushed it, really – and Merlin felt his magic recoil violently. He gasped at the sensation.

    “What was that?” he asked.

    “You mean these?” Arthur asked, holding a pair of manacles in front of Merlin’s face. He retreated as far as he was able. They felt cold. Wrong.

    Dangerous.

    “Yes,” he whispered, flicking his eyes from the manacles to Arthur. “What are they? They don’t feel right.”

    “Give me your wrist and I’ll show you,” Arthur replied cruelly, grabbing one of Merlin’s wrists and spinning him around so that his chest was pressed against the rough bark, one arm twisted behind him.

    “Wait –” Merlin began, but he was cut off when the cold metal snapped around his wrist.

    Agony.

    Merlin heard a scream of pain, heard someone swear. He heard the sound of a flock high in the sky, calling to each other. He felt his magic lash out, felt the cold metal around his wrist. The screaming kept going, a sound like nothing he’d ever heard. It pierced the hazy grey that he seemed to suddenly be inhabiting, and Merlin wished it would stop. The sound was distressing, to say the least.

    Kilgharrah, Merlin thought helplessly. Someone, help me. Before the darkness took him, he realised something that made him shudder in terror.

     Merlin realised that he was the one screaming.

Chapter Text

    Arthur had expected many things when he’d thought about putting the manacles on the elf. He’d imagined the elf not understanding until it was too late. He’d imagined those blue eyes filling up with tears and fear. He’d imagined the elf begging. He mused on positions – would he be straddling the elf when the time came? Would he pin him to the ground? A tree? Would he manacle those breakable wrists in front or behind? Arthur thought he’d considered everything.

    What he hadn’t given any thought to was what the elf would do once the manacles were on. To Arthur, the magic the elf possessed was evil. A sign of greed, of wanting more power than any mortal creature should have. So in all honesty, he had half-formed expectations that the elf would be grateful for the removal of such a tainting influence. He wanted the elf to thank him, because then this insane attraction Arthur felt for him would be slightly more bearable (not that he was attracted to an elf).

    He hadn’t expected the screams. He hadn’t expected the look of utter agony the moment the first manacle snapped around the elf’s pale wrist. He hadn’t expected that frail looking body to lurch and jerk and twist, movements similar to those he’d witnessed on the battlefield. The movements he had seen dying men make as they clung desperately to life. He hadn’t expected the deadly strength coiled within those fragile limbs.

    The elf was resting against the tree, his gangly limbs twitching helplessly. The manacles glowed the same gold as his eyes. That pretty mouth was making odd whimpering noises, as though the manacles had cut off access to his voice instead of his magic. Before Arthur had managed to get the second manacle on – and that had been more struggle than he anticipated – the elf had tilted his head back and screamed a name to the sky.

    Normally, Arthur wouldn’t have worried. But it just so happened that the name the elf had shrieked so desperately was one he had heard only minutes earlier. It was the name that had terrified the drakes into retreating.

    Kilgharrah.

    Arthur really didn’t want to know who the name belonged to, but he had a very, very bad feeling that he already knew. It was a name that tasted of power, and every time Arthur thought it, the name was accompanied by ruby red scales and flashing fangs as long as his arm.

    Arthur hoped he was wrong.

    He reached for the elf, and those blank golden eyes snapped towards him. The elf convulsed, and Arthur got the sense that he was trying to run. Trying to run away from him. He gripped the elf’s arm and hefted him to his feet, ignoring the guilt that left a bitter taste in his mouth. Magic is evil, he told himself firmly. He was doing the elf a favour. Really, he was.

    Arthur recognised that it was probably a bad thing that he couldn’t even lie convincingly to himself.

    The elf was surprisingly – worryingly – light. It hardly took any effort to lift the elf over his shoulder, and once there the elf barely moved, save for the strange jerks that still pulled at his limbs. Arthur set off at a decent pace, determined to make it to his camp before nightfall, so that he could remove the manacles from the elf and appease his misplaced guilt.

    The Forest, however, seemed to have other ideas.

    Arthur had marked his passage with small notches in the trunks of the trees. Even as the elf had dragged him along, he’d been marking the way back. So he followed his little notches with confidence. Until it became apparent that somehow, the trees had moved.

    They were going in circles. Arthur swore and dumped the elf on the ground, guilt turning his mouth sour. He crouched in front of the elf, studying him silently. “You know what’s happening, don’t you?” he muttered, annoyed. He stared at the sharp, high cheekbones, tracing the elf’s lips with his eyes. The elf’s face remained blank, but the vacant gold eyes flicked towards him.

    And then Arthur was toppling over, balance lost when some unseen force knocked him away. A shove, nothing more, but Arthur was quick to leap to his feet and have his sword pointed at the elf’s throat. The tip pressed against the pale column of skin, and the elf froze, twitches ceasing abruptly as though Arthur had flicked a switch.

    Arthur found himself imagining the bright flash of red against the pale skin and shivered.

    “Right,” he muttered, ordering himself to return to the present, to ignore the dark desires the elf was awakening in him. “How did you manage that? Because those things around your wrist, they stop magic. You’re not supposed to be able to use it.” The elf didn’t respond, but something else did.

    “Look, my flock,” came the guttural, snarling voice from earlier. Arthur stiffened, turning around slowly. The drake – One Eye – regarded him with what would have been considered a sneer on a human face. On the scarred drake’s face, it looked so much more sinister. Behind him, his flock stared, their teeth stained red. One still had a deer clutched in its talons, snapping at any who came too close to its prize.

    “Stay back,” Arthur warned, keeping himself between the defenceless elf and the drakes. He drew his sword, suddenly realising he was prepared to do anything to save the elf. He felt a little sick as that thought clashed with what he had been taught. 

    One Eye snorted. “Your pointy stick will not hurt me,” he snarled, prowling closer. “And you’ve done something to the elf who so valiantly defended you.” The drake inhaled, and then hissed in disgust, recoiling slightly from the elf. “You’ve bound his magic,” he said, and the surrounding drakes flinched and then snapped their jaws together loudly, the sounds echoing through the eerily silent Forest. Even the feasting drake hissed. “You are an ungrateful fool, little human.”

    Arthur moved then, determined to end the fight quickly. The sooner he killed this flying lizard, the sooner he could take the cuffs off the elf. The way his thoughts always seemed to circle back to the elf worried him, because he had no logical explanation. He was an elf, he had magic, and Arthur wanted to save him.

    The drake surprised him, his long tail snapping forward to knock Arthur off his feet. He jumped back up, ignoring the pain flaring in his ribs, gruffly telling himself to get his head in the fight. If his father could see him now, he’d be furious. One Eye took advantage of Arthur’s lack of focus to snarl at one of the smaller drakes. The drake immediately took to the sky, calling a name into the wind that sent shivers of fear down Arthur’s spine.

    “Understand I do not care for the elf’s death,” One Eye explained softly, shifting forward to attack again. “But the dragon would kill me if I was in any way responsible for it. So I’ll kill you, and the dragon will save the elf.”

    “Shut up,” Arthur snapped. “I’m not dead, and I have no plans to die.” He attacked again, his sword finally making contact with the drake’s scales, only to slide over them harmlessly with a horrible shriek. Arthur froze for a moment too long, and the drake’s paw slammed into his chest, pinning him to the Forest floor. He felt a rib crack and only just managed to withhold his scream of pain. Mist trailed over his skin almost mockingly.

    “Most do not plan to die,” the drake hissed, his foul breath wafting over Arthur’s face. “The content call it the last adventure. What do you call it, human?”

    The end, Arthur thought, but didn’t bother to reply aloud. Instead, he closed his eyes against his coming demise, his thoughts twisting back to the elf. What would happen to him once Arthur died? Would the drake really let him live? He heard the drake laugh, and felt him draw back to bite. And then the drake’s weight was gone, and his undignified squeals made Arthur’s eyes snap opened, thoughts forgotten.

    The elf was standing straight, staring at the old drake without expression. The cuffs gleamed gold, brighter even than the elf’s eyes. One Eye snarled at him, suspended in the air by what appeared to be a translucent golden bubble. But the drake’s claws couldn’t pierce it, and his wings were pinned to his back by a golden cord. The elf stepped forward, words spilling from his lips. The trapped drake roared in fury, battling against his cage.

    After only a few minutes, the drake’s roar had dwindled to a helpless whimper, and to Arthur it looked as though the drake was expanding. His scales were standing on end, like a cat’s fur when it was mad. The glittering black scales were slowly pulling away from the drake, the tip steadily so that it was perpendicular to the drake's hide. But the drake’s claws were scratching insistently at the bubble as his body arched and writhed, and he didn’t look mad.

    The drake looked terrified.

    One Eye squirmed in pain, and a single scale was ripped away with a sound like paper tearing. The drake screamed, and Arthur stared, unable to look away, as each scale was torn off one by one. Dark blood, black in the light of the Forest, steadily dripped down to pool on the bottom of the bubble. This was the magic his father had always warned him about. The magic that sought to destroy, consuming the user in the process. The elf kept chanting, his face growing paler as the drake shrieked and whimpered, pleas and threats falling on deaf ears. His eyes grew more gold with every word uttered.

    Eventually, the elf collapsed. The bubble disappeared, and One Eye dropped to the ground, boneless. His papery skin was split and bleeding, the scales that remained hanging from thin bits of skin. The drake managed a weak groan before he simply stopped moving. His wings shuddered, shredded beyond repair, and Arthur knew he would never fly again.

    Arthur struggled to his feet, breathing hard. Black spots danced across his vision as the rib he feared broken protested at the movement. He checked the elf first, relief flooding him when the thrum of a pulse met his fingers. The skin beneath his fingers was smooth and warm. Arthur was too exhausted to consider the entirety of what had just happened. He staggered over to the drake, absently noting that One Eye’s flock had vanished some time through the whole magic business. The drake was barely breathing, and his single red eye was narrowed in hatred at the unconscious elf.

    “What do you call it, drake?” Arthur wheezed, drawing the drake’s glare. “What do you call death?” The answer was a whisper on a last breath, but it made Arthur jerk back in shock. He wasn’t given time to dwell on the drake’s answer, because a huge red bulk suddenly dropped from the sky. The earth shuddered, and Arthur swore the trees bent away from him to avoid getting knocked over. A long red tail coiled around several trees before unceremoniously prodding the drake's limp form. The dragon gave a satisfied sounding snort before peering down at them.

    Kilgharrah.

    The enormous dragon immediately turned to the elf, nudging him gently with his huge snout. When the elf didn’t respond, the great dragon turned gleaming yellow eyes to Arthur. The pain from his ribs prevented him from moving too much, but he did flinch when the dragon snorted at him.

    “Arthur Pendragon,” Kilgharrah rumbled. A wisp of smoke trailed from his nostrils. “If you do not wish for him to die, release him.”

    Arthur blinked slowly. “I can’t,” he gasped. “The key… I don’t have it. I thought… just in case… It couldn’t be stolen.”

    The dragon seemed to be able to understand what he was trying to say. “Where is the key?” he demanded.

    “My tent,” Arthur whispered. “You can’t get it. Guarded. Only a human would be able to…” Arthur felt the world darken.

    Kilgharrah seemed amused. “In that case, we do not have a problem, Arthur Pendragon.” Arthur was too far gone to feel the dragon gather him up in one of his paws. He couldn’t stop thinking about One Eye, even as darkness descended upon him.

    “The end,” the drake replied with a hiss, and then he died.

    Arthur’s last thought before he passed out was that he felt like he was flying.

Chapter Text

    Merlin woke up gasping, sitting up so fast the world began to spin. Warm, gentle hands settled on his shoulder, pushing him back. He panicked, struggling against the hands, his eyes unseeing. His mind was a humming blank, his magic curling reassuringly beneath his skin. That, more than anything, slowed his racing heart.

    “Merlin, my boy, calm down.” The hands left, but the voice – wait a minute, he knew that voice – kept speaking soothingly. “Kilgharrah brought you back. You’ve been sleeping for a few days now.”

    “Gaius,” Merlin croaked. He wanted to sit up, but his head was still spinning. “I can’t see.”

    “Yes, that’s nothing to worry about. You’re still recovering, after all.”

    Merlin felt himself blink, but the darkness blocking his sight didn’t vanish. “Recovering from what?” he asked, very slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. “I don’t… I don’t remember.”

    He felt the shift in the room. Gaius went quiet, and Merlin picked up on the sound of several other people breathing in the silence. He let his magic stretch, brushing around the room until he’d identified the others. Gaius, Will, Modred, Morgause, Gwen... Thank heavens his mother wasn't there.

    Gaius was the one who spoke first. “You don’t remember… anything?” he asked carefully.

    Merlin blinked again. “I woke up panicking, so I guess it was bad,” he offered, his corners of his mouth quirking up. “I remember something about an arrow.” Images were starting to filter through his head. He remembered the Forest. He remembered One Eye threatening him, saying he wanted to eat the human…

    “Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin muttered. “Did One Eye manage to eat him? I don’t remember what happened after –”

    After Arthur had cuffed him.

    Merlin’s hands flew to his writs, his breathing abruptly becoming short and panicked. He felt the smooth, warm skin beneath his palms and shuddered out a breath, the memory of cold burning silver sending shivers down his spine. The memory of the pain – the mind-numbing, consuming agony – had him holding back a pathetic whimper. His magic shivered, and he sucked in desperate breaths until he felt a little better.

    “Kilgharrah came?” he finally asked, his lips numb. His sight was returning, his magic twisting beneath his skin to fix him. He could see the worried glances of those in the room with him.

    “Yes,” Gaius replied calmly. “He heard your call and felt when your magic was… smothered.”

    Smothered, Merlin thought numbly. Said like that, it almost sounded harmless. “What happened before? How am I still alive?”

    Will shifted uncomfortably from his place by the door. “We don’t have the full story,” he muttered. “You’ll have to ask the Pendragon prince when he wakes up.”

    Merlin snapped his attention to Will. “He’s still alive?” He couldn’t quite mask the disbelief in his voice. “I remember – One Eye must have returned!”

    “He did,” Mordred said. His eyes gleamed, and Merlin felt sick at the look of glee in them. “He was taken care of.”

    Merlin narrowed his eyes, fully prepared to ask exactly what he meant by that, but Mordred's twin intervened before he could. “Will snuck into the camp to retrieve the key from the Pendragon’s tent.” Morgause sent her brother a dark look.

    Ever since Morgana had reunited the two, it had become harder and harder to tell them apart, despite the fact that Morgause was a woman and Mordred was a man. Morgause had cut her hair and Mordred had picked up on so many of his sister’s mannerisms that basically the only way to distinguish them was to take note of their eyes. Mordred’s left eye was green, his right blue – Morgause’s eyes were opposite.

    “Hey, it was no big deal,” Will said, having the common sense to shrink a little from Merlin’s glare. “We had to get those blasted things off you. They were killing you.”

    “Oh, how happy the Pendragon’s would have been then,” Mordred muttered ominously.

    “And Arthur…?”

    “Arthur is sleeping in the next room,” Gaius supplied, rising to his feet. His white hair was disarmingly bright as he shooed the others from the room. “I would suggest getting some more rest before you see to him, Merlin, but we all know how stubborn you are.”

    Merlin couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “I’ll see to him now, Gaius. The sooner the better.”

    Gaius grumbled before he was gone, leaving Merlin alone. He sighed and pushed himself off the bed, cursing his trembling limbs. He hobbled out of his room and slowly opened the door to Arthur’s room.

    He was passed out on the bed, his ribs wrapped in bandages. Doubtlessly, no one had wanted to heal him. Merlin found he couldn't really blame them. It was likely that Arthur would be furious when he woke up, but Merlin wasn't cruel. The prince didn't seem like the type of person who would be fine with doing nothing for the time it took whatever injuries he'd sustained to heal. Merlin sighed, carefully unwrapping the bandages and inspecting the wounds. His magic informed him of two broken ribs, and he could see the physical evidence in the form of a heavy purple bruise. When he prodded the wound gently, Arthur hissed and shuddered.

    Merlin sighed and pressed his hand against the warm skin. He murmured the spell, “Þurhhæle dolgbenn” and felt his magic stretching towards the wound, setting the bones and binding them together. The bruises faded until there was nothing but smooth, tanned skin beneath his hand.

    Merlin huffed out a breath. “I’m sure you would have rather healed on your own,” he muttered, getting to his feet to fetch a glass of water. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry. “But that would have taken a long time. I suppose you could look at it as though I’ve given you back six weeks you would have lost. But that would be looking at it favourably.” Merlin shook his head, staring at the empty glass in his hand.

    Arthur was still asleep, so Merlin continued his thinking aloud. “You didn’t even know about your mother,” he sighed. “Morgana’s been excited since the day I met you. And you don’t even know. I mean,” he added, in case Morgana had been watching and had Seen this, “she probably already knows. That you don’t know.”

    He stared at his reflection in the glass. “I can feel them,” he whispered to himself. “Everyone Uther has ever killed. Everyone who has been marked by his blade.” Merlin shook himself. “Do you ever stop and think, I wonder. All the lives your father has taken for the sake of ‘revenge’.” He played with the glass. “The families destroyed by one man’s hatred.”

    “He may be one man, but he’s the King,” Arthur rasped from behind him. Merlin let out a rather undignified noise and dropped the glass, his magic catching it moments before it shattered.

    “How long have you been awake?” Merlin asked, turning slowly. Arthur was sitting up on his bed, regarding Merlin with a peculiar expression.

    “Since the bit about you giving me six weeks back,” he replied, poking his healed ribs. “Who’s Morgana?”

    Merlin winced. “I’ll introduce the two of you,” he muttered, placing the glass carefully on the table. “You do realise what he’d be if he wasn’t the King,” he added on impulse, because he needed to make a point. He thought of the books on his desk, filled with the names of the dead. The names that Uther had put there.

    Arthur snorted. “A man?”

    “No,” Merlin said, turning to face him again. “A murderer.”

    And wasn't that the cold truth? Without the lies Uther had shielded himself with, without the men he had roused into fury, without the titles he had won, he was nothing more, and nothing less, than a murderer. Merlin imagined that if he cast a spell to show how much blood Uther had shed, the King would be dyed a red so strong it would never come off his skin.

    “He has his reasons!”

    “So does a murderer!” Merlin shouted back. The glass shattered on the table, and Arthur flinched. Merlin took a calming breath. “Your mother was an elf maiden,” he said, his fingers twitching. “She had magic. She had a sister. You had an elf aunt. She had magic. Your father killed her.” Merlin had researched this, so that he had the facts. He wouldn't make wild accusations - he would stick to fact.

    Arthur snorted. “You’re lying.”

    “I wouldn’t. Not about this.” Merlin felt his magic stroking the glass fragments, and with an impatient movement he fixed it.

    “I am not related to anyone with magic,” Arthur hissed, sounding revolted. “It’s evil.”

    Merlin stared at him until he began to fidget. Magic was evil, was it? “Who was it that started this war?” he asked softly, wincing as his tone came out harsher than he’d intended. “Who is the murderer in this situation?”

    “The elves killed my mother! You started it.”

    Merlin scoffed. “Your mother died in a magic related accident. Some humans were not happy with an elf Queen. They paid a sorcerer to scare her. Normally, your mother’s own magic was powerful enough to repel any attack, but she’d just given birth to you and –” Merlin stopped abruptly. Morgana. He’d been about to say Morgana. But Arthur didn’t know, didn’t even believe him. He couldn’t just add that he had a sister.

    “Uther was furious,” Merlin added after a beat of silence. “The sorcerer was found and burned, and the elves… Well, we found out the ones who had started it. We took care of them.”

    “You killed them?”

    “No,” Merlin replied absently. “They’d only wanted to scare her, after all. The death was an accident. The sorcerer didn’t need to burn – he’d never meant to harm her.”

    Arthur was watching him with suspicion. “Then how did you ‘take care’ of them?” he asked.

    Merlin felt his lips turn up in a humourless smile. “We scared them,” he answered. “Like they’d tried to scare your mother. Nimueh was all for their deaths, but she was the only one. We believe in balance, Arthur. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. We believed Uther understood. We were wrong,” he finished, his voice cold.

    “Then please explain to me why my father thinks the elves killed my mother.”

    Merlin frowned. “Were you not listening to me? Uther knows who killed Ygraine. He already killed the sorcerer. I won’t pretend that I understand his grief, nor that I understand his twisted mind, but grief does strange things to people.”

     “I don’t believe you,” Arthur said stiffly, rising to his feet. They both paused when the sound of footsteps echoing up the hall.

    Merlin sighed when his magic informed him who it was. “Sit back down before you do something stupid,” he muttered. “She’ll have my head if anything happens to you again.”

    “She?” Arthur questioned, but the door blew open before Merlin could respond.

    In walked a tall, dark-haired woman. Her skin was pale, her eyes glittering emeralds. Her hair was loose down her back, gently curling near the ends. She moved with more grace than Merlin could ever hope to, and the smirk on her red lips almost made him groan.

    “You are ridiculous,” Merlin muttered. When she looked at him, eyebrow raised in question, he elaborated. “We all know you’re beautiful. We all know you like the dramatic. Stop with these ridiculously timed entrances already!”

    “I’m Morgana,” she offered, both an explanation and an introduction. Morgana looked at Arthur. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Arthur Pendragon. I’ve been waiting a long time, although these are perhaps not the conditions I had hoped for.”

    “Oh?” Merlin asked snidely. “What are you missing? The butterflies? Here.” He waved a hand at her, and several vibrantly coloured butterflies shimmered into life, dancing around Morgana’s dark head. Morgana opened her mouth, but Merlin cut in. “No wait, isn’t it doves you like?” A pair of the white birds suddenly flitted in through the open window, one landing on each shoulder.

    “That’s funny,” Morgana said coolly, but the amused glint in her eyes didn’t escape him. He grinned.

    “I should get paid,” he agreed.

    “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Arthur snapped, not sounding very sorry at all, “but would someone tell me what is going on?”

    Morgana cocked an eyebrow in silent question, and Merlin responded with the universal gesture ‘he’s all yours’. She nodded and looked back at Arthur while Merlin sent the butterflies and the doves back outside.

    “As I said, I’m Morgana. This is –”

    “Don’t introduce me, I can do it myself,” Merlin interrupted, earning a glare from both of them.

    “Anyway,” Morgana said, drawing the word out. “It’s nice to meet you.” She offered her hand, which Arthur carefully took. “I’m your sister.”

Chapter Text

    For a moment, Arthur thought he might have been hearing things. The beautiful woman called Morgana – and when he said beautiful, he meant absolutely stunning – who claimed to be his sister – as if Arthur could believe her for a second – was smiling almost fondly. The elf, his elf, watched the proceedings with a smile that could have been a smirk, but Arthur was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Surely his elf wouldn’t be laughing.

    He opened his mouth, but Morgana spoke again. “My mother was Ygraine de Bois, and my father was Uther Pendragon.” Arthur heard the hatred dripping from his father’s name and stiffened, but she smirked at him. “He cast me aside when we were but children,” she continued. “I took on more of mother’s blood than you did, Arthur.”

    “I am not an elf,” he replied coolly. “I am just a human.”

    Morgana looked expectantly at his elf, who blinked at her blankly before understanding crossed his face in a flash. “I was actually just about to leave you two to it,” he muttered crossly. He turned his eyes to Arthur, and he could barely repress the shudder that ran through him when those eyes met his.

    What was wrong with him?

    “Children with a single elf parent,” his elf began, sounding like he was repeating something he’d read, “have one of two options. They can either be human or elf. Both elf blood and human blood are dominant, so you’ll never see a mostly human human with elf ears, or something ridiculous like that.

    “With twins, the documented cases show that it’s more common for the older sibling to be the same race and gender as the human, while the younger sibling is more like the elf.” The elf rubbed his nose, almost self-consciously.

    “We’re different,” Morgana cut in smugly, and Arthur blinked at her, having quite forgotten that she was in the room. “I’m the oldest, yet I’m the opposite of everything that makes Uther Uther.”

    “You really expect me to believe this?” Arthur asked disbelievingly. “How stupid do you think I am?”

    “Personally? I think you’re a prat, an idiot and just generally a cabbagehead,” his elf piped up, an amused gleam in his eye. “But I also think you pretend to be stupider than you are.” Arthur hid his surprise well – what made his elf think that?

    “Besides, we’re not just expecting you to take our word for it,” Morgana added, turning on her heel and gliding to the door. “Gaius here will be able to tell you all about it.” She flung open the door, surprising a white-haired old man.

    Arthur frowned, sure his mind was playing tricks on him, because the old man in front of him looked like his father’s old advisor. And hadn’t Morgana called him Gaius? The old man stepped into the room, smiling brightly up at Morgana before his eyes landed on his elf.

    “What did I tell you, Merlin?” the old man admonished, shaking his head. “You’re still recovering!”

    “I’m fine, Gaius,” his elf – Merlin – sighed. He wriggled his fingers. “No lasting damage here.” Golden ribbons curled from his fingertips, coiling through the air. “See?”

    Arthur sat down abruptly. “The drake…” he muttered. He stared at Merlin for a long moment. “How powerful are you?” he asked. “How do you match up to Emrys?”

    Merlin flinched and the ribbons of magic faded. Gaius and Morgana stared at him warily. “At some point, someone is going to have to tell me what happened to One Eye,” Merlin murmured, brows furrowed. “Because I don’t remember, and Mordred looked way too pleased for it to be anything good.” Merlin looked expectantly around the room. “No? Right then.”

    The elf spun on his heel and marched out the door, leaving Morgana and the two humans staring after him. The room was silent for a moment before Gaius released a heavy sigh.

    “That boy,” he muttered. He turned to Morgana. “Will he be alright with the truth, my lady?”

    Morgana’s lips were pursed. “You know it doesn’t work like that, Gaius,” she said gently, placing a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen anything about this. And I’ve asked you to stop calling me that. I’m a lady no longer.”

    Arthur fidgeted with his sheets. “What did he mean, he doesn’t remember? He was there!”

    “The manacles you placed around his wrists were designed to lock away, and drain, his magic,” Gaius started, and Arthur couldn’t help the wince of guilt. “But Merlin isn’t your average sorcerer. He’s a warlock.”

    Arthur frowned. Warlocks were magic-users who were born with magic. At the beginning of the Purge, many sorcerers had claimed to be warlocks, but when Uther had demanded proof, they had had none. “Warlock’s don’t exist,” he replied. “They’re just a myth.”

    “Merlin is proof that this is not so. Morgana is another, but she isn’t the same as Merlin.” Morgana smiled and gave him a little wave. “The manacles could not find the magic they had been made to find, so they attacked the next best thing – Merlin himself.”

    “They were broken?” Arthur asked, wide-eyed.

    Gaius shook his head. “Not at all. The manacles were in perfect working order. They were simply designed for one purpose, and that was to cleanse the person they had been attached to of magic. Merlin’s own magic is subtly different to a sorcerer’s, like a different flavour of tea. The manacles couldn’t attack it, but my guess is that they sensed it and decided that Merlin’s life was an appropriate substitute.”

    Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat. “The manacles were killing him?” At Gaius’ silent nod, Arthur felt himself pale. “I didn’t intend for that,” he said sharply. “I had no intention of killing him.”

    Morgana smiled, but it wasn’t a very nice smile. It was sharp and dangerous, and sent a shudder down Arthur’s spine. “We know that, Arthur,” she assured him, although her tone was venomous. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

    “Kilgharrah wouldn’t have allowed you to live if he thought your intent was to kill Merlin,” Gaius added. “And I’m sure if Kilgharrah had, for some reason, allowed you to live when that was your intent, I believe I would be correct in saying that there would be many elves, and some humans, out for you head.” Gaius gave him a pleasant smile. “But it was not, and so you may rest assured your head is safe.”

    Arthur tried his best not to show his sudden terror. Kilgharrah himself is frightening enough on his own, but the thought of others was too much. “You said the cuffs were in perfect working order,” he said, keeping his voice steady with effort.

    Gaius nodded. “Kilgharrah took care of them while you were both unconscious. The maker of the manacles did not make them resistant to dragon fire.”

    “Ah,” Arthur replied, sounding a little lost. “I suppose you’ll be letting me go, then?” he asked hopefully.

    “That’s up to Merlin,” Morgana said. “You’re his problem now.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Arthur didn’t see Merlin again until the next day. After Morgana and Gaius had left, he’d realised the two had successfully avoided his questions and Gaius hadn’t cleared up the whole he-was-the-younger-twin-of-an-elf-and-his-mother-had-been-an-elf business. Needless to say, he was extremely annoyed at himself. He’d fallen into a fitful sleep, waking up with the sun the following morning.

    He moved around carefully, amazed how well his wounds had healed. There wasn’t the slightest twinge of pain from his ribs when he moved. He washed in a basin the elves had left for him and ate the bread and fruit someone had left in his room. After dressing in the clothes laid over the chair, Arthur stuck his head out the door. There were no guards, so he left his room to explore.

    He wandered outside and was almost immediately knocked over by a group of children. He stumbled and muttered a curse, but a little girl came forward and, giggling, offered him a flower. He found his anger melting away at the sight of her bright smile. He took the flower and gave her a bow, sending the children into giggles all over again.

    “Mia!” a voice called sharply, and the little girl peered over her shoulder. A dark-haired elf woman was watching the group of children almost fearfully, and for a moment Arthur found himself confused.

    “Mama!” she cried, racing over to the woman. She was picked up, and Arthur felt his smile fade when he met the cold eyes of the elf woman. Ah, he thought. I am the danger.

    The elf woman tucked the child’s hair behind her ears, gently scolding her. Arthur felt something in him twist at the sight of the child’s pointed ears. He turned on his heel and walked away, not caring where he was going. He just needed to get away.

    Arthur ended up at the edge of lake. He was breathing hard, and he felt his hands shake. He forced them to still and took a seat on a fallen log. The image of the brightly smiling Mia made his chest clench. He found himself wondering how many children had been orphaned, how many had died because they had no one to turn to. Arthur felt sick. He didn’t know how long he was sitting there before he realised he wasn’t alone.

    “I’m sorry,” Merlin sighed, sitting close enough that Arthur could feel the heat from his body. “I should have warned you to stay inside.”

    “No,” Arthur replied, and it sounding like he was choking. He cleared his throat. “No,” he repeated, “I should have realised.” Realised what a monster I am in the eyes of the elves, he added silently.

    Merlin seemed to accept that. The two sat in silence for a time, before Arthur broke it. “Where did you go?”

    “I went to see what I’d done,” Merlin replied. Ah. The dead drake. “I had Kilgharrah fly me there. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

    There was something in his tone that Arthur didn’t like. “No, I should be thanking you. For killing that beast. It would have killed me otherwise.”

    “Had I been myself, I would have let him.”

    That was not what Arthur had expected. “Excuse me?” he demanded.

    “If you had died, perhaps Uther would have stopped,” Merlin sighed, the defeated note in his voice more prominent. “Your death had the potential to save so many lives. Morgana wouldn’t have been happy, but still…” The elf stared pensively at the lake, and Arthur had a moment to note that sadness was not a good look for the elf before Merlin turned to stare at him. “One Eye was not merely a beast. He was a sentient creature. He thought, he spoke, he felt. His death is not something to celebrate.”

    “What is with you?” Arthur demanded, getting to his feet. “Why are you being so… so… defeated? What happened to you for you to change overnight?”

    Merlin stared at him. “The war continues,” he replied softly. “The deaths keep happening, and I can’t do anything to stop it.”

    “You could stand down! Let my father win!”

    The elf looked at him oddly. “We would prefer to go down fighting, Arthur. A weapon in our hand, the blood of our enemies shed upon the earth, and the song of victory in our hearts.” His chin fell against his chest and he stared at his feet. “Letting Uther Pendragon win would be akin to lining up to be slaughtered. We will not do that, Arthur. We can’t. As a race, we are too set in our ways and our beliefs.”

    “So what? You expect Emrys to appear and save you all?” Arthur snapped, aware he was being cruel but so angry he could barely help it. The image of the elf child flashed across his mind and he clenched his jaw. “Perhaps Emrys will take you all to a faraway land where you’ll never have to deal with the Pendragon’s again!”

    Merlin was staring at him again, eyes wide and skin pale. “That’s what everyone hopes,” he whispered, and Arthur didn’t understand why that seemed to make the elf beside him curl up. His shoulders shook, and for a moment Arthur was horrified to imagine he might be crying, but Merlin’s eyes were dry. “‘Emrys will be our saviour’, they say. ‘Emrys will end this war’. But what if he’s just as scared as everyone else? What happens if he just wants to live in peace, if he doesn’t think of himself as a saviour or a hero?” Merlin bit his lip, turning his gaze across the lake.

    “What if Emrys just wants to be normal?”

Chapter Text

    To say Merlin wasn’t very impressed with himself was a little bit of an understatement. To say he felt hollow, empty, torn apart – well, that was an understatement too.

    He couldn’t believe he’d done something like that. That his magic had done something like that. One Eye had never stood a chance. He had never been a very nice creature, but better the devil you know. Merlin had no idea who commanded that flock now, and that worried him. He could command them to tell him, but after the destruction his magic had caused, after the blood it had shed, he didn’t want to.

    He’d spent the morning writing names in his book. No one had been taken – they’d all just been killed. Merlin felt it spoke volumes that this relieved him, and he found himself wishing he didn’t know so much about war as to be relieved when someone died instead of being captured by the enemy. He wished he didn't know so much about loss that the hole in his chest was as familiar as the beat of his own heart. He wished he didn't know so much about pain that the ache in his chest no longer bothered him, and that the tears he should be shedding had long since dried up.

    He’d seen the way one of the mothers – Miriam, he recalled she was named – had reacted to the sight of the Pendragon prince. Her daughter was too young to know who he was, and Merlin had watched with a smile as the little girl had gifted to him a flower. Arthur Pendragon had looked shocked, and then pleased with the gift, even going as far as to bow to the young elf.

    Merlin had followed Arthur because the prince seemed to be a magnet for trouble. He ended up sitting beside him, staring out across Freya’s lake and letting his frustration out.

    “What if Emrys just wants to normal?” he asked, desperation colouring his words. He didn’t really expect an answer, and he didn’t receive one. Arthur looked at him like he was insane, and Merlin felt something inside him buckle.

    He stood abruptly. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” Merlin spun on his heel and walked, listening to the sound of Arthur following him. He led the prince across to his study and began to pull out several books.

    “What are those for?” Arthur asked, leaning against the desk.

    “Open one and find out,” Merlin replied a little sharply. He handed a book to Arthur and watched him flip through the pages, reading the names printed on them in Merlin’s hand. Arthur looked up at him blankly.

    “Who are these people?”

    Merlin closed his eyes. “Our dead warriors,” he whispered hoarsely. “All the losses we have suffered at the hands of the Pendragon’s. At the hands of you and your father.” Moving quickly, Merlin pulled out a beautifully bound book with a silver cover. He stroked it with trembling hands. “This is a book of the innocents who have died.”

    Arthur took the book wordlessly. Page after page he flipped, until he came to the last name. “What do you mean by innocents?” he asked, but Merlin heard the crack in his voice and felt only relief that he wasn’t the only one breaking. Relief that he wasn't the only one the war was tearing apart.

    “The ones who refused to fight. The ones who cannot fight.” Merlin made sure to meet Arthur’s eyes. “The elderly, some women… Children. There are still some out there, who have been unable to reach the safety of this place. One by one,” he said, eyes returning to the book, “I watch their names appear on the pages.”

    “You don’t write them?”

    He shook his head. “Not for this one. I – Emrys created a spell. The spell can feel them out there. We know where they are, but we can’t get to them. Especially not now. When they disappear – when they die, or are killed – the spell causes their name to appear. Look; it’s happening right now.”

    And indeed it was. The air around the book shimmered, and a name, written in golden ink, settled onto the page. Merlin bit back a noise of horror when he saw the name and turned away. Morgana appeared at the door, looking between the two.

    “I Saw that you needed me,” she offered, and Merlin nodded.

    “I need to speak to Miriam,” he said softly. “Another name has come up.”

    Morgana, to her credit, did little more than nod and do as he’d asked. Merlin sat down heavily in his chair, feeling decades older than he was. He rubbed his face and waited. Arthur remained silent, staring at the page.

    “You called?” Miriam said, appearing in the doorway. Merlin had always thought her oddly beautiful, for all that she pretended otherwise. After Hunith had been killed, Miriam had taken him in, helping Gaius deal with his power and curiosity. He owed her more than most.

    “Miriam,” Merlin greeted her softly. “The book of innocents has received another name.”

    She stiffened and stood up straighter. “Who?”

    “I’m sorry, Miriam. I’m afraid it’s… Well, it’s Astrid.”

    Everyone was silent – Miriam looked as though her world had come crashing down around her, and Arthur remained still and quiet, obviously trying not to intrude. Merlin doubted Miriam had even noticed he was there.

    “Are you – are you sure, Merlin? It isn’t some sort of – it isn’t a mistake?”

    Merlin bowed his head. “The spell does not make mistakes. I will organise a service as soon as possible.” He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I am so sorry.”

    For a moment, he thought she would collapse into him, but Miriam was made of stronger stuff than that. She pulled herself together, offered him a bow and a broken smile, and promptly left. Merlin sighed sadly and sat back down. After another moment of silence, he said, “Ask.”

    “Who is Astrid?” Arthur asked, putting the book down gently and turning to face him.

    “Astrid is – was – Miriam’s youngest and only surviving sister. She went travelling in search of another safe place early on in the war. She’s been gone ever since. Miriam’s other sisters were killed in the first attack on Lukara.”

    “She has no one left?”

    “She has an older brother who is still alive, but he will not return.”

    Arthur frowned. “Why not?”

    “He was cast out before the war. He was a decent Seer, definitely not as powerful as Morgana, but decent. He saw the war coming and tried to warn us, but we didn’t believe him. After all, what reason did we have to suspect your father would decide to slaughter us? It was only after the Dragonlord Balinor was murdered that we began to suspect he had been right. By then, it was too late.”

    Arthur went quiet, and Merlin appreciated the moment to gather his thoughts. Sharing this with the Pendragon prince had eased some of the pain and fury welling in his chest, but there was still an ache that he couldn’t soothe. There was too much pain, too much death, and for a moment Merlin let himself imagine what it would be like if they lived in peace.

    “Merlin,” Arthur began hesitantly. “I have to ask you something, and I’d really appreciate it if you told the truth.” When Merlin met his eyes, Arthur asked his question.

    “Do you know who Emrys is?”

Chapter Text

    Merlin took a step away from Arthur, his face blanking and closing off. “We all know who Emrys is,” he replied, and Arthur thought he detected a hint of pain in his voice. “Emrys has been marked since he was a child, born of magic as he was.”

    Arthur ran his fingers through his hair. “Born of magic?”

    “When he was a baby, he could do magic before he could talk. It was instinctive, natural. Everyone celebrated his birth. Emrys was a hope we had never had before. They say the land was pleased with his coming, because it became spring the moment he was born – and he was born in the dead of winter.” Merlin sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair. “There are too many stories about him for me to tell you now.”

    “But he hasn’t helped,” Arthur felt compelled to point out. “If anything, he’s made it worse by hiding. He’s a coward.”

    He was somehow still surprised when he found himself thrown into the air. The breath left his lungs in a rush as he slammed into the wall of the study. He knew he wasn’t hurt, because in the brief time he’d known Merlin he’d come to realised Merlin was one of those people that shouldn’t exist. Too bright, too good for this world and the war they were in.

    Merlin’s face was angry, thunderclouds over a dark sky. His eyes seemed to burn darker, little flickers of gold only serving to emphasise the fury in his expression. His mouth was a thin line, lips white and taut. Magic crackled around him, and with each flicker of gold in his eyes, Arthur could have sworn the air shivered.

    “Tell me something,” Merlin said, abruptly turning away from Arthur. He took in a deep breath and stood, subtly checking himself for injuries. He nodded to himself – he didn’t hurt anywhere. Maybe, just maybe, his father had been… Mistaken. Not all magic-users were evil. Morgana didn’t seem to be, and Merlin definitely wasn’t.

    “Pendragon,” Merlin snapped. Arthur jerked his head to look at him, but Merlin was still facing away, looking out the window. “I asked you a question.”

    “I didn’t hear.”

    “What do you think Emrys is?” Merlin said. “To expand; what do you think of when you hear his name?”

    Arthur paused. The name made him think of destruction and death, of women screaming and children crying. At least, it had. Now, all he could think of was red-scaled dragons and flashing golden eyes.

    “I don’t know,” Arthur hedged, only a little guilty of lying. “We only have books. I haven’t met him.”

    Merlin laughed humourlessly. “But you would have already had an opinion of him. That’s what happens. You hear about someone, about something. You hear the stories that are told, stories that have been told countless times. Stories where the original is so distorted you don’t even know what’s fact or fiction anymore. You hear these, and you form an opinion.”

    Arthur nodded, even though Merlin wasn’t looking at him. “That’s true,” he said cautiously. “But an opinion isn’t always right.”

    “Very rarely is an opinion based on stories correct,” Merlin said dryly. “But this question does not have a right or wrong answer, Pendragon.”

    Arthur swallowed. “You won’t like it.”

    Merlin finally turned to look at him, and Arthur was made mute at the sadness in those beautiful eyes. “Arthur Pendragon,” he said softly. “We are in a war. A war that has no end, bar the extinction of my race. A war that can’t be resolved peacefully because both sides hate each other with a passion. So no, I probably won’t like your opinion. But I don’t like this situation, either.”

    “What good will come of me answering your question?”

    Merlin shrugged. “Probably nothing.”

    There was an unspoken hope in the elf’s voice that Arthur couldn’t identify. He sighed, shaking his head. “Under my father’s rule, we were taught that magic was a corruption so foul it turned its user into an impure creature,” Arthur started. “The first time I heard the name Emrys was also the first time I saw the red dragon. When I asked my father about it, he told me that Emrys was an elf who was magic.

    “Emrys was magic,” Arthur repeated. “To someone who had been taught magic was a corruption, it was the most of evil of all creatures to exist. Of course I thought Emrys was a creature of filth and corruption.”

    “You said thought,” Merlin noted.

    “I did. I imagined a dark figure who drank blood and killed children for sport.” He shook his head. “I imagined Emrys as the greatest enemy I would ever face.”

    “What changed?”

    “You,” Arthur replied. “You were so… different. To what I had imagined, to the preconceived notion I had of sorcerers. I found myself thinking what if you weren’t all bad? What if my father was mistaken?” To Merlin’s credit, Arthur barely heard the quiet snort. “And then the name Emrys wasn’t about destruction at all. It was a name of power, of red dragons and golden eyes. And I just can’t help but ask why he hasn’t done anything?”

    Arthur spun on his heel, gesturing out the window. “The people love him. They would protect him at the cost of their own lives. And he hasn’t saved them. If I was in his position, I would have ended this war. Whatever the cost.”

    “Even if it meant your people would be hunted?” Merlin asked softly. “Even if it meant you had to kill every last human? If it meant women and children – who had never known that your people weren’t the monsters their king had made them out to be – died for no reason?”

    Arthur blanched. “I – but you wouldn’t need to kill them!”

    “All it would take was one vengeful son, one desperate wife,” Merlin said. “One child whose parents both fought in the war. And you would have the seeds for another war. What then? It would turn into an endless cycle of killing and hate.”

    The truth in Merlin’s words hit him like a brick. “But… You could explain –” he started weakly, but Merlin spoke over him, his voice still gentle.

    “Explain that your people deserved to live more than theirs? That you were somehow better than them?” Merlin shook his head. “Resentment would be the cause of the next war. All it takes is one spark, and you would have a forest fire on your hands.”

    “Then just talk!” Arthur shouted. “Just meet with the other leader and talk it out!”

    “If I went to your father right now, asking for peace,” Merlin said in a low voice, “how would he react? What would he do?”

    “He would – well obviously he’d…”

    “And now,” Merlin continued, “imagine that Emrys went. Imagine that the most powerful sorcerer went into your father’s tent, because of course he would never come here, would he? And of course Emrys wouldn’t use his magic – this is a peace negotiation after all. What would Uther Pendragon do?”

    Arthur couldn’t speak. He stared at Merlin, who looked steadily back at him. He knew what his father would do. He swallowed thickly but didn’t say a word. Merlin eventually looked away, nothing but weariness in his expression.

    “Will is going to lead you back to your camp tonight,” he said softly. “I don’t expect you to come back, Arthur Pendragon. Do not think you have to. We can have nothing more to do with each other, apart from when we meet on the battlefield. But if you want this bloodshed to end as much as I do.” Merlin looked back at him searchingly. “If you want this war to end, feel free to come back. We will not attack unless you do. This I do swear.”

    Arthur nodded once. A hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned to find Will looking up at him with an impassive face. “Come with me,” he said.

    “Yes, of course,” Arthur managed to say. He didn’t get a chance to say anything to Merlin – as soon as they were out the door, a gust of unnatural wind slammed the door.

    “Yikes,” Will said mildly. “That must have been a hell of a conversation.”

    “It was,” Arthur replied. “Can I – can I ask you something?”

    Will looked at him curiously as they walked. “What does the great Pendragon want to ask of me?”

    “I don’t – why are you here?” Arthur blurted out. “You’re human.”

    Will didn’t look insulted, as Arthur had half expected. “I fell in love with a lovely maiden,” Will replied.

    “The elf on the Plains of Blood,” Arthur murmured. “Did Emrys save her?”

    “You saw her, did you?” Will smiled. “As beautiful as they come, Freya is. But no. Emrys didn’t save her. Not like you’re thinking, anyway. He doesn’t have the power over life and death.”

    “Why not? I thought he was the most powerful sorcerer.”

    “He is, but a sorcerer isn’t a necromancer.” Will nodded at a twisted black spire on the horizon. “That’s Nimueh’s tower. She brings people back from the dead, for a price. I begged Merlin, but Freya wouldn’t have wanted that for herself.”

    “You begged Merlin? Why?”

    “Freya’s his sister,” Will said. “I wasn’t thinking straight, but he kept his head on. Performed something of a miracle.” He glanced at Arthur. “Tell you what. We have a lot of time before sundown, and I haven’t seen her all day. I’ll show you.”

    “Okay?”

    Will led Arthur out of the village, down a twisting trail that seemed vaguely familiar. In the distance, Arthur could see the glinting surface of a lake. The same lake he and Merlin had sat at the edge of, discussing Emrys. Something they seemed to do a lot of, now that Arthur thought about it. Admittedly, it was mostly his fault, but Merlin always seemed willing to talk about him. Arthur guessed it was just because Merlin respected Emrys.

    They stopped at the edge of the lake, and Will stepped even closer. The lake lapped at his toes. “Freya!” he called. “I’ve brought someone to meet you!”

    For a moment, nothing happened. But then the surface of the water began to roil. Arthur watched in open mouthed fascination as a slender arm emerged from the water – but the arm was made from the water of the lake. Within moments, a blue figure was walking towards them.

    “Hello, Arthur Pendragon,” the water sprite said as she grew nearer. “Ever since Kilgharrah brought you back I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

    “Oh, uh, hello?” Arthur sputtered.

    “My name is Freya. Merlin is my brother. Will is my partner. I remember you from the battle. I felt your intention to warn me, just too late.” The water sprite smiled softly.

    “I – I’m sorry, how?”

    Will smiled cheerfully. “Merlin is magnificent,” he replied. “He saved her.”

    “My brother saved me,” Freya agreed. “And I hear he saved you too, Arthur Pendragon.”

    “He – he did. I’m not so sure I deserve it, though.”

    The smile dropped from Freya’s face. “No,” she agreed again, her voice a little sharper. “I’m not sure you deserved it either.”

    “Freya,” Will started, but Freya raised one hand and he fell silent. Arthur swallowed nervously.

    “He needs to understand, Will,” she said firmly. “The spell that keeps me here was almost destroyed by your little stunt with those cuffs,” she snapped. “Have you ever been on the brink of death? No? Try being on the brink of death twice. It’s not a pleasant experience.”

    “I wouldn’t imagine so,” Arthur replied carefully.

    “And then he healed you! I was so angry.” She stepped closer. “My brother is a kind person, Pendragon. Kinder than anyone had any right to be. He still has hope – after everything we’ve been through – that you and yours can be reasoned with.” She took another step forward. “I’ll bet he never told you about our father, did he?”

    “No.”

    “Freya,” Will started again.

    “This is my story to tell as much as his,” she snapped. “Your father invited ours over. A peace meeting, he claimed. Weary as he was, our father went. Needless to say, he never came back. Our mother cried for months, and Merlin? Merlin aged overnight.”

    “I – I’m s-”

    “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Balinor deserves more than a sorry.”

    Arthur paused. Balinor. He knew that name. Why did he know the name of an elf? More importantly, why did he know the name of Merlin’s father?

    “Freya, I have to take him back now,” Will said, taking advantage of the sudden quiet. “I’ll be back later, alright?”

    Freya didn’t respond – she simply melted back into the lake. With a sigh, Will grabbed Arthur’s arm and tugged him along.

    Arthur spent the walk searching through his memories for the name Balinor. He knew he’d heard it before, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of where. He barely registered that they’d stopped walking.

    Will shook his shoulder. “This is where I leave you. Goodbye, Arthur Pendragon.”

    “Goodbye,” Arthur replied a little hoarsely, and watched Will vanish into the woods, leaving nothing but questions.

    Questions Arthur intended to answer.