Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Geoffrey of Monmouth narrated many a tale before his rather timely demise. So many, in fact, that were it not for his written records, he would have forgotten, or at least swapped, the details of each one.

But there is one story that he’d never forget. One that lives on to this day, through his insistence on copying it over and over until every word stuck in his head.

This is the story of how magic returned to the kingdom of Camelot, via one Merlin of Ealdor, with the help of Prince Arthur Pendragon (aliases clotpole and dollophead).

~<:>~

Our story begins in Ealdor, a village on the outer edges of Camelot’s reach. A young woman named Hunith has recently given birth to a baby boy with big ears and a full head of dark, messy hair, whom she and her husband, Balinor, have decided to call: Merlin.

On this particular evening, Hunith and Merlin are at home by themselves, Hunith humming to herself as she cooks dinner, Merlin sitting happily in his cradle behind her. A knock sounds at the door, drawing Hunith’s attention. She goes to open it, expecting to see Balinor on the other side.

Instead, there is a beautiful woman, dripping wet from the rain, her pale skin shimmering, suspiciously supernatural. Wary, Hunith keeps her body as a shield between Merlin and this mysterious stranger. “Can I help you?”

The woman lifts her dark red hood and lets it fall back onto her intricately braided hair. “May I enter?”

Hunith does not know this woman, and she has a healthy fear of exposing her son to whatever danger she might pose. However, she would be remiss in her duties as Ealdor’s local innkeeper if she were to leave a visitor out in the downpour.

She steps aside, and the stranger bows her head graciously, moving past Hunith and towards the back of the room, where Merlin is watching the two of them curiously. Hunith edges along the kitchen cupboards, hoping to reach one of her cooking knives quickly, should she need it.

“I have a message to deliver,” the stranger says, turning back to Hunith. Before Hunith can ask, the woman raises her hand, and along with it, Merlin ascends into the air. Hunith gasps, grabbing for a knife as Merlin floats over into the woman’s arms.

“Put my son down,” Hunith demands, brandishing her weapon. “I will not let you take him.”

“I am not here to take anything,” the stranger assures her. “I am here to give.”

Without another word, she stares down at Merlin, her blue eyes flashing gold. Hunith watches, horrified, as her son’s eyes flash the same color, and soft orbs of light bleed into existence, dancing ambiently around the room.

The woman smiles. “Your son has magic.”

“No!” Hunith cries. Tears threaten to spill onto her cheeks as the reality settles in. “Why would you do this? Who are you?”

“You may call me Nimueh,” the stranger says, and promptly vanishes.

Hunith lurches forward, expecting to catch a falling Merlin, but her son remains hovering in the air, tiny palms grasping at the lights he conjured. The image both warms and breaks Hunith’s heart, and she crumples to the floor in defeat.

Her son has magic. In this kingdom, he will never be safe.

~<:>~

As Merlin grows, so does his power. The many cuts and bruises he gets from his clumsy nature heal far too quickly; trees and flowers and other vegetation noticeably respond to his touch; his frustration can crack windows and set nearby objects alight. His mood even starts to impact the weather around him.

Eventually, it becomes impossible to hide. Thus, on his tenth birthday, Hunith and Balinor decide to share the secret with their son.

“But… why did she do it?” Merlin asks, deep blue eyes shining. “Why did she give me something that she knew would hurt me?”

Hunith rubs soothing circles over his back. “I don’t know, Merlin. Your father and I have tried to find her, but all these years, she’s remained hidden. I’m so sorry, love.”

Balinor takes his wife’s hand across Merlin’s lap. “We won’t give up,” he says. “I promise, Merlin, we will find Nimueh, one day. In the meantime, we thought it best that you knew, so you can protect yourself from people who would want to hurt you.”

Merlin nods sagely. “I can protect myself. Whenever I feel threatened, things just… happen, and then I’m safe again.”

Hunith and Balinor exchange a look over Merlin’s head. “Yes, dear, but you have to be careful about that,” Hunith explains. “By protect yourself, we mean… keep your magic hidden. Don’t reveal it, and don’t tell anyone about it.”

This brings a pout to Merlin’s face. “Not even Will?”

“Not even Will,” Hunith affirms. “You’d be putting him in danger, too, if he knew.”

A few moments pass as Merlin absorbs this flood of information. “Would I be able to tell him, one day? Once you find Nimueh, or… once dad gets the king to allow sorcery in Camelot again?”

Balinor chuckles fondly. “Well, Merlin, I like your optimism. But it’s more likely that we’ll find Nimueh before the king ever changes his insufferably arrogant mind.”

“Balinor,” Hunith scolds, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Don’t teach our son to hate the king.”

“Plenty of people hate the king,” Balinor retorts. “What’s one more?”

Hunith rolls her eyes as Merlin cheers. “Yes! Down with Uther Pendragon!”

“You are never to say that outside these walls,” his mother warns.

Balinor shakes his head. “Come on, my love.” As he stands, he pulls Hunith up with him, one arm encircling her waist. “Let’s not waste the feast you’ve prepared for Merlin’s birthday.”

“And then after I can go see Will, right?” Merlin looks between his parents hopefully, the serious conversation already fading from his mind.

Hunith smiles. “Of course, dear. Now, let’s eat.”

Unbeknownst to the poor family, this would be the last night that three of them would spend together, in the warmth of their little home beside the inn.

~<:>~

After Balinor dies, attacked by bandits out on one of his trips searching for Nimueh, Merlin withdraws into himself. There’s not a thing that Hunith or Will can do to coax him out of his grief.

It’s his fault. Merlin knows it’s his fault. If he weren’t such a burden, his parents wouldn’t have to go to drastic measures to look after him. His father never would have been out on those dangerous roads, and he would still be here, to joke with Merlin about the Pendragons and update him on the status of the petitions.

There isn’t anyone to lead the charge in support of magic now. Because of Merlin’s magic. Because of Merlin.

And Will is forced to move away once he learns of it as well, adding to the hole in Merlin’s chest. Everything his magic touches crumbles, eventually.

~<:>~

As the years pass, and the pain of Balinor’s death dulls to an ache, Merlin opens back up.

He gets out of the house by taking frequent trips to the marketplace to gather groceries. He starts doing most of the heavy lifting around the inn to take the weight off his mother’s shoulders. And, per Hunith’s suggestion, he starts working downtown as an apprentice to the local physician, Gaius.

Gaius acts as a mentor in more ways than one. Apparently, he’s the only other person in Ealdor that Hunith told about Merlin’s magic. As a skilled— though retired— sorcerer, Gaius brings Merlin comfort, takes the young boy under his wing.

Merlin has no desire to hone his powers the way Gaius suggests at first, but he doesn’t mind infusing healing draughts and cleansing wounds with a bit of an extra push. Although he won’t admit it to himself, it helps to have something good to do with this energy constantly humming beneath his skin. So he keeps learning, secretly, little by little.

Since Merlin starts spending so much time in the more populated part of Ealdor, he meets more people— namely Gwen and Elyan, who work across the street in their father’s forge.

Merlin and Gwen hit it off immediately, as they’re both clumsy, socially awkward teenagers, and Elyan gets ushered into the fold automatically, being Gwen’s protective older brother. Merlin takes extra care not to show his magic around them. He doesn’t want a repeat of what happened with Will.

By the time Merlin is twenty, his life has fallen into a satisfying rhythm. He enjoys his work with Gaius, spends weekends messing about with Gwen and Elyan, and cooks nightly dinners for Hunith, who still has her health, and the inn, although there aren’t too many customers. But, overall, Merlin can truly say that his only worry in the world is keeping his power a secret, and even that has become easier and easier with age.

Everything isn’t perfect. It’s simply good.

~<:>~

That steady rhythm falls apart quickly enough.

“You’re getting married?!” Merlin exclaims.

Hunith shushes him, taking his hands in hers. “I have to, Merlin. Otherwise, we’ll lose the inn.”

Shocked, Merlin gapes. “What about the money I’m making with Gaius?”

“Gaius is generous,” Hunith admits. “But we can’t expect him to sustain us when he’s hardly better off.”

Merlin can’t believe this. How did he miss that they were running out of income? He’s been so caught up in his own life that he’s neglected his mother’s worries completely. “I’m so sorry, Mum,” he says, miserably.

“It’s alright, love,” Hunith assures him. “Lord Agravaine has offered to pay off all our debts in exchange for my hand.”

Merlin’s gaze snaps up. “Lord Agravaine? Of Essetir? He’s vile!”

“You’ve never even met him, Merlin.”

Merlin ignores that fact. “What could he possibly want with us?” He pauses, considering his words. “Er… not that you aren’t a catch, Mum, but it seems a bit out of the blue, doesn’t it?”

Hunith pats his hand with amusement. “Thank you, dear. You are right— Lord Agravaine hasn’t shown much interest in me before. But after hearing about our financial troubles… I think he’s incredibly lonely, and the only way he can see to get anyone’s attention is to offer them his wealth.”

That’s rather pathetic, although Merlin can admit it’s also sad. “You’ve already agreed, haven’t you? You’re only telling me out of courtesy.”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it.” Hunith twists her mouth in regret. “I’m sorry.”

Not seeing what other options he has, Merlin stands and pulls his mother into a hug. “It’s alright. We’ll be alright.”

He sets his jaw. He’ll protect them, no matter what trouble this new force might bring to their lives.

~<:>~

Lord Agravaine arrives a few weeks later in a rather opulent carriage that makes Merlin roll his eyes. He’s accompanied by his two daughters, both of whom step out of the carriage with curious looks on their, frankly, stunning faces (Merlin is gay, not blind).

Agravaine introduces the blonde, more austere-looking one as Morgause, and the dark-haired, green-eyed one as Morgana. Merlin can’t quite see the resemblance between any of them, but he decides not to question it.

“Welcome to Ealdor,” Hunith says, smiling warmly at the two young women.

“Thank you,” Morgause replies, while Morgana picks at her nails.

Merlin can already tell this will be a tense family dynamic.

He’s immensely grateful that the three newcomers won’t actually be staying in their house; it’s far too small for five people, anyway. They’ve moved into a larger dwelling across the street from where Merlin and Hunith are, which Merlin assumes is more to their liking as well.

The welcome dinner is interesting. Merlin spends most of it waiting on everyone else and trying not to notice Morgause’s eyes on him every time he moves. Morgana still seems disinterested, and she barely eats anything. Agravaine and Hunith are the only ones really engaging with each other.

Eventually, Agravaine addresses Merlin. “So, Hunith tells me that you’re an apprentice to Gaius?”

Merlin blinks at the use of his mentor’s name. “Well, yes, I am—”

“How wonderful,” Agravaine interrupts. “Gaius and I have a history, you know.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “A… romantic history?”

Morgana snorts loudly into her hand as Agravaine flushes. “No, no, merely a professional one. We were both members of the royal court many years ago.”

“The royal court of Uther Pendragon?” Merlin makes a face. “No wonder you moved to Essetir.”

Morgana almost outright laughs at that, stifling it just before her father and sister turn to glare at her. “Well, he has a point,” she says, and her accent fits the whole pale, mysterious vibe, if Merlin is being honest.

“Politics aside,” Agravaine continues, shaking his head. “Gaius and I worked well together. I should very much like to see him, since we’re living in the same place again.”

Merlin gives a half-hearted shrug. “Sure. I can show you the way to the apothecary tomorrow morning when I go in for work.”

Agravaine smiles, and it’s a bit too sinister for Merlin’s liking. “Would you? That would be most helpful.”

From his tone, Merlin gets the feeling that perhaps Gaius would rather not see Agravaine again, but he can’t exactly rescind his offer now. At least Merlin will be close by tomorrow, in case Agravaine tries anything.

Once they’ve finished with dinner, Agravaine bids Hunith goodnight with a chaste kiss to her wrist (Merlin tries not to vomit) and strides across the street with his two daughters in tow.

Merlin and Hunith stare after them, Merlin with his arms crossed and Hunith biting her lip.

“What did you think of them?” Hunith asks pensively.

“Strange,” Merlin responds. “But typical nobles, I suppose.”

Hunith hums noncommittally and places a hand on Merlin’s arm. “Come on. Let’s clean up.”

~<:>~

When Merlin holds open the apothecary door for Agravaine the next day, he expects that he’ll be told to wait outside while the two adults have a chat.

Instead, Agravaine ushers him in. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt your work schedule,” he says, with another one of those strangely foreboding smiles.

Merlin can’t really object, so he nods and follows Agravaine over the threshold, already dreading this foreseeably awkward encounter.

His conjecture proves accurate when Gaius’s face drops into blank shock. “Lord Agravaine.”

“Gaius! It’s been far too long!” Agravaine’s cloak billows out behind him as he crosses the small room and pulls Gaius into a sudden hug.

Merlin watches from the doorway, his effort not to cringe building tension in his shoulders.

Gaius pries himself away from Agravaine’s chest and forces a smile. “Yes, far too long. What are you doing here?”

Agravaine smiles back, much wider. “Didn’t your apprentice tell you? I’m his new step-father!”

“Yes, of course he told me,” Gaius responds tightly. “I only meant… did you come merely to see me, or do you have business that requires a physician’s attention?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Agravaine says and extends his arm to place a gloved hand on Gaius’s shoulder. “Just wanted to stop by. Make sure you knew I was around.”

The vaguely threatening aura surrounding this whole interaction has Merlin on edge. Before he can intervene, Gaius looks directly at Merlin, a warning in his gaze which Merlin interprets as a signal to stay out of this. Frowning, Merlin obliges, but Gaius’s silent direction does nothing to ease the tension he feels.

Fortunately, Agravaine withdraws a few moments later. “Well, I must be going. I’m sure you two have a lot of patients to see and potions to sell.”

He bids them farewell as he sweeps past Merlin to get out the door, his cloak swishing grandly with each step.

Once he’s left, Merlin turns to Gaius. “He certainly has a flair for the dramatic.”

“Yes,” Gaius muses.

“Are you okay?” Merlin asks, stepping closer. “What was all that?”

After a moment, Gaius looks at Merlin again, expression neutral. “Simply an old colleague saying hello.” Merlin opens his mouth to call bullshit, but Gaius holds up a hand. “Enough, Merlin. We have work to do.”

They don’t talk about it for the rest of the day, but Merlin knows, now. Whatever terms Gaius and Agravaine parted on, they were not friendly. And that so-called visit today was absolutely a threat.

~<:>~

Chapter Text

The local Prince Arthur fan club is really starting to piss Merlin off.

It’s not that he doesn’t know how attractive the pig-headed prince is; Arthur Pendragon, for all his flaws, is definitely fit. But those dreamy blue eyes and blond hair don’t negate his terrible politics for Merlin the way they seem to with others his age.

Even Gwen gets caught up sometimes, before Merlin reminds her how arrogant both the prince and the king are, and how many lives they’ve destroyed through the ban on magic and the slaughter of magical creatures throughout the kingdom. This argument works on Gwen, because she is a fairly reasonable person. It does not, however, work on Vivian and Sophia, the Prince Arthur fan club co-leaders.

“You don’t need to take the bait every time,” Gwen teases him as they walk home from another encounter in the marketplace.

Merlin huffs. “But they’re so maddening! Like two identical parrots, repeating everything their Pendragon owners say, but not knowing what it means! The consequences of what Uther and Arthur have done to Camelot!”

“I know, Merlin.” Gwen puts a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t waste your breath on them. They’re never going to see past Arthur’s pectoral muscles.”

Merlin purses his lips and sighs. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Gwen says.

They walk in companionable silence for a few more paces before Gwen fully turns toward Merlin.

“You’re not going to be this difficult when Arthur visits Ealdor next week, are you?”

Merlin rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I might have prepared some protest signs.”

“Merlin.”

“What? It’s not as though anyone else is going to talk some sense into the royal prat!”

Gwen gives him an exasperated look. “So, you’re skipping Vivian and Sophia and going straight for the top, then? Do you really think that’s going to work any better?”

Shaking his head, Merlin starts walking again. “No. But I have to try.”

After a few moments, Gwen sighs. “Alright. Then I’ll try with you.”

Merlin beams at his friend. “Really?”

“ ’Course,” Gwen says, nudging him. “I can’t let you have all the fun.”

~<:>~

Merlin walks into work the next day, rummaging around in his bag for a potion he’s been meaning to give to Gaius, and almost has a heart attack when he looks up and sees his step-sister standing at the counter.

“Morgana,” he says, stupidly, not sure how else to react.

“Merlin,” she responds coolly.

“What, er…” Merlin hangs his bag on the hook beside the door. “What are you doing here?”

Morgana raises an eyebrow. “Shopping.”

After a brief pause, during which Merlin realizes that Morgana isn’t going to elaborate, he nods. “Right. Shall I fetch Gaius, then?”

“No need,” Morgana asserts.

As if on cue, Gaius emerges from the back room. “Here you are, my dear,” he says, handing Morgana what looks like some sort of sleeping draught.

“Thank you, Gaius,” Morgana says, sounding genuine as she takes it.

“Ah. Merlin.” Gaius finally seems to notice his apprentice. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get here.”

Merlin wants to respond that he’s not actually that late, but he’s a bit distracted watching Morgana exit the shop, tucking the bottle of unknown contents into her belt pouch.

“Are you just going to stand there all day?” Gaius asks, prompting Merlin to turn his head and frown.

“No.”

“Well, then.” Gaius starts moving for the back of the shop.

Merlin hurries to catch up with his mentor. “What did you just give to Morgana?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Gaius dismisses. “And you know I can’t discuss what I give to patients with outsiders.”

“I’m not an outsider,” Merlin protests. “It’s actually my job to know what you give them.”

Gaius sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Merlin. I promised Morgana I wouldn’t divulge any information to anyone. Including you.”

All this secrecy concerning his new step-family and Gaius puts Merlin off, but he knows not to push the matter any further. At least for now. He keeps this interaction at the back of his mind, along with Agravaine and Gaius’s supposedly “friendly” relationship. Merlin gets the feeling that all of this is going to come back in some horribly significant manner, and he needs to be ready if it does.

~<:>~

The royal carriage hits another bump in the road, adding to the prince’s current discontent.

“Leon, is this really necessary?”

Arthur’s chosen knight and bodyguard gives him a look. “Yes, Sire. As I’ve said. The past three times you’ve asked.”

“It’s not that I don’t see the importance,” Arthur says. “I do! This was my idea in the first place. I practically had to beg father to let me out of Camelot and check in on the lower areas.”

“Yes, Sire,” Leon says tiredly.

“But I wanted to know how the villages are doing. How the kingdom is doing. Not go on a bloody press tour.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Shut up, Leon,” Arthur grumbles. “You can’t understand how irritating this is.”

“Having people that love and adore you?” Leon muses. “Yes, how irritating.”

Arthur glares. “You are to be silent for the rest of this carriage ride. I don’t want to hear another ‘yes, Sire’ out of you until we reach Ealdor, is that clear?”

With a small smile, Leon bows his head, and returns to looking out the window.

Arthur huffs, crossing his arms. No one really gets it. Not even his father. All this effort to maintain image and pander is humiliating and it saps Arthur’s life-force like nothing else. He just wants to hear what troubles his people have, what magical creatures or evil sorcerers he has to fight, take care of the problem, and be done with it. Fighting is what he does best, after all.

He puts a hand to his forehead. He feels far too young and far too old to be doing this all at once.

They arrive in Ealdor a short time later, and Arthur sits up straight, already smoothing down his frustration and working up the charm. Leon pushes open the door for him, and once Arthur gathers the courage, he steps out after his bodyguard, into the bright sun of the village square.

Screams and shouts of adoration sound from the people below; Arthur raises his hand in a royal wave, the smile coming naturally the longer he does it. Though he finds these occasions tedious, it’s impossible not to inflate at the praise being thrown his way.

“Thank you, thank you,” he says, his words lost in the cacophony. Which, he realizes upon further perception, is not comprised solely of adoring fans.

His ears pick up some rather distressing words being shouted in his direction. When his eyes finally catch up, he spots a pale boy and a dark-skinned girl, positioned farther back and just above the sea of heads in front of him.

The boy’s brows are furrowed in such a way that Arthur wonders what exactly he’s done to so thoroughly upset him. Then he notices the signs.

~<:>~

Arthur Pendragon is even more handsome in person. Much to Merlin’s irritation.

He doesn’t let it deter him as he stands on the well, in the middle of the square now packed with people, holding up a banner which reads: Lift The Ban On Magic. Gwen stands beside him, holding a similar one that reads: Magical Creatures Are Innocent. In Merlin’s defense, he is not the most creative when it comes to sign-making. He prefers to be direct and succinct in his protests, thank you very much.

Both he and Gwen are shouting, “Magic is life! Murder is murder!” in rapid succession.

Okay, maybe Merlin isn’t the best at chants either.

Their demonstration manages to catch the prince’s attention for a few precious seconds as he turns from his adoring crowd and locks eyes with Merlin. His dashing smile falters and he actually almost frowns. Merlin shouts even louder, “Magic is life!” before he feels the banner ripped from his hands.

“What the hell are you doing?” hisses Vivian. She and Sophia have appeared at his feet, the latter now holding Gwen’s banner as well.

Merlin glares down at them. “There are no laws against peaceful protesting!”

“That never stops the guards from coming in and mucking things up!” Sophia counters.

Merlin takes a second to look at the two girls’ faces, and they actually appear worried. Frowning, he hops down from the well’s edge and holds out his hand to help Gwen do the same. “Are you just looking out for us, then, is that it?”

“You’re embarrassing us!” Vivian snaps. “You’re shaming Ealdor.”

“Don’t pretend you care about Ealdor! You just want to impress the prince.”

“And why shouldn’t I? He is our prince!”

“Look,” Sophia cuts in. “The two of you need to get out of here, now. Don’t make us tell you twice.”

Merlin opens his mouth to retort, but Gwen intervenes. “Merlin, I think we should go.” Merlin follows her gaze to where the guards surrounding Arthur are tensing up, though Merlin attributes that more to the crowds clambering against their line to get closer to the prince.

Merlin turns his glare to Vivian and Sophia and snatches the banners back from them. “Fine,” he seethes.

“Good boy,” Vivian says, smug.

There isn’t a choice, really. Merlin has to make her trip on the way back toward Arthur and fall flat on her face.

~<:>~

The two protestors on the well have vanished, much to Arthur’s confusion. They seemed rather adamant, especially the boy. And his eyes… the image of them is stuck in Arthur’s head for a moment, before he’s pulled from his thoughts by a fair-haired woman at the front of the crowd, calling his name.

“Prince Arthur!” she beams.

What actually draws his interest is the fact that everyone around her quiets down as she leans forward to ask her question. “Are you a particularly fast-footed prince?”

Cocking an eyebrow rather suggestively, Arthur grins. “Well, yes, if you must know. Although I don’t spend much time running from enemies. I prefer to face them.”

“Really?” The woman turns to her companions, then back to Arthur. “Care to try facing us?”

Before Arthur can really comprehend the implication, a crowd of mostly female villagers comes surging towards him, knocking a few of his guards away from their posts. Arthur gives a shout of surprise and backs away quickly.

His decision to turn and run is not a fight-or-flight response. It’s simply the only option he has if he is to maintain his standing as a chivalrous prince who does not stoop to battling unarmed peasants.

All of this flies through Arthur’s mind as he himself flies down the well-worn pathway leading into the woods beyond Ealdor. He needs somewhere to hide, and fast. He can’t possibly hope to lose them otherwise.

A nearby stone wall ends up being his saving grace. Unfortunately, there is a young man walking by whom he barrels into, full-force, in his hurry to escape the screaming mob.

“Oi! Watch where you’re—” the man starts to say, but Arthur shushes him with a hand across his mouth and pulls the two of them to the ground.

The slight curve to the wall, coupled with its height, shields them from view. Arthur still holds his breath as the crowd floods past, fearing that one person might turn and look, but none of them do.

Once the group is far enough off into the woods, Arthur sighs with relief. Immediately, he receives an elbow in the ribs from the man he forgot he was holding and grunts in surprise.

The man scrambles up in a tangle of limbs and glares down at him. “Are you a complete clotpole?”

Arthur now recognizes the figure before him as the dark-haired protestor that was at the rally just a short while ago. From this angle, Arthur can see that, though his clothes are tattered, and he’s wearing a ridiculous red neck-scarf, and his ears are quite large, the man is also incredibly attractive in his own, strange way. His piercing blue eyes and relative proximity leave Arthur stunned, right up until the moment his brain registers the words the man has just spoken to him.

“A… a what?”

The man rolls his eyes. “Never mind. Of course a noble wouldn’t know their way around a simple village backroad.”

Suddenly defensive, Arthur frowns. “Excuse me,” he says, hauling himself off of the ground. “I do happen to have a very keen sense of direction.”

“Sure,” the man retorts. “That’s why you practically ran me over. Oh, no, wait— you did run me over.”

“And for that, I apologize,” Arthur admits, flushing. “I was attempting to— that is, I was…” He gestures vaguely in the direction the villagers ran. At the man’s unimpressed stare, Arthur clears his throat, sticking out his forearm in greeting. “Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

The man looks at Arthur’s outstretched hand with disinterest. “I know who you are,” he says, and walks off.

It takes a few seconds for the shock to wear off at the obvious snub, and then Arthur moves to full-on affront. “Hang on!” he shouts, but the man doesn’t turn back. Bewildered, Arthur jogs to catch up with him.

“And just who do you think you are?” he asks upon reaching the man.

“Merlin, of Ealdor,” the man responds, still walking.

Arthur scoffs. “Well, Merlin, you do know that it’s common courtesy to bow before royalty.”

“Oh? Suddenly a courtesy expert, are we?”

Arthur sighs. “Look, I really am sorry about knocking into you, but that’s no excuse—”

“I’m not talking about that!” Merlin says, wheeling on him with such force that Arthur backs up a step. “You have no courtesy for anyone, of any nature, in any realm! You and your father work tirelessly to destroy the lives of those you deem lesser— people and creatures that have done nothing but exist inside your precious Camelot! Your policies have inflicted so much needless pain. I honestly don’t know how you can even sleep at night.”

Arthur gapes, trying to process the bombardment. As Merlin starts to walk off again, Arthur remembers the sign he was holding earlier and the dots begin to connect. “Hold on,” he calls, not sure why he thinks it will work this time (surprise: it doesn’t).

Letting out a huff of irritation, Arthur follows Merlin’s retreating back. “You’re a magic sympathizer, aren’t you?”

Merlin’s jaw tightens and he barely glances over his shoulder. “I believe that all beings, regardless of how they were born, deserve basic human decency, if that’s what you mean.”

Arthur almost laughs at the naïve response. “Magic is evil—”

“No, it isn’t!” Merlin interrupts, stopping once again to reprimand him. “Magic itself is neither inherently good nor evil. It’s simply an ancient force, something that you Pendragons haven’t bothered to try and understand, and so you fear it. The typical move of a cowardly royal prat.”

Arthur has just about gotten whiplash from the pace at which this conversation is moving. “Now you’re calling me a prat?”

“I’m calling you a coward,” Merlin corrects. “A prince who doesn’t look beyond his father’s hatred of magic, always obeying orders and never considering any different points of view.”

Arthur doesn’t know how to go about disputing any of these points. He’s never encountered someone brazen enough to actually talk to him this way, so he’s in fairly uncharted territory here. “Who are you to question the will of the king?” he splutters, knowing it’s weak.

Merlin shakes his head in disgust. “You won’t even deny it. You know your laws are horrible and your ruler is corrupt, and yet you don’t care enough to try and change anything.”

“What should I change?” Arthur snaps. “Tell me, Merlin. What exactly can I do to get you to stop shouting at me? Which, might I add, would get you thrown in the stocks back in Camelot!”

“Oh, yes, throw me in the stocks! That ought to change my mind about how tyrannical and arrogant you are!”

For a few moments, the two men just stand there, glaring daggers at each other. Arthur takes note of how tightly Merlin’s pale fists are clenched against his sides and he falters. There is a deep, intense hatred rolling off of him, almost as much as he claims Uther has for magic. It reminds Arthur of someone else. Someone he’s tried and failed to put out of his mind for years now.

Pushing that aside as best he can, Arthur continues to stare at Merlin. “Do all magic sympathizers feel this way, or is it just you?”

Merlin looks genuinely surprised at the question. “Well,” he starts. “I would assume my sentiments are unanimous, considering that magic and sorcerers are treated like dirt in Camelot. And the slaughter of innocent magical creatures doesn’t usually put people on your good side.”

“I have never condoned the slaughter of innocent creatures,” Arthur protests.

“Yet you hunt anything with magic.”

“Beings of magic terrorize the kingdom, especially in villages like yours!” Arthur throws up his hands. “Would you expect the royal guard to do nothing if Ealdor were suddenly attacked by a griffin? A dragon?”

“If Ealdor were attacked by a griffin or a dragon, I would handle it,” Merlin says.

Arthur openly laughs. “You?” He looks Merlin over, noting his skinny frame and lack of overall muscle. “What could you possibly do against such creatures?”

Merlin hesitates for the first time. “I’d… that’s not the point. I wouldn’t kill a being of magic for simply ‘terrorizing’ a village. Creatures like that are intelligent. They can be understood, and then manipulated, or reasoned with.”

“Reasoned with?” Arthur squints incredulously. “Were you dropped on your head as an infant?”

“No more than you were,” Merlin quips.

A typical peasant wouldn’t dream of insulting the prince as though he were an equal, but it doesn’t seem to bother Merlin. In fact, it seems to come quite naturally.

Amazed at the sheer gall of the man in front of him, Arthur almost smiles, shaking his head. “There’s something about you, Merlin…”

The aforementioned man raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Shrugging, Arthur moves past him. “Something that makes me want to believe your incessant ramblings. No matter how ridiculous they are.”

He can hear Merlin snort behind him. “Must be my charm.”

Arthur’s glad he’s facing away from Merlin so as not to reveal how much he’s actually smiling now. Unfortunately, at this moment, Arthur finally takes in the depth of the trees around him. And, upon further inspection, he realizes: he has absolutely no idea where he is, or how to get back to the village.

He turns back to Merlin, who is staring at him with amusement. “Er…” Arthur starts. “I don’t suppose you could… that is, I… I would be most grateful if you would… provide a… relative location…”

“What happened to your ‘keen sense of direction’?” Merlin mocks.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says, fighting off his embarrassment.

“That’s no way to speak to your potential guide.” Merlin crosses his arms. “Besides, I don’t particularly feel like helping you out of this forest.”

“What— you—” Arthur grasps for words. “You can’t just leave me stranded here. That would be treason.”

“Nobody else knows where you are,” Merlin points out. “I could just say the adoring fans finally smothered you to death.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

Merlin opens his mouth to say something else clever, judging by the wicked gleam in his eye, but his gaze suddenly snaps up, focused behind Arthur’s head.

“Look out!” he cries.

Arthur turns just in time to dodge a blow from a sword-wielding bandit who comes leaping out of the trees.

As Arthur steadies himself, three more emerge from the vegetation and begin charging at him. Arthur draws his own sword on instinct and shouts, “Run, Merlin!”

He can’t tell if the other man heard him, but he’s a bit preoccupied trying not to die as the closest bandit attacks. Arthur blocks easily and kicks the bandit backwards. These criminals are no match for his years of training; although there are four of them, so the odds aren’t exactly in his favor.

Two more come at him from the right, and Arthur fends them off as well, knocking one out and locking the other in a tense duel. To tell the truth, Arthur’s more worried that he only has three bandits in his field of vision, meaning that one of them has likely gone after Merlin.

Arthur manages to stave off the second bandit and turns to the third while the former collapses onto the forest floor. He grips his sword readily as the bandit charges at him.

However, the assault is cut short when the bandit trips over his own feet, careening forward and bashing his head on a large rock.

Pleasantly surprised, albeit rather confused, Arthur moves on in search of the fourth bandit. His gaze quickly lands on a crumpled figure, over whom stands Merlin, wielding a tree branch in his scrawny arms. Arthur blinks.

“I…” Merlin says, frozen. “He wasn’t very good.”

Arthur shakes his head, not bothering to dignify that with a response. Sheathing his sword, he checks the area to make sure it’s clear, before wandering over to Merlin.

“Alright, come on. We need to get you out of here.”

Merlin looks confused. “Shouldn’t you… arrest them or something?”

“Well, I would,” Arthur says. “Only I seem to be lacking a royal guard at the moment.”

Merlin doesn’t respond with something clever the way Arthur assumed he would, instead growing angry. “You can’t just leave them out here! They’ll wake up and wander off. It’s as bad as letting them go!”

“Merlin, what do you suggest?” Arthur asks tiredly. “The two of us carry one under each arm back to Ealdor? You could hardly lift your own weight.”

“Excuse me, but I believe I just saved your sorry arse! If it weren’t for me, you’d only be half an arrogant prince!”

Arthur ignores Merlin’s indignation in favor of teasing him. “Why exactly did you decide to save this arrogant prince’s sorry arse?”

Merlin falters. “I… er…”

“As I recall,” Arthur continues, stepping closer. “You were about to leave me stranded in the forest to be attacked by all manner of potential threats.”

Merlin raises his chin, but Arthur can see the subtle flush on his face. “I’m sure you would have held your own. What with your keen sense of direction and superior princely reflexes.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Come on, Merlin. It’s not safe here.”

“Yes, alright,” Merlin relents. “Let’s just… tie them up, and you can send your royal guard back here to pick them up as soon as we return.”

“Tie them up?” Arthur repeats. “With what rope?”

Without breaking eye contact, Merlin reaches into his satchel and pulls out a bundle of hempen rope, seemingly too long to have fit in such a small container. There really is no end to his strangeness, Arthur thinks, watching as Merlin walks past and begins securing the bandits.

“Carry that with you everywhere, do you?”

“Shut up.”

Arthur bites his tongue, not bothering to explain why he can’t be addressed like that. The argument would be lost on Merlin anyhow.

~<:>~

Merlin cannot believe he just saved Arthur Pendragon’s life.

Merlin cannot believe he just used magic in front of Arthur Pendragon and wasn’t immediately caught. The prince really is as thick as he looks, not to have noticed when Merlin sent that bandit stumbling.

Which, to be fair, was not the best decision he’s ever made. But his magic reacted without him even thinking about it, as though its ever-elusive priorities aligned with saving this idiot. Just another reason why his power can’t be trusted.

Merlin pulls tight the last knot and stands, still slightly dizzy from everything that has transpired.

“Well?” Arthur says from behind him. “We haven’t got all day, Merlin.”

It might just be him, but Merlin could swear Arthur enjoys enunciating his name. “Thanks so much for all your help in speeding that process along,” he bites back, brushing past Arthur. “Ealdor’s this way.”

As he leads the prince back toward his village, Merlin recalls, with slight embarrassment, all the years of pent-up anger that he accidentally unleashed upon meeting one of the Pendragons. The words seemed to flow out of him without his permission as well; though it did feel good to finally say, especially to one of the people actually responsible for Camelot’s harmful laws. If Merlin ever were to meet Uther, he suspects it would be even worse.

“Something on your mind, Merlin?” Arthur asks suddenly, kicking a stone out of his path with a casualty that makes Merlin bristle.

He doesn’t respond. They’re almost to the edge of the woods now, and he doesn’t much feel like talking anymore.

“You know, I think I find your silence even more irritating than your prattling.”

Merlin grits his teeth. There’s a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue, but he refrains from giving Arthur exactly what he wants. The prick doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.

Just before they break free of the trees, Merlin sees the royal guard charging up over the hill. There’s a curly-haired knight in front who holds up his hand to halt the group a few paces shy of the prince.

“Are you alright, my Lord?” the knight asks worriedly.

“Perfectly fine, Leon,” Arthur replies smoothly.

The man, Leon, shifts his gaze over to Merlin. “Might I ask… what happened?”

“Well,” Arthur starts, clapping Merlin a bit too hard on the shoulder. “Merlin here was kind enough to show me the way out of these rather daunting woods. More than that, he helped me lose the, erm, enthusiastic crowd. And assisted me in the capture of a group of bandits. Very impressive, this one.”

Merlin can’t tell who’s more shocked: himself, at Arthur’s complete out-of-character compliments, or Leon, at the mention of bandits.

“That… sounds like quite the adventure, Sire. Where are these bandits now?”

“Oh, just a few hundred meters south,” Arthur says nonchalantly, gesturing to the woods behind him. “I’ll take you to them.”

Leon nods once and signals the rest of the knights to follow him. Merlin stands there awkwardly, watching them go.

“Pleasure meeting you, Merlin!” Arthur shouts back over his shoulder, a cheeky grin on his face.

~<:>~

As Merlin wanders back into the streets of Ealdor, mind preoccupied with the conundrum that is Arthur Pendragon, he’s immediately accosted by Gwen.

“There you are, Merlin!” She sighs in exasperation. “Where the hell have you been?”

Merlin blinks. “Oh, er, sorry,” he says. “I just… needed to clear my head.”

Gwen gives him a gentler look of sympathy. “Right. No, of course, that’s fine.” She loops her arm through his and they start walking. “I’m sorry our little rally didn’t go according to plan.”

Not according to plan, no, Merlin thinks. But I still managed to shout at the prince. “Yeah,” he says aloud. “Wasn’t really the best plan, anyway.”

“Vivian and Sophia led a chase on Prince Arthur that took them out of the square, apparently,” Gwen tells him, amused. “All the knights were properly panicking.”

“Really?”

Gwen hums in affirmation. “I assume they found him, since Ealdor’s not currently being searched door-to-door.”

“Yes, they found him,” Merlin says without thinking.

Gwen stops walking and squints at him. “Well, that was clear.”

“Er…” Merlin’s never been good at hiding things from Gwen (other than his magic, but that’s standard). He sighs. “I might’ve… run into Arthur in the woods and given him a piece of my mind.”

“What?!” Gwen shrieks, breaking into a giddy smile. “You met the prince?”

“Gwen, come on, he’s not all that,” Merlin says, annoyance building at the reminder. “And I wouldn’t say met so much as the idiot knocked me to the ground.”

“You mean you two touched? Oh my gods, did he land on top of you?!”

“Gwen!” Merlin flushes. “Stop it.”

“Oh, that must have been a dream,” Gwen sighs. Then catches herself. “I mean. For you to have actually talked with him, one-on-one, no guards around— oh gods, what did you say to him? Was he utterly shocked?”

Merlin tilts his head, the shock on Arthur’s face replaying. “He was certainly surprised. I doubt anyone’s ever spoken to him that way before.”

“Please tell me you didn’t call him a prat,” Gwen says, but she’s still grinning.

“Sod off,” Merlin grumbles, taking her arm and pulling them along again. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Gwen laughs, leaning into him. “You’re mad, Merlin. Absolutely mad.”

Despite himself, Merlin can’t help but agree.

~<:>~ 

Chapter Text

It can be argued that Camelot’s fate changed the day that the young warlock and the prince met.

It is true that Arthur’s destiny was indeed set into motion upon meeting his other half. For Merlin, however, the die was cast just before, when his mysterious, scheming step-family entered the picture. 

And the driving force behind it all, of course, was Nimueh.

~<:>~

We rejoin our heroes a few short days after what Merlin has named “the woods incident” in his head. He would’ve called it “the bandit incident” had that name not already been taken many years prior, on a much more somber note.

Merlin frowns, feeling the familiar ache in his chest at the thought of his father. The poultice he’s mixing in the back of the apothecary shifts from green to brown and shrinks a bit in the process; Merlin only notices when the mortar and pestle grind unpleasantly against each other.

“Oh, bollocks,” he swears, almost dropping the whole thing. “No, no, no…”

As he attempts to fix the plants he’s inadvertently killed, Gaius walks in. Merlin’s not quick enough to hide what he’s done before Gaius sees it. He raises an eyebrow. “Is something the matter, Merlin?”

“No,” Merlin replies quickly. The poultice contents wither completely in response.

“Really?” Gaius questions and Merlin grimaces.

“Sorry.”

Coming closer, Gaius takes the bowl from Merlin and sets it on the side table. “Your magic seems to be misbehaving lately,” he says. “I’d appreciate if you’d tell me what’s wrong and stop damaging my materials.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin repeats. “I don’t know what’s happening— nothing’s wrong. I just feel like…” Like his power is too big for his body and it wants to be used, not for poultices, but really used, like the way Merlin channeled it in the woods that day, tripping the one bandit and sending the other flying.

Of course, he hasn’t told Gaius about that, but his mentor seems to understand. “You can’t keep your power locked away, Merlin.”

“I know,” Merlin almost snaps. “But I have to.”

After a few moments, Gaius sighs and sits down on the stool across from Merlin. He opens his mouth, then hesitates slightly, as though reluctant to share whatever’s on his mind. “You know… I can’t ever fully understand what it’s like for you,” he says finally. “I’ve never had that much power. But there may be… others, who could. People you could confide in, besides me.”

Merlin narrows his eyes. “What are you talking about?” When Gaius doesn’t respond, Merlin’s magic broils beneath his skin in agitation. “You and Mum have always said that I shouldn’t tell anyone. And I haven’t! Not even Gwen or Elyan. You can’t possibly think there’s anyone new in Ealdor I could trust to—”

He stops himself, realizing the potential in what he just said. And when he does, it all starts to click. Gaius’s secretive relationship with his step-family. His history with Agravaine. The draught he gave to Morgana…

“Morgana,” Merlin says aloud, stunned. “Do you— you think I should tell Morgana? Why would I—” He stops himself again, more pieces sliding into place. “She has magic, too, doesn’t she?”

It would make sense. The sheen on her pale skin is sometimes too perfect to be natural. Gwen certainly seems to think so, despite Merlin’s pleading that she direct her gaze anywhere but at his step-sisters—

Morgause. Does she know about Morgana’s magic as well? Does Agravaine? Suddenly, the trio’s arrival to Ealdor via Agravaine’s interest in Merlin’s mother doesn’t seem quite so coincidental.

Not yet fully panicking, Merlin stands. “Gaius, does Morgana have magic?”

Gaius looks at him solemnly before nodding.

Alright, scratch that. He’s fully panicking now, and very conscious of the buzzing in his head and at his fingertips as he paces. “Why did she come here, Gaius? Why did they all come? Do they know about me?”

“I don’t know, Merlin,” Gaius says, standing as well. “I’m not willing to rule it out, but I truly don’t know Agravaine’s purpose in Ealdor.”

“But Agravaine can’t be trusted.” Merlin’s still pacing, itching in his limbs. “That’s what you told me. So how can I trust his daughter? How does that make any sense? Did she tell you she has magic or did you just assume, like you always do?”

Gaius looks a bit nervous. “Merlin—”

“She didn’t tell you, then. Why are you putting so much faith in her?”

“Merlin, you need to calm down,” Gaius says, reaching for him.

Merlin flinches and the floor cracks, sending a tree root curling up from the ground between them. Though it was involuntary, guilt washes over Merlin at the sight, which is quickly drowned out by anger at all the secrets Gaius has been keeping from him.

“If you wanted me to calm down, you wouldn’t tell me something like this!” he seethes. “Confide in someone else, someone who may or may not have magic, the daughter of a scheming noble, who could give me away? How can I even trust you?”

Gaius looks hurt at that, but Merlin doesn’t particularly care. “Merlin, I only meant that… I have reason to believe that Morgana is a good person, just as trapped and lonely as you—”

“Oh, I see,” Merlin bites, eyes flashing as the air in the shop hums with energy. “You thought the two of us would get along, bond over our shared rejection from society, is that it?”

“Merlin—”

“I can’t believe you,” Merlin says, a bit softer, as his own hurt catches up with him. “You knew all this time and you didn’t tell me that I could be in danger! My mother could be in danger!”

The window closest to Gaius shatters, breaking Merlin from his emotional and verbal (and magical) rampage. Gaius looks toward the window instinctively, and when he turns back to Merlin, his apprentice is already halfway out the door.

“Merlin!”

He doesn’t respond, and Gaius doesn’t follow him; the energy churning inside of him hasn’t calmed down in the slightest, despite the rational part of his brain trying to will it away. He needs to get somewhere safe. Shaking, he stalks across the street, heading for the woods behind the blacksmith’s shop. Unfortunately, Gwen and Elyan pop out as Merlin passes.

“Merlin?” Gwen looks concerned. “What’s going on? We heard something smash in the apothecary.”

“Sounded like a window,” Elyan adds. “Were you and Gaius playing catch with the potions in there?”

“Elyan!”

“It’s fine,” Merlin says through gritted teeth, brushing past without slowing down. “It was nothing.”

Elyan raises his voice a bit behind Merlin’s head. “Didn’t sound like nothing!”

“Merlin? Are you alright?” Gwen calls.

“Fine!” Merlin shouts back. He quickens his pace, stepping onto the sprawl of grass that leads to the tree line. He can vaguely hear his two friends talking to one another, and then there’s the unmistakable patter of Gwen’s light jogging, trying to catch up with him.

“Merlin!”

He can’t talk to her right now. He can’t talk to anyone; he has to be alone so he can think through this brand-new, possibly life-threatening scenario involving his step-family. And his magic is still berating him. He’s out of control, more than he’s ever felt, even after his father—

“Merlin, please!”

His magic started acting up after Arthur, didn’t it? That arrogant prat got Merlin’s blood boiling enough that he can’t even mash a poultice without destroying it. He can’t hold a tense conversation without damaging property. He can’t keep his magic tame.

“Merlin!”

They’re inside the forest now, and Merlin can sense how close Gwen is to touching him. She shouldn’t.

“What is it? Please, you can talk to me.”

“Gwen,” Merlin manages, not turning around, still attempting to keep distance between them. “I’m fine.”

But she’s too stubborn. “No, you’re not.” Her hand reaches for his arm. “Merlin! What’s the matter?” She makes contact.

“I said I’m fine!” Merlin shouts, twisting, and his magic sends a shockwave through Gwen’s hand that blasts her backwards.

She stumbles a few paces farther and trips, falling to the ground, clutching her hand and looking up at Merlin in terror.

His stomach drops at the image. Oh, gods. He’s done it again.

“W-what…?” Gwen manages.

“Gwen?” It’s Elyan’s voice, coming from far enough away that Merlin knows he couldn’t have seen anything, but he’s still absolutely screwed, because there’s no way that Gwen doesn’t know what just happened, and she’s not going to keep a secret this massive from her own brother.

Merlin’s still frozen, though, staring at Gwen, hoping that his devastation and remorse shows, as Elyan enters the scene. Of course, Elyan immediately goes to his sister, crouching down and looking between her and Merlin with confusion and defensive anger.

“What happened? What did you do?”

“Elyan, it’s alright,” Gwen says, surprising both her brother and Merlin.

“Did he hit you?” Elyan glares. “Did you hit my sister?”

“Elyan, no. I’m fine, he—he didn’t mean to—”

“What does it bloody matter if he meant to?!”

Panic seizes Merlin’s chest as the weight of the situation cascades down onto him, and he does the only thing he can do.

He runs.

~<:>~

“I swear, I’m fine,” Gwen says, brushing off her brother’s attempts to help her up from the ground. “Merlin didn’t do anything.”

“Then why did you cry out? And why were you flinching away from him?” Elyan demands.

Gwen hesitates. There is no way that she’ll be able to keep this from Elyan. But she can’t reveal Merlin’s secret without talking to him first. It’s not that she thinks Elyan will react badly, and it’s not that she doesn’t understand Merlin’s decision to hide this from both of them. Gwen’s always suspected anyway, what with all his pro-magic and anti-Pendragon talk. She just never thought… she never realized… how powerful he is.

The word dangerous pops into her mind, but she dismisses it quickly. Merlin obviously wasn’t in control of his emotions. Her hand still throbs, though, and she rubs it idly. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not on purpose.

“Gwen?” Elyan says gently, coaxing her from her thoughts.

She gives her brother a strained smile. “I-I’m okay. Really. Don’t blame Merlin, just… let’s go back to the shop, alright?”

Elyan frowns at her, disbelieving, so Gwen flexes the muscles in her hand, making a fist.

“See? I can still work.”

Elyan shakes his head. “But he—”

“Merlin’s just in a bad mood, that’s all,” Gwen assures him. “He’s— he’s completely out of it.”

“And that gives him the right to hit you?”

“No.” Gwen sighs. “I promise I’ll explain. I’ll talk to Merlin once he’s calmed down.”

“I’ll talk to Merlin—” Elyan starts, but Gwen snatches his wrist in her bad hand.

“Elyan. I’m telling you to leave it.”

She uses her best motherly voice and, as always, it does the trick. “Fine,” her brother relents. “But he’d better apologize.”

Gwen thinks back to the horrified look on Merlin’s face as she was sprawled on the ground. “He will.” He already has.

~<:>~

This was inevitable, Merlin realizes. His whole life, since the day Nimueh cursed him with magic, has been one giant build-up to this moment: the moment he finally snaps and hurts someone he cares for. Merlin always assumed it would be his mother. He’s not glad it wasn’t.

Nimueh. The wretched sorceress that took his father’s life, took his mother’s life, took his life. What did Merlin ever do to deserve this? He was only a baby.

The tears start to pool in his eyes and he sinks slowly to his knees, the moss and fungus beneath them spreading, crawling across the forest floor. Even here, even still, his magic destroys everything it touches. Merlin trails one finger into the dirt. He can’t control it. He can’t be trusted with it. He needs to get rid of it.

And there’s only one person who can take his magic away.

He’s going to find her. He’s going to make her do it.

Merlin stands, walking away from the tiny mark he made in the soil, not noticing the small purple flower still sprouting from it, petals unfurling with a soft glow.

~<:>~

That night, Merlin takes what supplies he can from the house and packs them into his knapsack and satchel. His mother is still out at the inn. She won’t let him go if he tells her, and Merlin understands why. He leaves her a note on the kitchen table before heading to the apothecary.

Gaius lives just off of the shop. Merlin doubts he’ll be sound asleep at this hour, and given this afternoon’s altercation, he could be waiting up. Either way, Merlin’s rummaging around will definitely call him forth.

Just as Merlin is burying the last potion in his knapsack, Gaius emerges from the back, not appearing at all fazed to see his apprentice stealing from their shop. Merlin suspected he wouldn’t be.

“I see you’ve mended the window,” Gaius notes.

Merlin turns, startled, to see that the glass he shattered earlier has indeed repaired itself. Another subconscious effort. He really is completely out of control.

“You’re leaving, then?” Gaius asks, shifting Merlin’s attention back to him. “In search of Nimueh?”

His mentor knows him too well. Merlin tightens his jaw and nods.

Gaius mirrors his nod. “Then I have something to give you,” he says, gesturing for Merlin to follow him.

They end up in Gaius’s private library, where he keeps all of the physician’s instruction manuals and herb indexes, along with a few spellbooks that Merlin has most definitely pilfered and paged through in his years working here.

The one that Gaius produces, however, is one that Merlin has never seen before. With some effort, the old man heaves the heavy tome onto the library desk, sending up a cloud of dust as he does so. On the cover, there is a rather detailed illustration of a dragon’s head, gold-embossed and shimmering with what Merlin knows to be a cloaking spell.

“I created this many, many years ago,” Gaius says before Merlin can ask. “Just before I left Uther’s court. It took most of the magic power I had in me to manage it.”

Carefully, Gaius sweeps his hand over the book, and the dragon sinks back, gaining more depth and animation. And then, to Merlin’s surprise, it speaks.

“We meet at last, young warlock.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “A talking dragon book?”

“Merlin,” Gaius says rather pointedly. “This is the great dragon, Kilgharrah.”

That’s certainly not what Merlin was expecting either. “The great dragon Kilgharrah is a book?”

“Well, I wasn’t always,” the dragon says, sounding wholly pretentious in the admission. “Uther Pendragon is responsible for my being trapped in this form.”

Gaius looks as though he’s had this conversation with Kilgharrah before. “Actually, I am responsible. If it were up to Uther, you’d have no form at all.” He turns to Merlin. “This was the only way I could think of to keep him safe.”

Merlin nods through his confusion. “Right. ’Course. A dragon book.” He ignores Gaius’s annoyed eyebrow. “Is the dragon book going to help?”

“I will be of great help to you, young warlock,” Kilgharrah replies. “For I have seen your destiny, which was written long before you were born.”

Merlin frowns. “What destiny?”

“Whether or not he will be of help is up to you,” Gaius says tiredly. “He speaks in riddles. As dragons are wont to do.”

“I can lead you to what you seek,” Kilgharrah says, spiking Merlin’s interest.

“You know where to find Nimueh?”

Merlin’s pretty sure that dragons don’t possess the correct facial anatomy to smirk, but whatever Kilgharrah does is close. “Yes.”

Outraged, Merlin looks up at Gaius. “All along, you’ve had this. Yet you didn’t help my father—”

“Your father knew of the book, Merlin,” Gaius interrupts. Merlin blinks in shock. “Kilgharrah aided Balinor each time he left Ealdor in search of Nimueh.”

The dots are not connecting for Merlin. “Then, why couldn’t he find her?”

“Kilgharrah only shows the reader images of what they seek,” Gaius explains. “Like a sort of sentient scrying pool.”

“And what your father sought evaded him,” Kilgharrah continues, earning another annoyed look from Gaius. “As it will likely evade you.”

Merlin frowns. “Then how are you any help at all?”

“Because, young warlock,” the dragon says, doing his imitation of a smirk again. “Now, it is time for fate to run its course.”

The two humans in the room exchange a confused glance. “Well… alright,” Merlin says, still not quite sure he wants to trust a book that may have inadvertently led his father into an ambush.

Gaius puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for keeping so many secrets from you, Merlin. I promise, I was only trying to protect you. And since I cannot be with you on your journey, please, take Kilgharrah.”

“I should trust him now?” Merlin says in disbelief. “Like my father trusted him?”

“Trust yourself, Merlin,” Gaius says.

They stare at each other in solemn silence before Gaius pulls Merlin into a hug. Despite his anger and hurt, Merlin returns the hug, wishing he could have said goodbye to his mother or Gwen and Elyan, but grateful that he at least has this.

Merlin makes Gaius promise to look after his mother and his friends while he’s gone. Then, he takes the book containing the great dragon and stuffs it into his satchel.

As he reaches the top of the hill overlooking his home, Merlin turns back, gazing at it one last time. He can see the light on at their little house, his mother reading the note he left for her through the distant window.

He can’t let her down. No matter what it takes. He will succeed, and he will return.

With that, Merlin moves forward, leaving Ealdor behind.

~<:>~ 

Chapter Text

Morgana stares at the empty bottle on her bedside table with defeat. She’s going to have to retrieve a new batch of sleep aide from Gaius; the last time she went a night without it, she ended up tossing and turning and screaming until she set fire to the curtains.

Since moving to Ealdor, her nightmares have gotten worse, like they were when she was a child— a period of time for which Morgause and Agravaine were not entirely present, and thus the two of them don’t quite understand the toll these visions can take on her.

Gaius does, of course. Which is why Morgana has kept her trips to the apothecary a secret.

Agravaine is no trouble, but it’s fairly difficult for Morgana to keep secrets from her sister. Fortunately, when she descends to the ground floor of their tiny new house, neither Agravaine nor Morgause are present. They often cut Morgana out of their early morning plans due to her uneasy sleep schedule, so she thinks nothing of it, simply grabbing her cloak and slipping out the side door.

The morning mist does wonders for Morgana’s headache, though the bustle of villagers out at work acts in thorough opposition. One thing Morgana misses most about their manor in Essetir is the privacy— the long walks she could take along the grounds, through the woods and the gardens, totally undisturbed. Here, every square inch is packed with residents, travelers, bandits, and other disrupting nonsense.

Morgana sighs wearily. The simple solution would be to cast a silencing spell, but it’s far too risky an endeavor for a crowded marketplace. Even after all these years honing it, her magic has proven to be unpredictable at times. She supposes that’s because of her aptitude for prophecy, not that the rationalization eases her frustration.

As she approaches the apothecary, Morgana notices that Merlin’s lovely friend, Gwen, who usually works in the window of the blacksmith’s forge, is missing. While not a tragedy, it isn’t ideal, since Morgana typically uses Gwen as her excuse for coming to this part of town. She feels a bit guilty doing it, since she actually enjoys talking to Gwen (and looking at her).

Smoothing down her disappointment, Morgana walks up to the apothecary and pushes open the shop door. She’s immediately graced by the sight of none other than Gwen, who is standing at the counter across from Gaius, looking distressed.

“—out of her mind with worry,” she’s saying. “Do you have any idea where he’s gone?”

“I’m sorry, Gwen, I—” Gaius cuts his sentence short upon seeing Morgana.

Gwen turns, following his gaze, and the second their eyes meet, Morgana can tell that Gwen has been crying.

“Morgana,” she says, stepping closer, a hand clutched to her chest. “Merlin is missing.”

Morgana’s blood runs cold as the remnants of visions seep into her mind’s eye. “Missing?” she repeats. “As in, he’s left Ealdor?”

“Yes,” Gwen says. “Last night. He wrote Hunith a note and just vanished.”

Morgana didn’t know when this would happen when she dreamt it (and, honestly, she hoped it wouldn’t be this soon). But she does remember what happened. She narrows her gaze on Gaius. “He didn’t stop here on his way out?”

Gaius begins to look nervous. “No, he didn’t. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t have any knowledge of his whereabouts.”

“Don’t you?” Morgana counters.

Gwen seems to pick up on the accusation and frowns. “Gaius…” she starts, turning back to him. “Did Merlin come here last night?”

The old man flips his gaze between the two of them, finally fixating on Morgana. She simply arches an eyebrow.

Wringing his hands, Gaius caves. “Yes. Yes, he came by.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Gwen asks angrily. “Do you know where he is?”

“No,” Gaius answers. “Truly. I can’t tell you where he’s gone, because I don’t know.”

Morgana can tell he’s being sincere, but she can also tell that he’s holding back. Images of a book and a roaring dragon flash through her head. “But you gave him something,” she states. “What was it?”

At this point, Gwen seems beyond confused and more than a little upset, and Gaius is definitely panicking; Morgana can sense the rudimentary shields he’s putting up to stop her from fully invading his mind. The situation has become a bit too tense, and Morgana needs to say something before it spirals beyond her control.

“I’ve already seen it. There’s no need to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Gaius remains on the defensive. “Whatever you think you saw—”

“My visions are never wrong,” Morgana asserts. “But that’s all they are. Visions. I don’t know what book it was you gave to him, or what you told him.”

“Perhaps it’s better that way.”

“I am not your enemy, Gaius.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

Morgana tilts her head. “That’s fair.” A solution strikes her, then. “Why don’t we make a deal?” she continues, twisting her fingers to place a simple ward on the door, ensuring they’re not interrupted by any new customers. “You tell me what Merlin’s up to, and I’ll tell you about Agravaine’s business in Ealdor.”

Gaius appears reasonably surprised at the offer, but before he can respond, he’s interrupted.

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?!”

Both Morgana and Gaius turn to an indignant Gwen who stands with her fists at her sides, looking ruffled. Morgana supposes they have been a bit unfair, leaving her out of all of this. The sensible thing would be to cast a memory charm or put her to sleep. But Morgana doesn’t feel comfortable doing that to Gwen. Besides, the girl is ever so loyal to Merlin, and that means she can be trusted.

Gaius appears more hesitant. “Gwen—”

“How much do you know?” Morgana asks, focusing entirely on Gwen. She can usually tell what’s behind someone’s eyes: what they know or what they don’t, if they’re lying or holding back. It’s easy if they don’t have magic (which she’s fairly certain is the case here).

“I—” Gwen definitely looks like she’s keeping a secret. “Well, I don’t— I haven’t got a clue what the two of you are talking about— Lord Agravaine and planning and visions— but…” She bows her head, breaking eye contact. “But I do know Merlin.”

“What about Merlin?” Morgana presses, even though she already knows the answer.

From Gwen’s expression, this will be hard to pry out of her. “Well… we were out in the woods yesterday, and… something… happened.”

Her loyalty really is admirable. There’s no need to torment her any longer, Morgana decides, and she raises her hand, filling her palm with a ball of light. “Something like this?”

Gwen gasps at first, a hand flying to her mouth at the blatant display of magic. Then she looks in Morgana’s eyes and nods.

There is an apprehensive panic behind Gwen’s gaze, something that Morgana can’t blame solely on the kingdom-wide fear of magic. Curious about the encounter with Merlin, Morgana dismisses the spell. “Did he hurt you?” she asks gently.

“He…” Gwen falters. “He didn’t mean to.”

A pang of sympathy flashes through Morgana— for Gwen, but even more so for Merlin. Morgana knows all too well how difficult it can be to keep such power under the skin. “I’m sorry,” she tells Gwen. “I’m sure he didn’t.”

Gwen gives her a grateful, close-lipped smile. It’s then that Morgana remembers Gaius, as he shifts uncomfortably behind the counter.

Gearing up for a fight, Morgana turns back to the old man. “Alright. Where did Merlin go, then? It had something to do with his magic, am I right?”

To her surprise, Gaius nods and answers, seemingly relieved to be back on topic. “Yes. He went in search of a sorceress from his past.”

That peaks Morgana’s interest, though she’s not certain Gaius will care to elaborate.

“The book I gave him was one of my older possessions,” he continues. “Something that would help guide his way.”

“Guide his way where?” Gwen asks, sounding worried.

“I don’t know,” Gaius replies, and again, Morgana can tell he’s being truthful. “I gave him the book so his location could remain a secret.”

Gwen looks even more confused, but Morgana has put the pieces together. “A scrying pool. Trapped inside a book.” She’s honestly impressed that Gaius had enough magical power to create such a rare item. “That way only Merlin would be able to see where he’s going.”

“Yes.” Gaius shoots Morgana a pointed look. “I wanted to make sure he was hidden in case anyone were to go looking for him.”

Morgana meets his gaze, unflinching. “You have nothing to fear from me. I told you, I’m not your enemy.”

“Yes,” Gaius agrees. “But you haven’t told me anything about the person who is.”

Of course. Morgana still needs to fulfill her part of the bargain. “Agravaine brought us to Ealdor because he suspected that Merlin had magic,” she discloses. “We were supposed to observe him and find out.”

Gaius frowns. “That’s all?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know the extent of his reasoning,” Morgana says truthfully. “But I do know that if he discovers Merlin’s magic, he means to harm him.”

“What?!” Gwen exclaims. “Gaius, please tell me Merlin’s not in danger!”

Gaius finally steps out from behind the counter and takes Gwen’s hands in his. “I assure you, he’s perfectly safe. Lord Agravaine won’t be able to find him.”

“But, what about this sorceress he’s seeking? Or other threats, like bandits? His father…”

“Merlin can handle himself,” Gaius promises. “I believe in him, and so should you.”

Morgana doesn’t want to interrupt the tender moment; the relief on Gwen’s face is so genuine and endearing. But she should get back to the house before Agravaine and Morgause start to get suspicious.

As she removes the ward on the door and goes to step out, Gaius stops her. “Morgana.”

She turns over her shoulder, fingertips resting on the handle.

“I trust you won’t speak of this to your father.”

Morgana regards Gaius coldly. “He’s not my father.”

They stare at each other for a long, tense moment, Gaius predictably chided by her frigid tone.

“And of course I won’t tell him.”

She casts one final glance at Gwen before she leaves.

~<:>~

As she approaches the house, Morgana sees that Morgause is waiting for her in the front garden. Agravaine isn’t anywhere in sight, which is slightly more worrying.

“Sister,” Morgause greets her. “How was your visit with the blacksmith’s daughter?”

Normally, Morgana would flush at her sister’s teasing, but she’s far too distracted at the moment. “Fine. Where’s Agravaine?”

“Readying his horse,” Morgause replies. “Apparently, Merlin is missing.”

Morgana wasn’t going to say anything, but of course they already know. “Yes, Gwen told me.”

“Did she tell you where he would have gone?” At Morgana’s head shake, Morgause nods. “Hunith didn’t know anything either, but Agravaine suspects he’s headed for Camelot.”

“Oh?” Morgana sincerely hopes not. “Why Camelot?”

“Not sure.” Morgause shrugs. “Then again, he doesn’t tell us much, does he?”

Morgana lets out a noise of agreement, looking to the stables as Agravaine emerges on his black mare. She’s a bit relieved that he’s pursuing Merlin on his own, and a bit annoyed that she won’t be there to knock him off course.

“Ladies,” Agravaine says from atop his horse. “I trust you’ll notify me if the boy returns here?”

“Of course,” Morgause answers dutifully.

Agravaine looks to Morgana for a response, but she won’t give him one. Undeterred, he mutters, “Very well,” and kicks the horse into a trot.

As the two sisters watch their fake father ride off beyond Ealdor’s borders, there settles a new sort of calm between them, as if an intimidating presence has just been removed. Morgana’s thoughts turn to Merlin, and she wonders whether he really will be safe, wherever he is.

~<:>~

Merlin, at this point in time, is most definitely safe. At least, physically. His mental status is questionable at best, thanks to the frustratingly vague directions this so-called ‘great dragon’ keeps giving him.

“Show me Nimueh,” he demands for the fifth time.

“You are already on the path that will lead you to her,” Kilgharrah replies. “Continue walking… northwest.”

Merlin groans. “What bloody good are you? Were you this difficult with my father?”

“Yes.”

Merlin glares down at the smirking dragon. “That’s not funny. For all I know, your lack of clarity got him killed.”

Kilgharrah does grow solemn at that. “I am sorry for your father’s fate. I can assure you, it will not be yours.”

“Great, thanks, because your assurances mean so much to me.”

Merlin slams the book closed and shoves it into his satchel as he continues walking northwest per his damned instructions. Bloody dragons. Gaius was right about their constant need to speak in riddles.

The thought of Gaius turns his mood even more sour. Merlin’s still not forgiven him for all the secrets he kept. And is still keeping, undoubtedly. It’s no wonder the old man befriended Kilgharrah; they’ve got so many traits in common.

Merlin grumbles to himself as he walks, head bowed toward the ground, so as not to trip over any rocks or tree roots. He’s had enough of feeling useless for one lifetime. Unfortunately, this means that when a sudden yell breaks through the trees, Merlin looks up automatically, and a leafy branch smacks him square in the face.

Stumbling backward, Merlin spits out the various bits of plant and wipes at his cheeks. He can feel a tiny scratch under his fingertips that’s already starting to close up. Despite the lack of severe bodily harm, Merlin glares at the mass of twigs, and it wilts under his gaze.

Of course, he immediately feels terrible, reminded of all the horrible things he’s done in the past few days, and goes to heal the plant. However, another shout interrupts this train of thought, followed by what sounds like a man begging. Merlin sighs. He supposes he ought to put his tree-related issues aside and go help the poor chap.

As he gets closer to the noises, he can make out what’s being said. “Gentlemen, there’s been a misunderstanding. I promise, you’ve got the wrong person!”

“Oh?” comes another voice. “So a different long-haired thieving seductor named Gwaine gave you my wife’s scarf and coin purse?”

There’s a pause. “Well, when you put it like that,” says the first man. “It sounds like you might want to give me your scarf and coin purse as well.”

More shouts and grunts follow. When Merlin finally gets the group in his line of sight, there’s a man matching the long-haired thieving seductor description and three others, who are much bigger and less attractive. Two are holding the first man, Gwaine, up by the armpits while the third slugs him in the gut.

“Enough talk,” one of the men at Gwaine’s side growls. “Just finish him.”

The man doing the punching stops, heaving from the effort. “You’re right.” He starts to walk over to an axe Merlin hadn’t noticed until now.

“No, no, no, please!” Gwaine shouts. “Please, you can have the money! Just don’t hack me up. It’ll be so bad for my reputation.”

Axe-man laughs darkly, brandishing the weapon. “We’re done talking.”

“Gods, shit!” is Gwaine’s coherent response.

There’s no way that Merlin is going to stand by and witness a murder. But he’s not sure he should reveal himself either. That leaves only one solution.

Grumbling again, Merlin raises a hand and the axe freezes before it can come down on Gwaine’s neck. Once the shock and confusion wear off, the man wielding it attempts to move it, but of course it doesn’t budge. He lets go of it and all three men gasps as the axe remains in the air.

“What did you do?” one accuses Gwaine.

“Me?” Gwaine exclaims, a bit shrill. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You’re a sorcerer!”

“I am not!” Gwaine protests. “Not an ounce of magic in me!”

“Oh, really?”

The men don’t seem at all deterred, and start to maneuver Gwaine underneath the blade in an attempt to cut his throat. Merlin fights the urge to sigh and mutters an incantation which blows the assailants back a bit, and then another which puts all three to sleep.

Gwaine, now free from his restraints, scrambles away from the axe and whips his head around to see the various men who are now lying on the ground, out cold. Merlin watches as he stands, slowly, patting himself down as though checking for damages. Then he looks down at his hands and starts examining those.

Merlin rolls his eyes and starts to walk away, but Gwaine raises his head and calls out. “Hello? Who’s there?” Prompting Merlin to freeze.

A few seconds pass as he tries to remain perfectly still. This is exactly what he’d hoped to avoid by staying hidden in the foliage while performing his heroic acts.

Gwaine doesn’t give up. “Look, I know I didn’t just do all that! Whoever’s out there…” He chuckles a bit and puts his hands on his hips. “Am I not allowed to see the face of my savior? I’ll bet it’s a pretty one!”

As charming a line as it was, Merlin doesn’t move a muscle. That is, until Kilgharrah starts to speak from under his arm. “Young warlock!”

“Gah!” Merlin exclaims, almost pulling a tendon in his neck as he launches himself away from the book, and, subsequently, down the moss-covered incline. Head over heels he tumbles out from behind the trees and bushes until he lands in a heap at Gwaine’s feet.

The man smiles down at him. “Well. This is certainly the strangest way I’ve ever met someone.” He sticks out a hand to help Merlin off of the ground. After a moment’s hesitation, Merlin concludes that he really has no dignity left, and takes it.

As he brushes the dirt off his clothes and bag, Merlin notices Gwaine staring intently at him. Inevitably, he goes hot under the gaze. “What?”

“I was right,” Gwaine smirks. “You do have a pretty face.”

Merlin flushes even deeper and gods, help him, why is he so terrible around charming, attractive men? “Oh, er… yes, well, sorry for…”

“What, saving my life?” Gwaine claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t be. Even if I weren’t indebted to you in that regard, I still wouldn’t mind you using magic. Doesn’t bother me.”

“Oh.” Merlin’s surprise adds to his inability to speak more than one syllable. “Wait, really?”

“ ’Course not,” Gwaine replies smoothly. “Although it might bother these fellas once they wake up, so what do you say you and I high tail it out of here and find the nearest tavern, yeah?”

Merlin can only nod as Gwaine swings an arm over his shoulders and leads them away from the clearing (he makes sure to dismiss the spell on the axe before they get too far and listens as it thuds comically onto the forest floor).

~<:>~

They do end up in a tavern, just a few kilometers from Gwaine’s near-death experience. “To you, my good sir,” Gwaine toasts. “For not being a bystander.”

Merlin taps his mug against Gwaine’s and takes a sip, while the other man downs his drink impressively fast.

“So.” Gwaine wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know my name, but I never did catch yours.”

“Um. It’s… Merlin.”

“Merlin!” Gwaine beams. “Lovely. What are you doing out in the woods with all this baggage? Nomadic, or travelling somewhere specific?”

“Well…” Merlin’s not about to tell this perfect stranger his entirely secret plan. But sticking with partial truths seems to work for Gaius and Kilgharrah (the latter of whom Merlin still hasn’t forgiven for startling him so badly). “I’m… actually trying to find someone I knew a long time ago.”

“Oh?” Gwaine leans forward. “Long-lost love?”

Merlin snorts. “No. Definitely not.”

“Hmm. I sense a bit of resentment. Is this a revenge mission?”

“No.” Merlin thinks for a moment. “Not exactly.”

“Mysterious as ever.” Gwaine winks. “I like it.”

Merlin flounders for what to say in response, choosing to take another drink of his ale rather than embarrass himself.

“Do you need any help finding this person?” Gwaine asks. “I do know a lot of names around these parts.”

“Oh.” Merlin can’t exactly tell Gwaine he’s looking for a sorceress called Nimueh, even if he is comfortable with the whole magic thing. “No, that’s alright. I’ve, erm… got a map.”

“Really? A map to where?”

Ah. Merlin hadn’t thought about that bit. “Well…”

“Gods, sorry!” Gwaine laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Forgive me. I get a bit carried away when I meet someone new and interesting. I suppose you’ll want to part ways tomorrow— completely understandable. And you can count on me keeping your little secret.”

Surprised at how easy that was, Merlin nods. “Sure, thanks.”

Gwaine flashes him another charming smile in response.

They drink a while longer, not enough to get hammered, but too much to still be considered sober. When Merlin tries to slide off the bar stool, he nearly falls, but Gwaine catches him around the waist. “Careful there,” he grins.

Merlin stutters out a thank you and prepares to leave, but Gwaine insists that it’s too dark to go back out onto the road and suggests the two of them stay at the local inn.

The mention of the inn sends a guilt-ridden pang through Merlin’s chest as he thinks of his mother, all alone back in their little house, and he almost says no. But… being out late at night is what got his father killed, and Merlin promised he would survive long enough not to cause his mother that sort of pain again.

So, he accepts the invitation, and follows Gwaine down the street a ways. The inn is a welcome comfort, if a bit crowded. If only they could get this kind of business in Ealdor.

“We’re almost full up,” the woman behind the counter says. “If you gentlemen want to stay here, you’ll have to share a room.”

Gwaine takes the key from her hand and turns to Merlin, cocking an eyebrow. “That alright with you, Merlin?”

“ ’Course,” Merlin replies, trying not to sound too panicked. He was hoping to be alone for the evening, so he could actually get a good night’s rest without worrying about someone else in the room potentially looking through his stuff. Not that Merlin doesn’t trust Gwaine, but, well. He doesn’t exactly trust Gwaine. After all, he did meet the man as he was being put on unofficial trial for being a thief.

And a seductor, Merlin’s mind supplies as they walk towards their designated room. On that account, after Gwaine unlocks the door, Merlin is relieved to see that there are two separate cots pushed up against each wall.

“Brilliant,” he breathes out, making for the one on the left.

“Didn’t think we’d have to share a bed as well, did you?” Gwaine teases.

Merlin ignores the blush he can feel on his cheeks. “No.” He continues settling in, swinging his bag and satchel onto the floor beside the bedframe, then adds, “Maybe.”

He can hear Gwaine chuckling behind him and chooses to ignore that as well. “I wouldn’t mind so much,” Gwaine says.

Now that he can’t ignore. Steeling himself, Merlin turns, only to find Gwaine standing there, mere centimeters from his face. “Gwaine!” he squeaks.

The other man raises his eyebrows, flicking his gaze down to Merlin’s lips. “Yes?”

Before anything else can happen, there comes a third voice from Merlin’s satchel. “Young warlock!”

This time, both he and Gwaine jump, putting some much needed distance between them. “Bloody hell!” Gwaine exclaims. “What was that?”

Frustrated beyond belief, Merlin stomps over to his satchel and yanks the book out, tossing it face-up onto the bed. As soon as the dragon shifts into animated form, Merlin starts in. “What is wrong with you?! Do you have something urgent to tell me? Otherwise, why do you keep interrupting?!”

“I am simply trying to guide you toward your destiny,” Kilgharrah responds unhelpfully.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Woah,” Gwaine says, pointing. “It’s a talking dragon book.”

The dragon book does its imitation of a smirk. “Indeed.”

Merlin puts his palms to his forehead and groans before turning back to Gwaine. “Look, I’m sorry. There’s a long story behind all this, but I don’t—”

“—know if you can trust me?” Gwaine finishes. At Merlin’s reluctant nod, Gwaine smiles, smaller than usual, and a bit more genuine. He reaches out and pats Merlin on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Merlin. I won’t ask. Big believer in ‘live and let live’, me.”

As he moves away to the other side of the albeit small room, Merlin glances at Kilgharrah. “Can I trust him?” he asks quietly. The dragon gives him a blank stare. “What? You’re the one that’s always going on about the future! I thought you’d have some insight.”

“You are wise to think so, young warlock,” Kilgharrah replies. “In this case, you must trust your instincts. What do they tell you about him?”

Merlin can’t tell if Gwaine’s heard the entire conversation; he is humming with his back to them, probably in an attempt not to eavesdrop. Merlin doesn’t really think he’s a bad guy. Maybe one with a morally grey outlook on life, but not one who would break his word over a subject as serious as this.

Still. “You’re not going to rob me while I sleep, are you?”

Gwaine peers over his shoulder, looking amused. “No.” He turns around fully. “I swear to you, Merlin, on my honor. You’re a good man, and you saved my life. I’d be a fool to repay that with betrayal.”

The answer warms Merlin’s heart with how sincere it sounds. His instincts are pretty clear on the subject of trusting Gwaine now. “Alright. Then I guess I should mention that I was cursed as a baby.”

~<:>~

Merlin proceeds to tell Gwaine most everything surrounding his current quest: Nimueh’s visit and disappearance, his parents’ search, his father’s death, his apprenticeship with Gaius, his accidental attack on Gwen, and how he obtained Kilgharrah.

Gwaine takes it rather well, commenting in appropriate places. At the end of it all, he puffs his cheeks and lets out a low whistle. “Well, Merlin. You’ve really gotten yourself into a pickle here.”

“I’m well aware, thank you,” Merlin says, arms crossed.

“So…” Gwaine gestures vaguely, as though trying to understand. “You’ve got all this magic, all this power, and you’re going to see this Nimueh woman… to what, have her take it all away?”

Merlin’s brows crease. “Yes. That’s the point of my being out here.”

Gwaine mirrors his expression. “But… your magic is incredible. You don’t believe all sorcery is an evil, do you?”

“No, of course not.” Wasn’t he listening? “But I can’t control my power.”

“You seemed pretty in control in the woods,” Gwaine points out.

Merlin will give him that one, but he shakes his head all the same. “Those were just spells. I mean my power. The energy inside me and the way the world reacts to it— it’s too big. It’s too dangerous.”

Gwaine looks as though he means to dispute that— which puts Merlin on the defensive, because he can’t possibly understand what it’s been like to have all this magic weighing him down, fighting to get out, his entire life— but their serious conversation is interrupted. Not by Kilgharrah this time, but by sudden screams off in the distance.

They both snap their heads in the direction of the noise. It doesn’t seem to be coming from the inn, but rather the street outside. More screams and shouts join the first batch, enough that Gwaine and Merlin stand simultaneously. They look at each other, and then race out the door without a word.

There’s chaos in the streets. Merlin can’t seem to grab a passerby long enough to get them to tell him what’s going on, and it seems Gwaine is having about the same luck. They can only really see the direction people are streaming away from.

But Merlin notices one man, far in front of him, that’s headed against the flow, pushing through the crowd with a sword in his hand. As soon as the man gets free, he charges at full speed down the poorly-lit pathway.

Merlin grabs Gwaine’s arm. “Come on!” he shouts. “We have to follow that man before he gets hurt!”

“You’ve got a real savior complex, you know that?” Gwaine shouts back, but he runs alongside Merlin anyway.

They end up at the bottom of a hill, just outside the edge of the woods. Merlin can make out one human-sized figure and the shadow of something much larger. Even as he and Gwaine get closer, Merlin can barely see the creature; it’s dark and blurry and fast enough to streak away from the sword-wielding man each time he goes to strike it.

Without really thinking, Merlin races forward and flings out an arm. The earth shoots up between the two combatants, pushing the creature away into the forest and forcing the man to fall backward onto the grass. Merlin gets close enough to see that the creature has what looks like four legs and a tail, and it whips its head around to roar at him.

But when its glowing, gold-green gaze meets Merlin’s, the creature slowly stops, blinking and closing its mouth. Suddenly, Merlin can feel its energy shift, as though it recognizes him. Or, more likely, his magic. This must be some sort of magical beast— and a highly intelligent one, judging by its enormous, expressive eyes.

Before Merlin can attempt to communicate with it, the creature unfolds two wings from its back and takes off into the night sky, quickly disappearing over the trees.

Merlin will have to ask Kilgharrah what kind of beast it is. Right now, however, he has to deal with yet another person he’s accidentally revealed his magic to.

That unfortunate fellow is still lying on the ground, staring at Merlin. Gwaine breaks some of the tension by coming up and offering the man a hand, which he takes graciously. As soon as he’s standing, he turns back to Merlin. “What did you do?”

The question is more curious than anything. Merlin can’t believe he’s done this twice in less than twenty-four hours. “Nothing,” he says. “I just…”

“Saved your life,” Gwaine supplies. “It’s kinda his thing.”

Merlin shoots Gwaine an exasperated look.

“You made that,” the man concludes, pointing to the wall of dirt, which Merlin quickly forces back where it belongs. Seeing this, the stranger chuckles. “You very well might have saved my life, then.” He extends a hand in greeting. “Lancelot of Willowdale.”

After a second, Merlin reaches out and shakes his hand. “Merlin of Ealdor.”

Lancelot turns to Gwaine, who does the same. “It’s just Gwaine,” he says with a wink.

“The two of you are visitors, yes?” At their confirmation, Lancelot nods, grim. “I’m sorry you’ve come to our village at this strange time. The monster you saw has been attacking every night for almost two weeks now.”

“Two weeks?” Merlin repeats. “How many people has it killed?”

Lancelot falters. “Well… none. But it has seriously injured many. We don’t exactly have enough resources to protect against it. Just me, I’m afraid, and my friend—”

“Oi, Lance!” comes a somewhat familiar voice. “Are you an idiot? Why’d you run after it, I told you the trap would scare it off!”

Merlin turns to see another man climbing up the hill, a bit shorter and stockier than Lancelot, with a gait Merlin most definitely recognizes. When the figure reaches them, he takes one look at Merlin and his eyes go wide with shock. “Merlin?”

It’s then that Merlin fully registers who Lancelot’s friend is, and his jaw drops to mirror the other man’s awe.

“Will.”

~<:>~

Chapter Text

Morgana walks under the late morning sun, her pale skin relishing what light it can get.

Since Agravaine’s departure yesterday, she’s been trapped in the house with Morgause watching her every move. It’s somehow worse than Morgana thought it would be— she supposes because Morgause’s attention is no longer divided between her and Agravaine. Her sister has intense focus and a willpower like no other, something Morgana always envied her for when they were younger.

Of course, Morgause didn’t object when Morgana left. After all, she wasn’t keeping Morgana there on purpose. She’s just so… silent, and menacing. She must know something about what Morgana has been doing— the apothecary visits and the pull away from Agravaine’s plans— but she won’t reveal anything until she wants to. That’s just Morgause’s way.

For now, Morgana assumes that her sister isn’t shadowing her to the forge, so she steps inside, pushing the hood of her cloak back.

Gwen is at the window today. She brightens immediately upon seeing Morgana, but subsequently looks away, forcing her features back into a neutral expression. Presumably a side-effect of their rather tense conversation in Gaius’s shop.

Morgana moves forward until she’s only a few centimeters from Gwen’s work station. “Good morning.”

Not one to deny a potential customer pleasantries, Gwen sighs. “Good morning,” she replies, still scraping away at the metal. Morgana notices that she’s using her left hand, which is odd, considering Gwen is most definitely right-handed and typically performs such tasks with her dominant hand.

“Are you alright?” Morgana asks, gesturing to Gwen’s right hand, which is resting weakly on the blunt end of the scrap she’s molding.

Gwen follows her gaze and stiffens slightly. “Fine. I’m… fine.” She resumes working. “Why are you here?”

“Just to talk.” Despite herself, Morgana is amused at Gwen’s resolute lack of eye contact. She ducks her head a little, in an attempt to guide their gazes together. “Gwen?”

Finally, the girl looks up at Morgana, and her movements slow, until they stop completely. There’s defeat lodged in her dark irises. “Oh, Morgana.”

Her name falls from Gwen’s lips like a plea, and then Gwen herself steps around the anvil to collapse in the window seat just beside them. Morgana follows her, settling down and placing a cautious hand on Gwen’s knee.

“I’m just so worried about Merlin,” Gwen says, brows drawn. “I don’t know where he is or where he’s going, if he’s safe… I feel so useless here, carrying on like nothing’s wrong.” She turns her head to stare earnestly at Morgana. “Has Lord Agravaine already left to look for him?”

“Yes, he has.” Morgana rubs her thumb against Gwen’s leg. “He rode to Camelot yesterday. But I don’t think Merlin’s gone there, so he should be safe. And, like Gaius said, he has his magic. He’ll be alright.” When Gwen doesn’t seem reassured, Morgana adds, “I believe he’s one of the most powerful sorcerers in Albion. It’s very unlikely he’ll come across anything his magic can’t conquer.”

“I know he’s powerful.” Gwen’s voice is quiet, contemplative. “I felt his power, when…”

Her fingers move to hold her right wrist, a subconscious motion that would go unnoticed by many. But Morgana notices. So that’s how Merlin hurt her.

Sighing, Morgana removes her hand from Gwen’s leg and holds it out, palm up. “You’re not alright,” she says, looking pointedly at Gwen’s injured hand. “I can heal you, if you let me.” Please, let me.

Gwen spends a few moments searching Morgana’s eyes, for sincerity or security most likely. Then, having found whatever she was looking for, she lifts her right hand out of her lap and places it gently in Morgana’s.

The skin-to-skin contact sends a flare through Morgana’s inner senses.

She deduces that this happens for a few reasons: first, her magic recognizes that this is a person with whom Morgana desires to be intimately connected. Second, this person was injured via magical means, and her power is jumping at the chance to correct the hurt.

Third, and most bizarrely, Morgana can feel Merlin’s magic, just as Gwen said she could, when he did this to her. And it feels… familiar. Just as Merlin himself felt familiar when she met him— and before, just hearing his name…

It has everything to do with that vision. The one she’s told no one about, and the reason she’s helping Merlin instead of Agravaine. Prophecy, destiny, divinity— whatever it is, it’s leading Morgana to Merlin, and it always was. Like cosmic residue from another life.

Thoughts of Merlin aside, Morgana sets her concentration on Gwen’s hand in hers. “Alright,” she says, adjusting so she can cup Gwen’s injury between her palms. “Fair warning, this will feel strange.”

Gwen simply nods, looking more anticipatory than concerned. Morgana closes her eyes and breathes out. With that breath, she pours her energy into Gwen’s hand: repairing the nerve damage, healing the fractures, erasing the leftover sting of Merlin’s magic.

When she opens her eyes, she knows they’re glowing gold, which is solidified by Gwen’s tiny gasp. Without thinking, Morgana flicks her gaze up to meet Gwen’s. She can see the shine reflected there in her pupils, and she watches as it fades.

Interestingly, Gwen makes no move to pull her hand away, still staring at Morgana with parted lips.

“That was… amazing,” she breathes. “Is that what magic is supposed to feel like?”

Morgana can’t hold back a small smile. “All magic is different. But… mine likes you, I suppose.”

An obvious blush blooms on Gwen’s cheeks at that, and Morgana can feel her own face heating up, too. She relaxes her grip and Gwen takes the cue to draw her right hand back, rubbing it absently with her left. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Neither of them reinitiate eye contact, but they remain sitting in the window, shoulders and knees just shy of touching. Gwen is the first to speak again. “Is there anything I can do, for Merlin? Anything… we can do?”

Morgana smirks to herself. “Well, since you asked…” She turns to meet Gwen’s gaze again. “Yes, there is.”

~<:>~

Meanwhile, in Willowdale, Merlin has just received a flood of information.

Apparently, this is not the village Will and his family moved to after leaving Ealdor, but rather the village where Will chose to start up on his own, after leaving his not-so-decent parents behind. He and Lancelot have known each other for almost a year now, as Willowdale has always been Lancelot’s home, and the two met the first day Will arrived. They hit it off right away, since, according to Will, Lancelot reminded him of Merlin. (“Always charging into danger head-first, like two reckless idiots in a pod.”)

When the creature began attacking, though, Will was the first to suggest that he and Lancelot devise a strategy to fight it off. Willowdale has never had any strong military presence. Similar to Ealdor, it consists mostly of peasant farmers and craftsmen just trying to live their lives in peace. In this case, the newcomer with a mind for tricks and the owner of the only sword in the village do seem like the best defense.

“We’ve only really managed to frighten it,” Will says, after explaining their failed attempts at trapping the beast. “Can’t seem to stop it from coming back every night.”

“Why does it keep coming back?” Merlin asks. “What does it want?”

Will shrugs. “Want? It’s a wild animal. Probably blood.”

Merlin frowns, turning to Lancelot. “But you said it hasn’t killed anyone.”

“Killed, no,” Lancelot affirms. “But it has bitten and slashed several villagers. To be honest, we don’t really know its purpose here.”

“Obviously,” Gwaine chimes in, unhelpfully.

Merlin chews his lip, debating whether or not to pull Kilgharrah from his satchel and reveal the dragon to even more people.

They’re currently in Will’s house, mid-morning sun blocked by the window curtains, shielding them from any outside eyes.

The eyes already inside are Gwaine, who’s seen the book before, Will, whom Merlin trusts more than anyone in the world, and Lancelot, who has proven to be the best sort of honorable, and has also already witnessed Merlin doing magic.

And Kilgharrah is the only one who could possibly have the answers Merlin is looking for.

Sod it. Merlin reaches down and hefts the book onto the kitchen table, startling the other three occupants.

“Oh,” Gwaine smirks. “The dragon book? This should be fun.”

Merlin waves his hand to dismiss the spell on the cover, and Will and Lancelot peer over curiously as the animation shifts, allowing Kilgharrah to breathe and blink. “Young warlock,” he greets. “How can I be of service?”

“What the hell?” Will mutters in awe and Lancelot makes a noise of agreement.

“This guy’s full of tricks,” Gwaine says, to which Will snorts.

“Trust me, I know.”

Merlin ignores all three of them, focusing on the book in front of him. “Kilgharrah,” he starts, attempting to be polite. “I need to know what kind of magical creature is attacking this village. It looks like a giant black panther, with wings, and it only appears at night.”

“Interesting,” Kilgharrah hums. “By your description, I believe you are dealing with a Bastet.”

“A Bastet,” Merlin repeats, the name sounding vaguely familiar. “Brilliant. Do you know what it might want, or how to defeat it?”

The dragon regards him with that annoying, knowing look. “Bastets are uncommon creatures, dangerously wild and difficult to reason with. The only viable method of communication is telepathy. A force far out of reach… for most.”

Telepathy does sound intimidating, but something about the way Kilgharrah phrased it makes Merlin narrow his eyes. “Is it out of reach for me?”

“I suspect not. Any and all magical beings will respond to power such as yours without question,” the dragon says, matter-of-factly.

“Really?” Will nudges Merlin, teasing. “I had no idea you were some sort of sorcerer supreme.”

“Shut up,” Merlin grumbles, a bit uncomfortable with the recent discussions of how awesome and powerful his magic is, considering he doesn’t want it. “What should I do, then?” he asks Kilgharrah. “Go out into the woods and talk to it?”

“Don’t talk,” Kilgharrah reminds him. “Communicate. Look in its eyes, and establish an understanding. The Bastet needs to feel safe enough to speak back to you, so remain as non-threatening as possible. In fact, it’s best if you go alone.”

Lancelot straightens in his chair. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Will agrees, glaring at the book. “We’re not sending Merlin in with no back-up!”

Despite Merlin’s aversion to his own magic, he knows that it’s capable, especially against this beast in particular. “It’s fine, guys,” he assures them. “As long as it’s just me, I won’t be in danger.”

“How do you know?” Gwaine asks, and Lancelot and Will make indignant noises of agreement.

Merlin stares at each of them in turn. “Because I looked into its eyes last night, and I could feel it responding to me. It calmed down, stopped attacking. I think the only reason it flew away is because you lot were there.”

Gwaine and Will appear offended at that, but Lancelot seems to be acquiescing. He leans forward to place a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “At least try and find it while the sun is out,” he suggests. “You’ll have a better sense of your surroundings.”

“No,” Kilgharrah dismisses. “The creature only emerges during the night. The only way to stop its attacks is by freeing it— forcing it to turn back to its original form under the moonlight.”

“Wait.” Merlin frowns. “Original form?”

“Yes. The Bastet is a cursed beast, human by day and monster by night. It was once a punishment doled out by the gods, but has since been co-opted for human sorcerers to turn on each other.”

“Each other? Does that mean only sorcerers can be cursed?”

“Yes.”

“Which is why they can only be reached by magical means,” Merlin finishes, finally understanding.

Will holds up his hands. “Hang on. If this thing is human sometimes, why don’t we just trap it while it’s weak and keep it from transforming?”

“A simple trap won’t contain it,” Kilgharrah replies haughtily. “Only Merlin can solve this problem, and he must do it on his own.”

“Right, yeah,” Merlin says, still embarrassed about being talked up so much. “Thanks for the encouragement. And, er, for the help.” He quickly puts the concealment charm back in place to keep the dragon from saying anything more.

The other three men in the room are wearing various expressions of displeasure and confusion. Most of all Will, who clearly doesn’t support the idea of Merlin recklessly running toward danger, like usual. Merlin makes eye contact with him and offers a grimace and a shrug, prompting Will to roll his eyes and sigh.

“Oh, alright then, you mad man. Go have your magical fun. But we’ll be waiting at the edge of the woods, won’t we, lads?” Gwaine and Lancelot nod earnestly. “Just in case you get into too much trouble that you can’t get out of it.”

“When have I ever gotten into trouble?” Merlin says, smiling cheekily as Will shoves him.

~<:>~

After consulting Kilgharrah again without his companions present, Merlin learns that a Bastet’s primary motivation is, indeed, to kill. When he tells Kilgharrah of this particular Bastet’s apparent hesitation to murder, the dragon surmises that whatever sorcerer is trapped inside the beast’s shell must be strong enough to take the reins and pull back at times.

“That is what you must do as well,” Kilgharrah tells him. “Bring the human forward, so they might take control of their transformation.”

Now, Merlin stands in a forest clearing, a few hundred meters away from Gwaine, Lancelot, and Will, just waiting for something to happen. The moon is high above his head, and the Bastet is near. Merlin can feel it.

Soon, he hears a growl from over his right shoulder and he turns to see the panther-like creature stalking slowly out into the light. As instructed, Merlin focuses on its eyes, attempting to re-initiate the bond they shared last night. Almost immediately, the Bastet halts, the snarl dropping from its face as it stares back, blinking curiously.

Taking advantage of the calm, Merlin lowers his posture and reaches out, palm tilted, non-threatening. It’s alright, he thinks. I’m not going to hurt you.

He can hear his own voice echoing inside his head, which lets him know the telepathy is working. The Bastet doesn’t respond, but he can sense it listening.

I’m here to help, he continues. I know you’re not a monster.

At that, the Bastet’s ears press flat against its head, and Merlin worries he’s said the wrong thing. Its eyes look scared, now.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to frighten or offend you. I just want to help.

His words do appear to be affecting the creature, even if it’s still not speaking back to him. Boldly, he takes another step forward.

I’m Merlin. What’s your name?

Strained, hurt noises start to emanate from the Bastet, the internal struggle becoming physical as it lowers its front half to the ground and stares up at Merlin, ears still back, wings quivering. Finally, it speaks, in a hushed, timid voice: Freya.

Merlin smiles, encouraging. Freya, he repeats. You’re alright. I know you’re trapped, and you’re scared, but I’m going to help you. I promise.

The Bastet— Freya— remains silent. Merlin presumes the one word took most of her effort to say.

You don’t have to speak, he assures her. You just have to stay with me. Can you do that?

Slowly, Freya nods, wincing slightly.

Good. Now, I need you to concentrate. Focus on your memories, as a human.

The last word sends a shudder through Freya’s body and she squeezes her eyes shut; they flash gold when she opens them, signifying the beast trying to take back control.

Merlin watches her writhing, pained rumbling coming from her chest, and he’s not sure what to do; so he moves even closer, his hand still outstretched. Freya, he says, hoping her name will keep her human mind there. You can fight this. You don’t have to be a monster.

But Freya roars, closing her eyes again and cringing back, away from Merlin. After a few shakes of her head, her eyes snap open, green gaze directly on Merlin.

Run, he hears in his mind. Please. I don’t want to hurt you.

You don’t have to hurt me, he tries to tell her, but she unleashes another strangled howl, teeth gnashing, and lunges for him.

Merlin’s magic reacts instantly, forcing the beast’s emotions back and bringing Freya’s to the front. Outwardly, he throws his hands up, as though to shield himself.

It is at this exact moment that a figure comes charging in from the side and slashes a finely-crafted sword into Freya’s flank.

The blow cuts off Merlin’s link to her and she roars in pain, attention now turned to the armor-clad man— whom Merlin is immediately able to recognize as the proverbial bane of his existence, Prince Arthur bloody Pendragon, because the prat isn’t even wearing a helmet.

As Arthur lunges toward Freya again, Merlin shouts, “Stop!”

Of course, the prince doesn’t listen, continuing to stab at the Bastet.

“Please, stop!”

Freya is able to dodge most of the attacks, but Arthur manages to land one which slices into the skin above her claws.

“This isn’t the way, you idiot!” Merlin screams.

He forgets to be angry when Freya lashes out with her injured paw, catching the prince about the waist and knocking him across the clearing.

“Arthur!”

The name escapes Merlin’s lips like an instinct, his every impulse telling him to run toward the prince’s crumpled body. He starts to do so, but he’s interrupted as Freya turns on him, snarling and whipping her tail back and forth.

Even though there’s nothing human left in her eyes, Merlin can’t bring himself to hurt her. After all, he promised that he wouldn’t. Instead, he reignites the magic he was channeling before and thrusts his hands out, shielding himself, and keeping the Bastet contained.

Freya, he pleads. You can come back. I know you can. I believe in you. You’re strong, and you haven’t killed anyone. You’re not a monster.

Freya is not a monster.

The beast lets out one final roar, anguish tearing through its bones— Freya’s bones.

With a flap of her wings, she ascends above the trees, magic starting to swirl around her, breaking down her form. The claws retract, the body shrinks, the black fur vanishes into skin, all as the wings lower her gradually back to the ground. When she touches down, she is human, apart from the leathery black protrusions at her shoulders, folding into tendrils of smoke. And once the last bits of her cursed form evaporate completely, Freya collapses like a broken doll.

Merlin should run to her first. He doesn’t.

His legs carry him toward Arthur, and upon reaching him, Merlin kneels, running his hands over the torn chainmail on the prince’s torso, under which there sit three deep gashes. Panic sets in at the horrid sight, and Merlin almost uses magic, again, consequences be damned.

What stops him is the muffled groaning he hears from the now semi-conscious Arthur shifting his body against the dirt.

“Why is it,” he mumbles weakly. “That I’m always attacked whenever I’m with you?”

Appalled, and feeling more than a little indignant, Merlin smacks his breastplate. “You dollophead!”

“Ow!” Arthur winces, opening his eyes. “What the hell—”

“I had everything under control! It’s not my fault you keep throwing yourself into danger! What are you even doing here?!”

“I received a rather distressed summons from one of Willowdale’s residents!” Arthur retorts, wrestling himself up into a sitting position. “ ‘Help us, sire, there’s been a beast attacking the village!’ And when I arrive to deal with the threat, they tell me some visiting oaf called Merlin has already wandered off to fight it on his own!”

Merlin crosses his arms. “And, what, you didn’t think I could handle it?”

“I absolutely did not!” Arthur’s patronizing expression slowly gives way to something resembling reluctant admiration. “But apparently you weren’t lying when you said you could take on a griffin.”

“This wasn’t a griffin.”

“I know, Merlin.” Arthur sighs, rubbing his shoulder. “You really are incorrigible.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Merlin stands, burying his relief that the prince is alright, and goes over to where Freya is still lying in a heap. He crouches down beside her to check her shallow breathing.

“Who is that?” Arthur calls. “She wasn’t there before.”

“Yes, she was,” Merlin replies, through gritted teeth. “Now shut up. You’ve done enough.”

Merlin places a soothing hand on Freya’s upper arm, trying to channel some of the energy from the bond into her now more fragile body. He can hear Arthur behind him, struggling to haul himself to his feet. Once he manages it, he crosses the clearing and hovers over Merlin’s shoulder. “She’s hurt.”

“Yes,” Merlin says again, this time turning to glare at Arthur. “You hurt her.”

Arthur looks affronted. “I didn’t.”

“She was the panther, you idiot. She’s a Bastet.” Merlin gazes at her as he presses more of his magic into her skin. “She was cursed to transform into a mindless beast every night. The only way to free her and stop the attacks was to approach her without the threat of harm. Speak to her, coax her back into human form, through kindness and understanding.” Out of spite, Merlin adds, “You know, courtesy and all that.”

Merlin can feel Arthur roll his eyes. “Of course. Talk to the beast. Ask it nicely to stop attacking innocent people. Why didn’t I ever think of that?”

“You would’ve if you had any knowledge of magical creatures beyond labeling them as dangerous and wiping them out,” Merlin snaps, his annoyance at Pendragon policies flaring up again.

Arthur doesn’t have anything clever to say to that, Merlin assumes, as the prince remains still and silent, only moving when Freya’s eyelids flutter open. To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur kneels next to him, rather than backing away from a potentially dangerous being.

Merlin shakes away his confusion at Arthur’s perpetual defiance of his expectations and peers down at the waking girl. “Freya?”

She blinks up at him, her now hazel eyes meeting his blue ones, and she brightens, softly. “Merlin. It’s you.”

“Yes,” Merlin replies gently. “It’s me.”

He offers her his hand and she takes it, though she’s a bit too weak to pull herself all the way up. Merlin and Arthur reach out at the same time, placing a guiding palm on either shoulder.

Arthur seems to realize, when Freya looks at him, the complex nature of the situation. He takes his hand away, clearing his throat awkwardly and bowing his head.

“I must apologize, miss— Freya. I was unaware that you were… trapped against your will. If there’s anything I can do to make up for my mistake…”

“It’s alright,” Freya says, ever so sweetly. Arthur raises his head and she smiles at him. “You were just trying to protect Merlin. I could have hurt him if you hadn’t intervened.”

“Er—well—” Merlin starts, before Arthur can get a big head. “I think I had things under control, for the most part—”

“Nonsense, you heard the lass.” Arthur grins. “I saved you.”

“I wouldn’t say I needed, exactly, saving.”

Freya laughs lightly, bringing a hand to her mouth. Merlin and Arthur quickly cease their bickering to help her off the ground, both visibly embarrassed at her amusement.

While supporting Freya’s weight, Arthur winces again, drawing Merlin’s attention to his still-bleeding torso. Due to the healing energy Merlin channeled into Freya’s body, her wounds are not quite as great. Arthur, on the other hand, is in rugged shape.

“Don’t push yourself,” Merlin scolds, that instinctive worry rising in his chest.

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“Oh, please, I can walk on my own,” Freya says, shifting off of the two men. “There’s no need for you to hurt yourselves any more on my account.”

Arthur gives her a polite, gracious nod and steps away, while Merlin touches her shoulder. “It wasn’t any trouble, Freya,” he assures her. “You didn’t deserve to be trapped like that. I was happy to help.”

Freya smiles tenderly, and Merlin pretends not to notice the tears she brushes away with the heel of her hand as the three of them walk in silence back to Willowdale.

~<:>~

Their return is met with some cajoling from Will, Lancelot, and Gwaine, and much rejoicing from the rest of the village once they hear that the mysterious monster has been vanquished. Of course, only the five men know that Freya was inside that monster, and they decide to keep it that way for her own safety.

Will ushers Freya back to his house so she can rest, Lancelot and Gwaine in tow (not before Gwaine looks Arthur over with approval and throws Merlin another infuriating wink). Merlin then leads Arthur directly to the local apothecary. He’s able to seize the back room, with the help of the royal guard, and orders Arthur to stay there while he gathers the proper balms and poultices.

When he returns, Arthur has removed his chainmail and shirt. An appropriate measure to be sure, and one that Merlin would have asked of him, given where his wounds are. That doesn’t diminish the uncomfortable blush spreading up the back of Merlin’s neck. He mentally scolds himself for thinking of his practically-sworn-enemy that way and goes to set the vials he’s carrying on the bedside table.

Arthur watches him dole out the ingredients in their proper amounts, curiosity evident on his face. “How do you know how to do all this?”

“I was a physician’s apprentice,” Merlin answers, coating his fingers with the healing balm and going to sit across from Arthur to administer it. “Still am, I suppose.”

Merlin leans forward and touches the substance to Arthur’s skin. Arthur immediately hisses at the contact, glaring when Merlin rolls his eyes. “It stings.”

“Baby.”

“You seriously can’t address me like that,” Arthur says, but Merlin can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Why not? You seem to like it.”

As soon as Merlin’s said it, he wishes he hadn’t. He forces himself to look only at the wounds he’s tending, carrying on as though nothing is out of the ordinary. Arthur makes no comment, but he’s considerably more tense, and he hisses again when Merlin applies a new coat to one of the scratches.

There’s that instinct again, stemming from Merlin’s core, his magic, pushing him to heal the prince the same way he did Freya. It’s absurd, just as it was when he felt it back in the clearing. He can’t use magic on a literal Pendragon. He has no desire to be exiled from Camelot anytime soon.

And yet, he could do it. Arthur wouldn’t even notice. Just a little extra pressure, relieving him of his pain. Merlin resists the urge, though he can tell a bit of his magic seeps in anyway, and it brings him a strange rush that he struggles to conceal.

“You’re actually quite good at that,” Arthur comments, more relaxed now that the magic is taking effect. Merlin laughs to himself at the irony.

“Surprised?”

Arthur hesitates. “Yes,” he says. “And no.”

Merlin can feel the prince’s gaze on him, but he still refuses to look up, focusing only on the healing materials in his hands. While also attempting to decipher that maddeningly unclear, and thus in-character, statement.

“How did you know her name?” Arthur asks, suddenly. “Freya?”

That prompts a spike of panic, which Merlin is able to calm by continuing to smooth the balm against Arthur’s ribs. “She told me,” he replies, endeavoring to construct a convincing lie. “I found her just before she transformed.”

Arthur seems satisfied with this response. But he doesn’t let up on the topic of Freya. “You two seemed to have a… real connection.”

That forces Merlin to meet Arthur’s gaze, squinting slightly as he tries to see if the prince is really hinting at what Merlin thinks he’s hinting at; and, sure enough, there’s some suggestion hidden in those otherwise carefully schooled features.

“Yes,” Merlin says, slowly. “Fortunately, or I wouldn’t have been able to talk her down.”

He resumes his work and Arthur nods, once. “Right. Well. She is a lovely girl.”

Merlin tries hard not to burst out laughing as he looks back up at Arthur. “Yes,” he agrees, raising an eyebrow. “Will certainly seems to think so.”

He has to look away again, although he relishes Arthur’s surprise. “So… you don’t?”

Biting his cheek, Merlin hums noncommittally. “Not really my type. A bit too female.”

That shuts Arthur up for the remainder of the healing process. Merlin can feel how hot his skin has turned under his fingertips. He can’t resist sending more restorative magic through the prince’s pores, to cool him down.

As Merlin finishes, wrapping the cloth bandages around Arthur’s torso and pulling them taught, Arthur inhales sharply, one last outcry of pain.

“Sorry,” Merlin apologizes automatically, proceeding more gently with the final wrapping.

“It’s alright,” Arthur half-murmurs.

Neither of them initiate eye contact until Merlin secures Arthur’s bandages. Then, shifting back a safe distance, Merlin looks up into the prince’s face. “Well. There,” he says, dumbly.

Arthur closes his lips, then parts them again. “Thank you.”

Merlin nods, standing. “Of course.” He gathers the empty vials and bowls and starts to leave the room. Before he does, though, he decides to push down his pride, and turns back. “Thank you, too.”

Arthur looks startled. “For what?”

“Just… you know…” Merlin flounders. “Being… chivalrous. Instead of arrogant.”

He regrets saying it as a self-satisfied smile breaks across Arthur’s face. “You think I’m chivalrous? Me, the royal prat?”

“Oh, never mind,” Merlin huffs, stomping away from the prince. He ignores how Arthur’s laughter from behind him seems to fill his magic’s core, sending a pleasant hum through his body and warming his skin.

~<:>~

Across the kingdom, in Ealdor, the local physician has just locked his apothecary, and is returning to the small portion of the building that he calls home, ready for another night of fitful sleep.

Upon opening the door to his chambers, however, he finds a woman already sitting inside, and starts. “Morgana.”

“Hello, Gaius,” Morgana says, voice dangerously calm. “I think it’s time the two of us had a little chat about my real father.”

~<:>~

Chapter Text

The morning after yet another incident in the woods (Merlin’s starting to suspect the forest is the only place anything happens in this kingdom), the small group of people who actually know what happened with the Bastet— minus the prince, who spent the night somewhere presumably nicer— are gathered in Will’s house to talk.

Merlin has a few questions for Freya, but he allows the others to speak first. Namely Will, who is obviously quite taken with her and wants to do as much as he can to help.

“Do you live far from here?” Will asks, angling toward her in his chair. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I only live a few villages away,” Freya replies. “But I don’t get out much, because…”

“… the whole turning into a mindless beast thing,” Gwaine finishes.

“Mate!” Will backhands Gwaine’s arm as he, Merlin, and Lancelot all flash Gwaine disbelieving looks. “Have some… tact.”

Freya doesn’t seem too bothered, simply shaking her head. “No, that wasn’t the reason. I was only cursed a few weeks ago.”

Merlin isn’t necessarily surprised to hear that, but it does give him pause. “That must have been why you were able to hold back so much.”

“Yes, well,” Freya starts, looking slightly uncomfortable. “That, and… I’m… I have a lot of experience with… magic.”

“Right,” Lancelot nods. “The book said only sorcerers could be cursed.”

Freya looks around at each of them. “Are you all… okay with that?”

“Of course,” Will answers immediately. “You’re safe with us, and we won’t tell anyone. Besides, we’ve got Merlin here and he’s much worse at hiding it.”

“I hid it from you for ten years!” Merlin protests.

“Yeah, and you did a piss-poor job of it.”

“You only hid it from me for about ten seconds, mate,” Gwaine comments. “Maybe less than that, seeing as how Lance and I both got saved very obviously and immediately.”

“Face it, Merlin,” Will grins. “You’re not that subtle.”

Merlin opens and closes his mouth several times, before he finally realizes there’s not much he can say to dispute that. Practically everyone he’s come into contact with in the short span of his existence knows about his magic. Everyone except Arthur, of course, but he’s thick.

“Fine,” Merlin concedes. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry, Freya. Will here has never had anything against magic. He’ll take good care of you.”

His redirect works, as his former best friend blushes and sends Merlin an irritated look over Freya’s head. Merlin smirks. Who’s not that subtle now?

“Freya,” Lancelot says carefully. “If you don’t mind my asking… how did you come to be cursed?”

Understandably, the apprehension in the room grows as the question settles. Although Freya is strong, her face takes on a decidedly fragile shade. “I… I don’t really know why it happened. I was just gathering berries in the woods.”

Again with the bloody woods, Merlin thinks. “There was this woman,” Freya continues. “She appeared quite suddenly and asked me my name. When I told her, it was like she’d already guessed. She said some… confusing things, and then, without any explanation at all, she shot a beam of magic at me. I tried to deflect it, but I was startled, and I wasn’t fast enough. I blacked out.”

Freya swallows, eyes growing misty. “When I woke up, it was the next morning, and there was… blood, all over me. I couldn’t remember what happened at first, but then… it all came rushing back…”

Will moves to place a comforting arm around her shoulders. She leans into him, grasping his hand. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“What kind of person curses someone with no explanation?” Gwaine wonders, scoffing. “She must have been a right bitch.”

Gwaine’s words sink into Merlin’s gut, and he starts to put the pieces together. “Freya. What did this woman look like?”

Looking up at him, Freya wipes the tears from her cheeks and tries to recall. “Um… she was… well, beautiful. Pale skin, blue eyes, dark hair… it was sort of braided, I think…”

Merlin has to clench his fists against the sudden roaring of blood in his ears. “Did she tell you her name?”

Freya seems to recognize that Merlin is getting at something and her brows furrow. “I… yes, she did. It was… Nimueh.”

The second he hears the name, Merlin is on his feet.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Gwaine murmurs, bringing a hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose.

“Wait…” Will narrows his eyes at Merlin. “Nimueh? Isn’t that the witch who…?”

Merlin manages to nod through his anger, not trusting himself to speak.

“Bloody hell,” Will echoes.

Those unaware of the current predicament look confused. “The witch who what?” Freya asks.

“I’m lost as well,” Lancelot agrees.

Gwaine is the only one who attempts to answer, Will and Merlin having gone silent with rage. “She’s… well, she’s just a terribly mysterious sorceress who seems to go around screwing with the universe.”

“And screwing with people’s lives in the process,” Merlin growls, the floor cracking slightly beneath his feet. The rest of the room’s occupants jump a bit at the sudden noise, and then stare.

“You alright, Merlin?” Will stands, too, reaching out toward him, but Merlin flinches away. Before he can repeat what happened with Gwen.

“Fine. I need some air.”

Ignoring the disarray he’s leaving behind, Merlin stalks out the back door, heading for the patch of trees at the edge of the village that doesn’t quite cross into forest territory. Once he’s there, he rips the book from his satchel and waits for the dragon to shift out of the concealment spell.

“Young warlock,” Kilgharrah greets, as usual.

“Show me Nimueh,” Merlin snaps. “Right now.”

“Something seems to be upsetting you. If there’s any way I can help—”

“Enough already! You can help by shutting up and showing me where to find the woman I’m looking for. That is your only purpose, after all!”

The great dragon regards Merlin for a few seconds before he reluctantly concedes, flipping the book open to the scrying pool inside. There, Merlin can see the silhouette of a woman in red, walking past a town sign which reads: Helva.

Merlin closes the book roughly. “How far is Helva?”

“Approximately one hundred kilometers west of here.”

As Merlin goes to shove the book back into his bag, not even considering showing anything close to gratitude, Kilgharrah starts to speak again. “I would advise that you—”

“Stuff it,” Merlin interrupts. “I don’t care what your advice is. I’m going to find Nimueh, not take some pre-ordained, wind-about path to fulfill whatever destiny you seem to think I have.”

He waves his hand to shut the dragon up definitively.

When he arrives back at Will’s house a few minutes later, Merlin notices there are a handful of knights standing guard out front. Upon entering, he realizes why.

Arthur is the first one to notice Merlin, his gaze flicking up above the others’ heads. His expression seems to soften, strangely enough, and Merlin feels like a doe in torchlight, so he just stands there staring until the rest of the room turns toward him.

Gwaine grins broadly. “Ah! The conquering hero has returned.”

Merlin ignores him, still looking at Arthur. “What is he doing here?”

“Oh, Prince Arthur came to see me,” Freya replies. “It was very kind of him, even if it wasn’t necessary.”

“Nonsense,” Arthur says in a regal tone. “It is my duty to make sure that my subjects are well. And your injuries were, in part, my fault.”

That princely arrogance and selfishness hasn’t gone anywhere, Merlin notes with irritation. Partly his fault? As though he accidentally tripped and lodged his sword in Freya’s side. Merlin should have expected a Pendragon to shirk from responsibility and consequence.

Shaking his head, Merlin bends down to gather the rest of his things from beside the kitchen table.

Will takes note almost immediately. “What’s wrong, Merlin?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says as he continues packing. “I just— I have to go.”

“Go? Where?”

“Helva.” Merlin rises, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry, I know I just got here. But I have to get there soon or she’ll have left.”

“She? You mean you found her?”

“Found who?” Arthur asks, rather politely, although his voice silences the room.

Merlin glances around at Gwaine, Will, Lancelot, and Freya in turn, before stuttering out, “My— godmother.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Your godmother?”

“Yes, she’s—” Merlin sighs. How does he always get into these ridiculous situations? “She’s a very hard person to find. She— travels a lot, doesn’t tell anyone where she’s going. But she, er— needs help. She’s sort of unstable.” He’s just rambling at this point, watching Arthur’s facial expressions shift into something resembling disbelief. “I have to get to her before she hurts herself.” Or, more likely, someone else.

No one speaks as they all take in the mess of a story that Merlin’s just concocted.

After a few moments, Gwaine claps his hands together. “Right. Helva. Well, sign me up. Haven’t been there in ages.”

Merlin shoots Gwaine a confused look, which the long-haired man returns by widening his eyes and then grinning to cover it.

“I suppose you lot wouldn’t want to come along?” Gwaine addresses Will, Lancelot, and Freya, who all shake their heads.

“My place is here,” Lancelot says solemnly. “In the event Willowdale ever needs protecting.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go anywhere, anytime soon,” is Freya’s response.

“Yeah, and someone else needs to stay to look after you two.” Will wraps his arms around both of them. “Might as well be me.”

“No ulterior motive there,” Gwaine mutters, making Merlin snort.

Any sense of joy fades, however, as Merlin realizes he’ll be leaving three incredible people behind. “I promise, I’ll come back and visit,” he says. “Once this whole thing with… my godmother, is finished.”

Freya steps forward and hugs him. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“As will I,” Lancelot agrees, reaching out to clasp Merlin’s arm.

Lastly, Merlin turns to Will, who’s looking at him the same way he did ten years ago, when their positions were reversed, and it was Merlin who was left behind. But it’s only a ghost of a memory, an underlying instinct they both have, to expect the worse. This time, the future is far more certain. This time, they’ll see each other again.

Once the moment fades, Will says, “You’d better visit, you idiot,” and pulls Merlin into a tight embrace.

It’s only when Merlin turns to leave that he remembers Arthur is still in the room. Well, it’s not as though Merlin forgot so much as he didn’t consider how awkward it would be to try and say any sort of goodbye to Arthur.

“Well,” Merlin says.

“Well,” Arthur echoes, appearing equally stumped for words.

Merlin should be happier than he is, to be rid of Prince Prat. But the emotional fluctuation attached to his magic protests the thought. Just as it did in the clearing the night before, when Merlin was more pleased to see him than irritated. And when Merlin healed him, it felt… it feels…

He can’t explain it. He never can.

Very unsure of himself, Merlin slowly extends a hand. “It was certainly an… experience seeing you again, my Lord.”

Rushing to grasp Merlin’s hand, Arthur nods. “Yes, er, agreed. Interesting and… impressive, as usual.”

They both nod again, until Arthur finally moves aside so that Merlin and Gwaine can pass.

They’re not even halfway down the street when Merlin hears the prince shout, “Hold on!”

Merlin turns to see him jogging towards them, his royal guard following several paces behind. When Arthur slows to a halt in front of him, slightly out of breath, Merlin looks at him expectantly, not sure why his heart is suddenly racing.

“Helva is on the way to Camelot,” Arthur states.

Confused, Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Yes…?”

“Well, seeing as how I’m headed back to Camelot, myself. I was thinking, maybe… I could escort you. We!” he amends quickly, gesturing to his knights. “We could escort, both of you, safely, to Helva. And, make sure that godmother of yours doesn’t get into any trouble.”

Merlin searches the prince’s eyes, waiting for a punch line. “You want to… escort us?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies. “The roads can be dangerous, and… well, it’s simply more efficient for two parties to go together if they’re headed to the same place at the same time, isn’t it?”

“But you’re heading to Camelot,” Merlin reminds him.

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur says, like he’s acting slow. “And Helva is over half a day’s ride, in that direction. We’d have to stop there by nightfall anyway.”

Merlin opens his mouth to object to the condescending tone, but Gwaine nudges him and says, “Why not? I’ve always wanted to travel with my own pack of brave knights.”

Now, Arthur and Gwaine are both staring at Merlin in anticipation of his answer. Fighting back a sigh, Merlin caves. “I suppose it would be safer.”

Arthur brightens. “Excellent! I’ll have Leon fetch the horses.”

As soon as the prince turns back to his knights, Merlin takes Gwaine’s arm and pulls him aside. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“What? You said it yourself, it’s safer. These roads aren’t the best sort of environment for two lads on foot, even if one of ’em’s got super powers.” Gwaine leans closer. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

It must show on his face how lost Merlin is, because Gwaine makes a show of tilting his head in Arthur’s direction and licking his lips.

“Ugh!” Merlin shoves him. “It’s not like that!”

“Sure, it isn’t,” Gwaine smirks.

Merlin glances over just in time to catch Arthur staring at the two of them, before the prince looks pointedly away, a subtle but stubborn blush on his cheeks.

~<:>~

Arthur has no idea what possessed him to insist on escorting Merlin across the kingdom.

Part of it most definitely has to do with the fact that Arthur is undeniably, innately attracted to him, physically and otherwise. But another part has to do with Merlin being the most fascinating, maddening, and remarkable person Arthur has ever met. And despite the antagonistic circumstances of their abrupt first meeting, Arthur hasn’t been able to stop thinking of Merlin since.

This goes far beyond attraction. Which is probably not a good thing. But Arthur has never been one to dwell on the unchangeable.

He simply rides in front of Merlin and Gwaine, attempts to eavesdrop on their quiet conversation— not that he has any vested interest in the ambiguity of their relationship— and fails miserably, all the way to Helva.

When they arrive, the sun has long since set, and the moon is nearly full. Arthur puts Leon in charge of the party and dismounts, following Merlin and Gwaine to the center of town, where the large tavern is alight with candles and music and people.

As Merlin goes up to the man in charge to ask, presumably, if he’s seen his godmother around, Arthur hangs back with Gwaine and observes the tavern. The people are drinking merrily, workers and bartenders sliding glasses all around. There are a few different live bands, or perhaps one huge troupe playing the same jaunty theme in separate corners. Arthur doesn’t recognize the tune, but it has everyone in this place wild on their feet.

Given the relaxed atmosphere, Arthur assumes no one has noticed him yet. The prince of the entire kingdom is likely to stir up some dissent. To avoid interrupting a good time, it might be wise to have his guards wait outside. Although, given the trouble Merlin appears to be having with the tavern’s owner, Arthur could use some of his royal authority to lend a hand.

He signals for Leon to be ready, where his knights are scattered near the doorway, and Leon nods in acknowledgement. Then, Arthur heads toward Merlin, folding his arms as he stops beside him.

“How’s it coming Merlin? Has this fine proprietor seen your godmother this evening or not?”

“Hard to say,” Merlin responds, glaring at the man. “He’s seen someone matching her description, but refuses to tell me where she’s gone.”

“Because I don’t know!” the man insists. “Look, she came in, ordered a drink, sat alone in the corner for a while, and then left! Without paying, mind you!”

“Well, that’s definitely her,” Merlin says under his breath.

Setting aside how strange this whole godmother situation is, Arthur puts what he hopes is a friendly hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Do you mind if I take it from here?”

Merlin glances at him warily and sighs. “Yes, alright. As long as you don’t start knocking heads.”

Arthur leans back in mock offense. “I would never.”

“Sure.”

Equipping his most disarming smile, Arthur turns back to the tavern owner. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

The man, who is likely as intoxicated as the rest of the tavern not to have noticed the Camelot red capes mixed in amongst the crowd, suddenly blanches and goes to bow haphazardly. “Prince Arthur! Sire! My Lord— your Highness— a pleasure, yes, indeed— no, an honor! Wh-what brings you to Helva? Sire!”

“Just on my way back to the capitol,” Arthur says, ignoring the way Merlin rolls his eyes at the man’s ass-kissing. “Needed to help a friend first. You see, his godmother is in rather poor shape, and we’d like to get to her as soon as possible.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” the tavern keeper nods vigorously. “But I’m afraid what I told your… friend, here, is the truth. I have no idea where she’s gone. Only that she left, about one hour ago. And she was headed… north! I believe.”

The answer sounds genuine enough, though that doesn’t diminish the defeat on Merlin’s face as he mutters, “Fantastic,” and walks off into the crowd.

For decorum’s sake, Arthur stays to give the man one final smile. “Lovely, well. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome, Sire! Your Highness! My pleasure, my Lord!”

Even Arthur has to resist rolling his eyes at that. Currently, however, he’s preoccupied with using them to find Merlin, who has already disappeared into the sea of people. Arthur does spot Gwaine, standing close to a young, bulky stranger, so he heads there instead.

“Have you seen Merlin?” he asks, once he’s in vocal range.

Gwaine turns to him with a charming smirk. “Ah, my Lord!”

“Please.” Arthur holds up his hands. “I’ve had enough ‘my Lord’s for one evening.”

Gwaine takes that in stride, clapping Arthur on the back. “Whatever you say, Princess.” Before Arthur can object to the nickname, Gwaine continues. “Haven’t seen Merlin since we came in, sorry. I did find Percival here, though. Percy, this is Prince Arthur.”

Percival holds out his muscled forearm. “It’s an honor to meet you, my… I mean…”

“Arthur is fine,” Arthur says as he shakes the impressively strong hand.

“Arthur,” Percival repeats, grinning. He really is fit, which Arthur assumes is the reason Gwaine is chatting him up.

This is confirmed when Gwaine gestures vaguely in a direction that Merlin might have gone and shoos Arthur away so he can resume blinking up into Percival’s eyes. Arthur shakes his head at Gwaine’s antics, but he pursues the weak lead all the same, weaving his way around the drunken dancers.

He actually does find Merlin, sitting on a hill out behind the pub, his satchel lying in a heap a few feet away from him as though it was thrown.

Arthur lets the back door close gently, but loud enough that Merlin won’t startle too hard as he approaches. Merlin does tilt his head at the noise, but he makes no move to leave when Arthur sits down beside him.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t get to her in time,” Arthur says, to break the ice.

Merlin shrugs. “ ’S’not your fault. She’s… elusive.”

There’s something that Arthur has been wondering, since he heard the whole godmother story earlier in the day. He doesn’t know if he should ask it, but he has a feeling Merlin won’t shy away from the topic, so he clears his throat. “Does she… have magic?”

Merlin tensing up is a clear enough indicator that Arthur’s right, but Merlin chooses to answer as well. “Why? Looking to exile more sorcerers?”

“No,” Arthur responds reflexively. “I mean, yes. If they’re dangerous. I just thought… if she had some sort of— condition, like Freya…”

Merlin snorts. “Trust me, she’s nothing like Freya.”

His tone gives Arthur pause. “You don’t seem to like your godmother very much,” he observes.

For a moment, Merlin doesn’t say anything, just stares out into the barely illuminated darkness with sorrow coating his features. Arthur embraces the silence, as not to scare Merlin off, already deeply affected by this new, pained and serious side of him. Yet another bewitching layer to unwrap.

“I don’t,” Merlin says, finally. “But I have to find her anyway. I have to talk to her.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “She’s important to me, even if I can’t stand that fact.”

Arthur knows a bit about where Merlin is coming from, even if it’s not entirely the same, being his sister rather than his godmother. His own flesh and blood, pulled away from him years and years ago, and despite all the time that’s passed, he’s still unable to let go of the memories he shared with her…

But, obviously, that’s irrelevant. However much Arthur trusts Merlin, there’s no way he can talk about such a secret so openly.

So, he decides to address an adjacent issue. The one that started all this tension between them. And the one Merlin seems so curiously desperate to defend.

Gearing up for a fight, Arthur starts in. “Do you hate her because she has magic?”

It doesn’t do the trick as well as Arthur intended, as Merlin doesn’t immediately jump down his throat. He’s calmer this time around, more tired than angry. “Don’t be stupid. It’s asinine to hate someone just for having magic. It’s what she does with it that I loathe.”

Arthur tucks down his knee-jerk annoyance at the insults. “What does she do with it?”

Merlin clenches his jaw. “She hurts people. She lies to them and manipulates them. And she never gives a reason for doing it, like it’s all part of some big plan. Or, more likely, just another bloody secret that no one will tell me.”

“Sounds like most sorcerers I know,” Arthur slides in, inwardly cursing himself for how insensitive it sounds.

“Oh, really?” Merlin retorts. “Like Freya?”

He’s got Arthur there. “No, but… Freya still had something to hide. That’s typical of someone practicing magic. Sorcery is far too entrenched in secrecy for my taste.”

“Because it’s bloody outlawed!” Merlin points out. “Magic has to be kept a secret in this kingdom, under threat of arrest or exile! Not to mention what could happen if magic was ever used to harm, accidentally, like in Freya’s case! People and creatures executed because of something they can’t control. Why can’t they control it, you ask? Because no one’s left in Camelot to teach them how! Thanks to you Pendragons and your despicable, unfounded laws!”

“They are not unfounded,” Arthur protests, raising his voice.

“You’re telling me there’s a legitimate reason for Uther Pendragon’s hatred of magic, beyond crippling fear of the unknown?”

“Yes!”

“Out with it, then,” Merlin sneers. “What shield is the great king of Camelot hiding behind this time?”

“My mother was killed by a sorceress!”

Arthur didn’t mean to shout that last bit, but his emotions got the better of him. They always do where his mother is concerned, even just in passing.

As expected, Merlin quiets, but he doesn’t back off the way most people would. Instead, he keeps his gaze locked with Arthur’s, grief and understanding hidden in his dark blue eyes. “So was my father,” he says.

Arthur can’t stop his mouth dropping open in shock. There’s no need to scrutinize Merlin’s face for any falsehoods, because Arthur’s disbelief has nothing to do with the authenticity of the statement. It’s the principle. “And yet… you still… ?”

“I don’t blame magic for my father’s death,” Merlin replies evenly. “I blame the person who killed him.” Softer, he adds, “The people, really. The individuals behind the attack. Not the method of murder itself.”

Merlin turns to stare back out into the night, letting out a breath as though preparing to make a speech, and all Arthur can do is sit there, captivated, and wait for it.

“Magic isn’t an evil, Arthur,” Merlin starts. “It’s not just a weapon, like an axe or a spear. Even those have other purposes, like chopping wood or foraging for food.” He pauses to reconsider his analogy. “It’s not like a sword, then. It’s not a tool created solely to kill and destroy. Magic is so much more than that.”

Merlin’s voice takes on a more passionate note as he continues. “Magic is… a force. An ancient power that humans have been granted access to, for better or for worse. It can be wielded any way the user chooses. And we, as humans, have a tendency to make bad choices. But that doesn’t mean we lack the capacity to make good ones.”

Merlin looks at Arthur straight on again. “The kingdom is filled with people, gifted or cursed with magic, who have no idea how to control it, and your laws have prohibited teaching sorcery of any kind. Those two things, combined, make for an inescapably toxic environment that pushes self-hatred onto untrained sorcerers. Meaning they should be expected to lash out, and hurt, and use their magic as a weapon.”

Merlin shakes his head. “But they don’t. They use it to heal, to bend, to create. They use it for fun and for good. They use it to save lives.”

“How do you know all of this?” Arthur asks incrediously.

“I live in the kingdom,” Merlin states. “You don’t. The fact is… you can’t base your perception of magic on isolated examples. You have to look at the whole picture. You have to understand what it is, and what it can be. But, of course, who would understand what magic really is, when it’s been portrayed as pure evil all our lives?”

“You seem to,” Arthur says. “Understand, I mean.”

Merlin purses his lips. “Yes, well… I’m not like everyone else.”

“That much is certain.”

Merlin breaks eye contact, then, his expression unreadable in the darkness. His words replay in Arthur’s head as he stares at Merlin’s profile, utterly convinced he’s never seen a more beautiful, enigmatic soul, with such unbridled compassion and desire to do good. And Arthur truly believes that Merlin is good. He believes what Merlin is saying.

However. Examining the facts: Arthur knows exactly how much magic can hurt. He’s seen firsthand the dangers and he’s listened to his father all his life. Humans may have ended up with the power to wield this force, but that doesn’t mean they should. Power like that corrupts a person, poisons their mind, and drives them toward evil.

But Merlin is right in assuming that Arthur has never encountered any sorcerers who practiced magic’s more benign uses. And he’s certainly never encountered any magical beasts like Freya before. It makes him question all the hunts he went on as a boy. Whether or not the creatures he killed were sentient, as he’s now seen proof of that possibility.

No one would want that kind of death and pain on their conscience, and Arthur is no exception. Perhaps that’s why he’s chosen to rationalize the ban on magic as something meant for the greater good.

He can’t say any of this to Merlin, of course. Not until he’s had more time to process everything.

Instead, Arthur sits forward and rests his elbows against his knees, which is the proper posture for the princely concession he’s about to make. “I suppose that… using magic… in order to apprehend someone with magic, though hypocritical, could be… efficient.”

As expected, Merlin turns, narrowing his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Arthur can’t quite look at him as he continues. “There may be… another way for me to help you locate your godmother. And speak to her, before she can elude you again.”

Merlin’s interest is clearly peaked. “Go on…”

Arthur really, really shouldn’t be revealing this. But… “In the underground of Camelot’s palace, there are… hidden rooms. Inside them, we have some… abandoned artifacts, one of which can be used to… summon… living things.”

The look on Merlin’s face makes Arthur regret everything. “You’re telling me that Uther Pendragon has a cache of stolen magic in his basement?”

“Not stolen. Seized. And it’s never been used—”

“Then how did you know it was there?” Merlin asks with a teasing lilt.

Arthur can’t help glaring. “Well, this may come as a shock to you, Merlin, but I wasn’t always the most obedient child. And whenever father was busy with meetings, I would explore.” With my sister, he doesn’t add. Besides, Arthur made this discovery after she was already gone.

“Right,” Merlin grins. “So, this stuff has never been used, but you know what it does.”

“Yes.”

Merlin waits long enough for an answer that Arthur caves.

“I… accidentally summoned a newt.”

There are a few more beats of silence. Arthur can see Merlin holding in his laughter.

“Go on, then,” he sighs. “Let it out.”

It’s undeniably one of the best sounds Arthur has ever heard. And, as Merlin carries on, Arthur feels himself start to smile.

“It landed on my face,” he adds, spurring more of Merlin’s adorable guffaws.

“How old were you?” Merlin asks between breaths.

“I was twelve,” Arthur replies. “And I didn’t stop there, by the way. I tried to summon the dogs when any of them would go missing, or important trinkets I’d lost.” Or other things he’d lost, but he doesn’t mention the amount of times he considered summoning his sister; he doesn’t mention how he nearly went through with it more than once. “Took me a while to figure out it only summons living things.”

Merlin’s chuckling dies down, but he keeps smiling at Arthur with a strange fondness. “So, you, son of Uther Pendragon, tried to ‘figure out’ how to use magic?”

“I was twelve,” Arthur repeats, defensive.

“Right.” Merlin shakes his head. “What I wouldn’t give to have seen that version of you.”

The sentence settles rather heavily between them, and Merlin flushes immediately.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I— I mean…” Arthur watches him flounder for a bit. “I’m glad that you told me. About the artifacts, and the summoning, I mean. I think it could really help.”

Nodding, Arthur clears his throat. “Yes, well… that was the intention.”

He can still see the amusement hiding in Merlin’s cheeks as the other man looks away. Gods, seeing him smile— making him smile— is only increasing Arthur’s attraction to him (an attraction he should really get a handle on, and yet).

For now, Arthur basks in it. “So… you’ll come with me, then?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager. “To Camelot?”

Merlin takes a moment to consider this, leaving Arthur in anticipation, wishing he could know the other man’s thoughts. Eventually, Merlin turns back to him, a curious glint in his eyes. “Yes. I suppose I will.”

~<:>~

Chapter Text

It’s close to dawn when Merlin and Arthur begin their journey toward Camelot.

This time, the two of them ride side-by-side at the front of the formation, as Gwaine is no longer present.

The thieving seductor elected to stay in Helva, which Merlin presumes is largely due to his fascination with his beefy fling from last night, Percival. Gwaine did make sure to tell Merlin that he’d either be in Helva or Willowdale if it turned out Merlin still needed him on “the whole quest thing”— but he seemed to have faith that Merlin was in capable hands, now that he had a prince looking after him.

Merlin doesn’t want to agree with Gwaine on this point, because he knows the idiot only said it to fluster him, what with how attractive and competent the aforementioned prince appears to be. But, as Merlin shifts his gaze to where Arthur is sitting, gorgeously at ease atop his horse, he’s forced to admit that Gwaine’s right on both accounts.

They remain relatively silent for most of the trek, apart from the hour following Arthur’s request that Merlin explain what exactly clotpole and dollophead are supposed to mean, colloquially (he does eventually figure out that they’re just words Merlin has made up, but not before Merlin’s had loads of time to screw around with him).

Shortly after that debacle, they approach the entrance to the city. Merlin can’t help but stare in awe as the gates swing open, announcing their arrival, and the people bow around them.

It’s all so much grander than he could have imagined— the marketplace and the cobblestone streets and the royal insignias everywhere, not to mention the sheer amount of bodies crammed into one space. There are so many colors, noises, rhythms, intermingling all at once.

It’s a lot, but Merlin finds it genuinely beautiful. And for some reason, it feels like home.

Merlin might be gazing at everything with his jaw dropped, so it shouldn’t come as a shock when he catches Arthur turning away with an obvious smile. Of course, it’s typical of Arthur to mock him, but something about this particular look feels more affectionate (though Merlin quickly decides he must be reading it wrong).

The party eventually trots up to the central courtyard inside the palace walls. All the knights begin to dismount while Merlin remains frozen, captivated by the towering magnitude of Camelot’s castle, the seemingly endless parapets and balconies. Even the marble stairs at the front are ridiculously scaled.

“Do you need me to help you down, Merlin?” Arthur teases from below him.

Merlin sends him a withering glare, suddenly reminded that he’s in the hub of Pendragon territory and thus should be on the offensive at all times. He attempts to slide off the horse gracefully, but he doesn’t quite have the experience, so, predictably, he ends up falling to the ground.

To Arthur’s credit, he refrains from laughing, but he does offer a condescending hand, which Merlin refuses in favor of struggling up on his own. Arthur rolls his eyes. “Come on, then.”

He leads Merlin up through the intimidating entryway and into the palace lobby. There’s a busy enough hum in the air and they pass a few staff and court members on their way down the halls. Although this path doesn’t actually seem to be heading down, where Merlin presumes a secret basement cache ought to be.

“Where are we going?” Merlin asks, leaning closer to Arthur as he continues looking at the grandiose architecture.

“To see my father,” Arthur replies, and Merlin nearly stops in his tracks. Sensing his apprehension, Arthur takes his arm to pull him even closer. “And he doesn’t take well to criticism, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult him too much.”

“You’re saying I can insult him a little?”

It’s Arthur’s turn to glare at that, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything more, as the double doors swing open and the two of them are swept inside what appears to be the court council chamber.

Uther Pendragon stands at the far end of the table, facing the windows. Upon hearing them enter, he turns and greets his son with a smile. “Arthur!”

“Hello, Father.”

Merlin can only watch as the prince and the king grasp forearms, completely stunned by how drastically different they are in person. Their mannerisms certainly give them away as being father and son, but apart from that and the way that they’re dressed, Merlin can’t seem to find any resemblance between them.

This may have to with the fact that seeing Uther’s daunting figure— the gaudy crown, the weathered face, the cruel eyes— sends Merlin into a state of panic and rage, while on the other hand, just a glimpse of Arthur’s profile calms him down, keeps him grounded.

“I trust your trip was a success,” Uther says, and Merlin balls his fists at that voice, trying to focus on Arthur.

“Of course.”

Uther nods, appraising. “I would expect nothing less.”

His gaze slowly shifts to where Merlin is standing, alone. The king’s scrutiny goes beyond what he could have anticipated and he’s relieved when Arthur returns to his side to put a careful hand against his back, guiding him forward.

“Father, this is Merlin. He’s one of the villagers who helped assist me in dealing with the Bastet.”

Uther narrows his eyes. “The what?”

“The creature that was attacking Willowdale,” Arthur explains. “Merlin was the one who showed me how to… defeat it.”

“I see.” Uther’s skepticism doesn’t waver. “This is also the villager who fought off a pack of bandits with you in Ealdor?”

Merlin blinks in shock; he cannot believe Arthur told his father about that, let alone painted him as some sort of fighter.

“Yes,” Arthur affirms. “His bravery and loyalty to the crown cannot be overstated.”

With his regal stare still boring into Merlin, Uther crosses his arms. “And you’ve brought him here for what purpose?”

“Actually, I requested to come,” Merlin says, already tired of being spoken about as though he’s not in the room.

Uther doesn’t appear too offended at the interruption, but he does look down his nose at Merlin. “Oh? Why is that?”

Merlin meets his gaze, unflinching. “There are many opportunities in the capitol, for someone of my abilities, that simply don’t exist in the middle of nowhere.”

Uther’s eyes narrow even further. “Your abilities?”

“Merlin is a physician,” Arthur cuts in swiftly, an obvious attempt to ease some of the tension. “He thought there might be more stimulating work for him here.”

After a moment, Uther replies, “I’m sure,” and Merlin almost glares, lifting his chin to show the king he’s not afraid of a bloody challenge.

Clearing his throat, Arthur grasps Merlin’s arm. “Well. I’ll let you get back to your… duties, Father. Merlin and I will be around. I’m… giving him a tour of the castle.”

Still glooming, Uther dismisses them with a wave of his hand, and Arthur practically drags Merlin from the chamber.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?” Arthur hisses; he hasn’t relinquished his hold on Merlin as he leads them down the corridor at a rather brisk pace.

“Me?” Merlin responds, affronted. “You’re the one who apparently talked me up for no reason! Why the hell did we go there in the first place?”

“I always check in with my father when I return to Camelot,” Arthur says, like Merlin is supposed to have known that. “I didn’t want him to be suspicious.”

“Oh, you think he’s not suspicious now?”

“Merlin. Shut. Up.”

They reach a descending staircase, leading to a rather large wooden door; Arthur quite unnecessarily shoves Merlin past it before he turns to bar it shut.

“I can’t believe— you didn’t bow, you didn’t address him by any of his titles, you spoke out of turn, you stared him in the face— I told you not to insult him!”

“I’m not sorry,” Merlin bites back. “He was looking at me like I was something the dogs dragged in. What is his problem with me, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Merlin. Maybe that you have no concept of formal conduct!”

“Why should I show any sort of courtesy to a man that I loathe?”

“He’s the king!”

“I don’t care!” Merlin snaps. “I’m not afraid of Uther Pendragon! Not like you seem to be!”

Merlin can tell he’s struck a nerve from the way that Arthur retreats immediately, a flash of insecurity in his face and posture. He manages to cover it quickly with irritation.

“You’re bloody impossible, Merlin,” Arthur mutters, grabbing a torch off the wall and shouldering past him.

~<:>~

King Uther looks at the empty space where his son stood moments ago, the echo of the closing doors still reverberating through the small room.

A figure emerges from the shadows behind him, dressed all in black. “You see now how insufferable the boy is?”

Uther nods carefully. “You were right, Lord Agravaine,” he says, turning to face the other man. “His hold on Arthur is dangerously strong.”

“That’s his sorcery at work,” Agravaine replies.

“Yes,” Uther muses. “He did seem like a sorcerer… but are you sure he’s the one from the prophecy? The boy isn’t exactly… intimidating.”

Agravaine smiles conspiratorially. “Looks can be deceiving. But I assure you, my king, Merlin is the one they call Emrys. The most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth.”

At that, Uther grimaces, curling his fists around the back of a chair. “He means to destroy my kingdom.”

“He certainly has the power to do so.”

Uther glances up at Agravaine. “You had them followed, correct?”

“Yes, Sire.” Agravaine bows. “I will confer with my spies before the boy can inflict any harm.”

Satisfied, Uther excuses Agravaine. The cloaked man exits in a dramatic flurry, and the king sits heavily at the small council table, awaiting his informant’s return.

~<:>~

Camelot’s palace dungeons are truly cavernous. Merlin has to wonder how many times young Arthur got himself lost down here.

The Arthur walking ahead of him now seems to know the route by heart. Though he also seems to be focusing awfully hard on where they’re going, most likely to avoid starting up another conversation with Merlin.

Which is fair, and Merlin should probably give him some time to process and cool down. It’s too bad Merlin has such limited self-control around Arthur.

Looking aimlessly at the filthy stone walls, Merlin pushes useless air past his lips. “So… you’re not just leading me somewhere to kill me, are you? Because, the thought just occurred to me, and I know you don’t like me very much, and I’m pretty sure no one knows we’re down here, so—”

“Merlin.” Arthur doesn’t turn around, but Merlin can sense that his prattling has lightened the mood. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have to hide it. I am the prince.”

“Suppose that’s true,” Merlin concedes, and Arthur huffs a soft laugh.

“You really do forget that I’m royalty, don’t you?”

“How could I forget when you’re constantly reminding me?”

“Ah, of course. You just don’t care.”

That puts a damper on things for a moment, but luckily, Arthur stops at one of the doors. Merlin watches as he removes a ring of keys from his belt and unlocks it, pushing hard against the reinforced wood.

“It’s just through here,” he says, depositing the torch on the inner wall and crouching down to kneel on the floor.

Warily, Merlin steps into the room; he can’t help staring at Arthur’s backside as the prince pats around at the stone tiles. “Er… what are you doing?”

In response, Arthur leverages his hands against one of the large squares and manages to slide it backwards, revealing a gaping hole.

Merlin cranes his neck overtop, and he can vaguely see some sort of a tunnel below, though it’s fairly dark. “Aha.”

Arthur swings his legs into the hole and twists around, reaching towards the wall. “Pass me the torch, will you?”

Once Merlin does so, Arthur drops a short enough distance that Merlin is no longer worried about breaking anything on the way down. Still, he’s a bit nervous, sitting on the edge with Arthur staring impatiently up at him. With a sigh, Merlin heaves himself into the tunnel.

His landing is a bit rougher than Arthur’s, as he doesn’t quite manage to keep his feet. This time, when Arthur offers his hand, Merlin takes it.

“How will we get back up?” he wonders, peering at the floor above them.

“There’s more than one passage down here,” Arthur replies smoothly, already walking.

Merlin frowns as he follows. “You mean we didn’t have to jump in a hole?”

“No.” Merlin can hear the smirk in his voice. “But this way’s more fun.”

As much as Merlin wants to be indignant, he’s also amused by Arthur’s antics. “Fun, right,” he grumbles. “Admit it, you are trying to kill me.”

Arthur doesn’t respond, but even in the dim light, Merlin can make out his smile.

They turn a few corners before Arthur stops again, this time in front of a large metal gate. Merlin can’t quite see into the shadowed room beyond it, though the air outside is already heavy with magic.

As Arthur unlocks the gate and they cross the threshold, the hum beneath Merlin’s skin increases dramatically, and the fire from Arthur’s torch illuminates the area enough that Merlin can see what he correctly guessed to be a hub of ancient artifacts.

All along the walls are shelves, cabinets, chests, filled with relics of the past, each and every one of them calling out desperately to be saved, as though they sense Merlin’s magic. Emotions that are not his own bubble up inside him and he has to squash the urge to scream, lest Arthur realize he’s been so affected.

Arthur moves toward the back of the room, unlocking another gate in the corner for them to pass through. Merlin follows him, jaw and fists clenched.

This new room is noticeably smaller, with only one object in the center, which looks to be some sort of rudimentary witch’s cauldron. Whatever the substance is that’s swirling inside is incredibly hypnotizing, and Merlin finds himself more drawn to it than any of the previous items.

“This is where I leave you,” Arthur announces, startling Merlin out of his stupor.

“Wait, what?”

Arthur shifts awkwardly, torch still in hand. “To avoid any… conflicts of interest… I can’t actually witness magical happenings.” Quickly, he adds, “And, hopefully, I can keep my father busy while you’re… doing this. Cover for you, that sort of thing.”

A bit too distracted by the pull of the cauldron, Merlin nods along. “Right.”

“I’ll come back for you, later.”

Merlin nods again, waiting for Arthur to leave.

Instead of departing immediately, Arthur pauses in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at Merlin. “You were right,” he says, soft enough that Merlin almost misses it. They lock eyes and Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t stand up to my father. I can’t. At least, not the way you do. But it’s not for the reason you think.”

Curious, Merlin waits for him to say more. But it’s as though Arthur has said too much already, and he shuts his mouth, turning from the room.

Thoughts of the perplexing prince aside, Merlin focuses his attention on the summoning pool before him. Once he’s certain that Arthur’s gone, he pulls the great dragon’s book from his satchel.

Kilgharrah bleeds into existence and observes his surroundings. “So, you’ve arrived at Camelot’s dungeons. This is where Gaius transformed me, you know.”

“I didn’t, but thanks for that,” Merlin mutters. “What can you tell me about this cauldron?”

“Ah, yes. The cauldron of Anhora. Used to summon living creatures for protective purposes, most notably—”

“Can it summon Nimueh?” Merlin asks, before Kilgharrah can get lost on a ramble.

The dragon regards him coolly for a long moment. “Yes. If that is what you wish.”

“Of course it’s what I wish!” Merlin snaps. “How does it work?”

“The young Pendragon didn’t tell you?” Kilgharrah looks smug.

“He— no, he couldn’t.” Couldn’t he? Merlin sighs impatiently. “Just do your job, for once, and help me.”

A few seconds pass where Merlin isn’t sure Kilgharrah will decide to help him. Then, the dragon shifts on the book’s cover and the pages flip open of their own volition, revealing the shadowy image of a woman in red.

Merlin concentrates all of his energy on it, vision blurring as he tries furiously to make out her features. But as soon as he thinks her face will come into focus, she vanishes altogether, and the cauldron starts to bubble.

Instinctively, Merlin moves closer to it, peering over the lip. There does seem to be something rising to the surface, and the pool’s color is changing rapidly.

Suddenly, a pale hand bursts from the liquid, sending Merlin scrambling back toward the door, heart pounding in his chest.

As he watches, a second hand emerges to clutch at the side of the cauldron. Each set of fingernails digs into the metal, skin tensing to pull the rest of the body out, agonizingly slow. The dark mass of braided hair rises first, trailing down the deep scarlet dress, and Merlin still can’t see her face until she raises her head and her vivid blue eyes capture his.

With tendrils of mystic steam roiling around her, she steps down from the pot, dripping wet, bare feet touching ever so lightly against the stone. It’s both stunning and terrifying, and Merlin can’t seem to look away.

Then, she speaks.

“Hello, Merlin.”

And her voice shatters the awe, and Merlin feels nothing but years of rage overtake him.

“Nimueh.”

The sorceress smirks, accentuating the sheen on her blood-red lips.

Merlin’s willpower cracks, as does the floor, and his magic sets a deadly chill in the air. It’s all he can do not to tear her apart on the spot.

Nimueh’s expression doesn’t change. “Impressive power.”

“Stop it.” Merlin grits his teeth. “You’ve tortured me long enough. You know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” Nimueh affirms. “I know why you’re here. But why am I?”

“Don’t!” Merlin hisses. “I’m not the one who has to explain!”

Her eyes bore into his soul, and he can glimpse the malevolence hiding there. “Then ask me, Merlin.”

Exhaustion and relief and sorrow and pain collide all at once inside him, and the cold air begins to churn; it encircles them, picking up grains of dirt and dust and stone.

“Why?” he asks, finally, after twenty years. “Why did you choose me? Why did you disappear? Why did you lead my family on this endless chase? Why did you curse an innocent girl just to get to me? What’s so special about me?!”

Nimueh remains unaffected by his temperament. “All the right questions,” she smiles. “And all with same answer.” She spreads her arms. “For Camelot. For destiny.”

And here Merlin thought he couldn’t get any angrier.

“Destiny? Why does everyone assume that I’m going to fulfill some destiny? I didn’t ask for this! I don’t want it— I don’t even want magic! Just take it back!”

“Take it back?” Nimueh raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, you’re the one who cursed me! You’re the one who has to take it back!”

“Cursed you?” Shaking her head, Nimueh lets out a cruel laugh. “Oh, Merlin. I’m not responsible for your magic. I was only the messenger.”

The whirlwind of emotion starts to waver as Merlin considers her words. “What are you saying?”

Nimueh stares even harder, that all-knowing look in her eyes. “I’m saying, I didn’t give you your magic; therefore, I can’t take it away. No one can take it away.”

That can’t be true. It can’t be. She must be lying. He’s traveled all this way… his purpose all this time... 

“You were born with magic.”

The words rise, fall, and settle in his chest. It can’t be true.

“You were born of magic.”

His entire being is shaking and he wants to plead with her to stop, but he knows she won’t.

“You,” she says, unyielding. “Are magic.”

And the weight turns on its head, one exhale of inescapable torment.

The makeshift cyclone crumbles out of existence and Merlin himself just barely manages to stay standing, hold on, keep from collapsing in on himself.

He is magic.

Of course he is.

Of course, because his magic has only ever always felt like an extension of his soul, closer and more precious than his limbs, his head, his heart.

And of course, because why else would he be so powerful? Why else would he be fated to have this impending destiny, wrecking his life from all sides?

Thinking objectively, Merlin doubts anyone has gotten anywhere by trusting Nimueh. But he’s not just anyone. Her words, despite the pain they cause— the pain he knew they would cause— ring with truth.

He stares at her, feeling infinitely less powerful than he supposedly is. “What kind of destiny could there possibly be for someone like me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Nimueh asks, indifferent to his crisis. “To bring magic back to Camelot. It’s what you’ve always wanted, Merlin. It’s what you were born to do.”

The implications of that haven’t quite hit him yet, when the sound of crashing metal and thundering footsteps cascades towards them. 

Both Merlin and Nimueh whip their heads toward the noise, neither fast enough to react before a group of palace guards comes surging in, led by none other than Merlin’s mysterious, scheming step-father.

Agravaine’s gruff voice breaks the silence. “Seize them,” he orders.

The knights move to obey, but Nimueh knocks the whole troop back with a wave of her hand, scattering them against the walls and rendering them unconscious (or worse; Merlin can’t tell).

Somehow, Agravaine’s still standing, and he draws his sword, and Merlin can hear more guards on their way, and he’s very much in shock from all this— panicked, frozen, and waiting to see what Nimueh will do.

And she does what she always does, so he really shouldn’t be surprised.

She snatches the book containing the great dragon off the ground, leaps back into the cauldron, and vanishes.

Merlin is left alone with his step-father and the new collective of knights that have swarmed at his back.

Fantastic.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, glaring at Agravaine.

Apparently convinced that the threat has gone, Agravaine lowers his sword. “You are under arrest,” he declares, taking a pair of shackles from the guard beside him. “For practicing magic, and conspiring to assassinate the prince and king.”

“What?!” Merlin backs away, fully aware that he has nowhere to go. “That’s insane!”

Agravaine doesn’t give him any chance to explain; his men press forward and Merlin gears up for a fight, because by the gods, if he’s going to be arrested for doing magic, he might as well throw caution to the wind.

But he’s suddenly sluggish, almost light-headed, and it feels as though the magic that was so heavy in the air moments earlier has been sapped entirely. He realizes why as the shackles close around his wrists and a searing pain shoots through his skin.

Before he can cry out, Agravaine clocks him in the head with his sword hilt, sending him to his knees.

A distraction. To silence him, to keep him from fighting back. The metal around his wrists is like a conduit, a black hole, trapping his power. And Agravaine is trying to hide what he’s done from the knights. He’s using magic to arrest Merlin for using magic.

The whole situation is ironic to the point that Merlin starts laughing, weakly, but another blow to his temple puts him out cold.

~<:>~

Chapter Text

Morgana wakes from her vision with a gasp, bolting upright in bed. Her heart pounds and she can feel the sweat on her temples as she brings her hands to her head. Merlin…

Somehow, her subconscious mind knows that this wasn’t a vision of the future, but rather one of those rare occasions when she glimpses part of the present. She has to go to Gaius, immediately; she doesn’t waste time allowing herself to breathe or calm down, simply throws on her cloak and races from the house, casting aside all concerns about being discreet in front of Morgause.

Upon arriving at the physician’s door, Morgana raises her hand to knock, but hesitates when she hears multiple voices floating out from inside. She quickly identifies one as Gaius’s, but the other is a strange, gravelly tone that she could swear she’s heard before. As she stands, listening, the voices die down and the wooden floorboards creak under the weight of someone approaching the door.

It’s Gaius who pulls it open, and does a double-take at her undoubtedly disheveled appearance. “Morgana, are you—”

“Agravaine got to him, Gaius,” she says, the words rushing, tumbling out. “Merlin. He’s in Camelot, and he’s in the dungeon. They’re going to execute him.”

Gaius gives a grave nod. “I know,” he says, and ushers her inside.

“You know?” Morgana watches him lock the door, folding her arms in against her stomach to keep her nausea at bay. “How?”

Gaius responds by crossing the room and drawing Morgana’s attention to a book that’s been propped up on his desk. The book, she realizes, and it’s suddenly clear to whom the other voice belongs.

“Young witch,” the great dragon greets her, bowing his head. “It is an honor to meet a High Priestess of the Old Religion who is not so full of hate as her counterparts.”

Beyond confused, highly distracted, and unsure how to respond to that, Morgana ignores the implication and turns to Gaius. “This is the scrying pool you sent with Merlin. What’s it doing here?”

“Someone delivered it,” Gaius tells her.

“A friend to Merlin?”

“Not quite,” Kilgharrah cuts in. “It was Nimueh who brought me here, and out of no kindness of her own. She was simply following the destiny she was given, as she always has.”

“Nimueh,” Morgana repeats, the name familiar on her tongue. “Is this the sorceress Merlin was looking for?”

The dragon nods. “She is the sorceress of his past. You, Morgana Pendragon, are the sorceress of his future.”

Though it makes sense that a powerful seer such as a dragon would know of her origins, Morgana still bristles at the use of her long-forgotten surname. That and the frustrating reality that others know more of her destiny than she does. “What have you seen of his future?” she asks, sidelining her own involvement.

Kilgharrah lets the silence linger for a moment (rather dramatically) before he answers. “Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth. He is known by many names and many prophecies. And he is destined to bring magic back to Camelot. To bring peace to the lands of Albion.”

The sentiment aligns with Morgana’s first vision of Merlin; she nods, once. “Then we have to save him. He’s been trapped by King Uther and his men. But I’m sure you already know that.”

“Yes,” the dragon confirms. “I was there when he was taken. To rescue him, you must gather all those he has touched on his journey and make for Camelot.”

Morgana shakes her head. “But how will we get there in time? He’s to be executed at sundown tomorrow.”

“You will make it,” Kilgharrah states, as if already assured of her success. “I can grant you the speed of a dragon. But you must leave now.”

Rapidly absorbing all she’s been told, Morgana turns to Gaius. “Are you…?”

The old man takes her hands in his. “I must stay. I promised Merlin that I would protect his family, and I don’t intend to break that promise. I cannot leave Hunith here, alone and without answers.”

Morgana nods, following the logic. “Then, I suppose… all I can do is wish you well. I don’t know if I’ll see you again—”

“You will.” Gaius gives her a small smile. “I have every faith.”

His expression takes Morgana back to their conversation from two nights ago, when she finally confronted him about the past. Their trauma involving Uther laid bare, their shared loneliness at the Pendragon court. Morgana’s cutting words and Gaius’s guilt, his gentle understanding.

She can’t blame him for not being there. She doesn’t. And she knows now that she has him, as more of a father to her than Uther or Agravaine ever could be.

“Thank you, Gaius.”

With that sorted, Morgana takes the great dragon’s book and hurries across the street to the blacksmith’s shop— more accurately, the residential attachment, where she knows Gwen will be, sleeping or not.

It doesn’t seem fair to leave her out of this, especially since Kilgharrah said ‘all those Merlin has touched on his journey’. Of course that would include Gwen, both literally and metaphorically. Besides, Morgana promised her that they would help.

Morgana’s magic can already sense that Gwen is awake as she approaches her window; she taps lightly against the wood. Frazzled, Gwen crawls out of bed to unlock the shutters, pushing them open with impressive strength.

“Morgana? What is it?”

“Our chance to save Merlin,” Morgana tells her.

Gwen’s face instantly shifts from confusion to intensity. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Camelot. Get your things. We have to leave now.”

With a somber nod, Gwen moves away from the window. Morgana is only left waiting a few minutes before Gwen exits the abode, dressed with a bag over her shoulder.

“We’ll use my horses,” Morgana says, placing a guiding hand on Gwen’s elbow. “Fair warning: I’ll need to enchant them.”

“Gwen?” comes a voice from behind them, and both women stop dead in their tracks.

When they turn, Elyan is stood in the doorway, looking less than amused.

“What’s going on?” he demands. “Why are you sneaking off with her?”

Morgana isn’t sure what to make of his tone, but she doesn’t get a chance to say anything as Gwen steps toward her brother. “We don’t have time to explain.”

“Is this about Merlin?” A hard look takes over Elyan’s features. “I’m going with you,” he says, turning back into the house.

“Elyan, you can’t!” Gwen stresses, following him inside. “It’s too dangerous!”

“Too dangerous for me, but not for you? Come on, Gwen, Merlin’s my friend, too. I’m not letting you do this alone!”

The siblings emerge together, wearing matching coats, satchels, and stubborn expressions. Elyan walks up to Morgana, ignoring his sister’s protests.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t exactly wait for an answer. Morgana glances back at Gwen, who spends a moment visibly fighting with herself before she sighs her reluctant permission, and the two of them fall into stride with Elyan.

“Camelot,” Morgana responds. “But you should know it will take magic for us to get there.”

That gives Elyan pause, certainly, but he catches up quickly enough. “Alright, then. As long as it helps Merlin.”

“We’ll explain on the way,” Gwen promises, and Elyan gives her look that says he’ll hold her to that.

When they reach Morgana’s house, she sends the two smiths to the stable, while Morgana herself moves to place a containment spell around the outside of the property. She hopes it’ll be enough to hold Morgause while they escape. Though she loves her sister, Morgana knows better than to trust her.

Gwen and Elyan bring three horses around and each of them mounts, after which Morgana promptly takes the reins and steers her steed between the other two. Discreetly, she presses her hand against the book at her side. “Alright,” she says. “Hold on.”

Her eyes flash gold and the horses spur into motion.

~<:>~

“An assassination plot?” Arthur shakes his head. “That can’t be right.”

His father’s expression remains stoic. “I’m afraid it’s true, Arthur. The boy is a powerful sorcerer. He was manipulating you into doing his bidding.”

“No, he never— he wouldn’t— I wasn’t doing anything I didn’t want to do,” Arthur argues.

“You only thought you were in control,” Uther tells him. “His goal was to get close to you. To get you to reveal the kingdom’s secrets, so he could destroy Camelot.”

Arthur refuses to believe it. “Merlin doesn’t want to destroy Camelot! He wants to save Camelot!”

“Is that what he told you?” Uther sneers, sending Arthur into a spiral of doubt. It can’t be true. Merlin is good. But if he is a sorcerer…

It would make sense, wouldn’t it? With all his passionate speeches about magic. His knowledge, his bravery, his ability to conquer enemies without a sword or a scrap of muscle on him. Still, there’s no way that Merlin could want what his father is suggesting. Arthur can’t explain how he can possibly know someone so well after such little time, but he does.

“Let me talk to him,” he demands.

“Absolutely not,” Uther dismisses. “He will only try to get in your head again.”

“Father—”

“Arthur,” Uther interrupts, and Arthur actually shuts his mouth, because the expression on his father’s face is one he hasn’t seen in a very long time. Something grave and broken instead of angry. “There’s something else you should know. The boy used the summoning cauldron you led him to. And the person he summoned was the sorceress, Nimueh.”

The name strikes childhood fear into Arthur’s heart and his mouth goes dry. “What?”

Eyes heavy with grief, Uther explains. “He was working with her, to finish what she started when you were born. Their plan was to eliminate the entire royal line. To eliminate you.”

Arthur can’t speak; the words constrict in his throat. The sorceress responsible for his mother’s death… Merlin summoned her? That would make her his godmother, wouldn’t it? Whom Merlin said he hated, but couldn’t escape. And that his father was killed by a sorceress… by her? How willingly involved was Merlin in this scheme? His disdain for Pendragons is clear. His disdain for the king, for Arthur…

Swallowing, Arthur focuses on his father. “It was all a lie, then.”

Uther doesn’t respond, but his steely gaze affirms what he’s thinking.

Arthur braces himself against the pain of the betrayal. There’s that strange new part of him screaming that his father is wrong, that Merlin would never do something like this… but there’s another part, the older part, that whispers warnings of magic’s familiar evil. The evil that killed his mother and drove his sister away. As much as he wants to believe in Merlin, his fear and his prejudice are starting to take hold…

And yet, despite all of this, Arthur finds himself unable to bear the idea of Merlin dying. The thought alone feels like a sword through his chest. “Father,” he starts, trying to hide the desperation in his voice. “I understand the weight of his crimes, but I think that if we spare Merlin—”

“Spare a traitor?” his father hisses.

“He has no love for Nimueh,” Arthur tells him. “We could convince him to give her up!”

“We cannot convince him of anything!” Uther snarls. “He is a sorcerer, he tried to murder you, and he must be punished accordingly!”

“Father, please—”

“Enough, Arthur!” His father levels him with a regal stare. “The boy will die, tomorrow at sunset.”

With that, the king storms from the room, leaving Arthur to stare helplessly in his wake.

~<:>~

Gwen can safely say that she was not prepared for the feeling generated by riding a magically expedient horse.

Nor was she prepared to have her arms wrapped around Morgana’s waist, clinging to her for dear life. Nor, further still, was she ever prepared to be this close to Morgana in general. But it’s not as though they have other options, what with their group’s dramatic increase in numbers and lack of sufficient horses.

The few men and the woman they picked up seem nice enough. They were all (save Percival) aware of Merlin’s magic and his quest, which made it easier to explain everything to Elyan. Currently, he and Lancelot are on their own horses, where Gwaine and Percival along with Freya and Will are sandwiched together like Gwen and Morgana.

Their proximity is doing wild things to Gwen’s heart, as Morgana is the source of the magic around them and it’s radiating off her body, flowing through Gwen’s in turn. It’s the same rush in her bones that she felt when Morgana healed her hand. The sensation is foreign and yet familiar, comforting.

Gwen tightens her grip slightly, leaning into Morgana’s back. For someone she’s known for so little time, Morgana has certainly inspired a great deal of trust in Gwen. She can only hope that her sentiments are reciprocated.

The sun is still high in the sky when the horses slow at the edge of the wood. Gwen can make out the walls of Camelot just beyond the trees and the sight of them steals her breath away. Although she might also be winded from the ride. Incidentally, she finds herself missing the press of magic against her skin.

Morgana turns to the party from atop their horse. “Are you all ready?”

“For Merlin? Always,” Will says, prompting murmurs of agreement from everyone else.

“The first thing we need to do is get safely inside,” Morgana reminds them. “Then, we’ll split up to complete our separate missions. But whatever you do, make sure to be at the pyre before sundown.”

Each of them nods their assent. Gwen isn’t sure what to do, so she just squeezes gently around Morgana’s abdomen. To her delight, Morgana presses one of her hands to both of Gwen’s for a moment before taking the reins again to dismount.

They tie up their horses just inside the tree-line and head for a secret entrance in the outer walls, under the protection of Morgana’s cloaking spell. Gwen wonders, not for the first time, how Morgana knew this was here. Morgana played it off before by explaining that she’d visited the capitol in the past, but, in Gwen’s admittedly limited experience, having to sneak in somewhere is usually an indicator of that past being extensive or untoward.

Either way, Gwen follows Morgana through the passage. Once all eight of them are inside, they break into teams. Freya, Will, and Lancelot are going to scope out the dungeons and attempt to free Merlin. Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan are meant to get in position in the square in case that plan fails. And Gwen and Morgana are supposed to find Prince Arthur, since, according to Morgana’s visions, they can’t succeed without him on their side.

Gwen suspected back when the prince visited Ealdor that something more transpired between him and Merlin in the woods. She doesn’t know exactly what, but it certainly had an impact on Merlin. Perhaps he has managed to impact Arthur in the same manner.

Morgana imbues each team member with guiding and protection spells before they depart. She then proceeds to lead Gwen through the city backstreets with practiced ease, affirming Gwen’s suspicions that she understated how much time she’s spent here. Now is not exactly the moment to question it. Gwen only hopes that Morgana isn’t keeping too many secrets from her.

Eventually, they duck through an unusually sturdy doorway, and when Gwen looks up her mouth drops open, because holy hell, they are in the palace. She, a blacksmith’s daughter from the outermost village, is in Camelot’s palace. The structure is scaled beyond belief and so perfectly decadent— the finely-crafted sconces, the meticulously laid stone, the arching ceilings. Gwen feels so lucky to be seeing such beauty.

Beside her, Morgana’s response is much less enthusiastic. Her jaw tightens, her breath quickens, and her hand starts to shake by her side. It feels like second nature for Gwen, to reach over and take it. Morgana turns, making eye contact with her, and Gwen offers a small smile, lacing their fingers together. It must give Morgana some semblance of comfort, as she smiles softly back.

“Come on.”

Morgana pulls her onward again and they find shelter in alcoves and the faint shadows the torches cast. All the while, their hands remain intertwined, a steady reassurance that they are here together.

When they finally reach their destination— which is not the prince’s chambers, counter to what Gwen assumed, as this area is not so heavily guarded— Morgana does some sort of magic to distract the few guards on duty, and once there’s no one left in sight, the two of them slip toward the door.

Morgana’s fingers hover over the handle for a split second, her hesitation clear, yet quick. She doesn’t need any reassurances from Gwen before she pushes forward and the door swings inward.

~<:>~

Coming into the castle, everything feels wrong.

The halls are exactly as Morgana remembered them, but they don’t echo with the same grandness as they did when she was a child. The air is tainted with musk, the space tightening around her throat, like his hand did, and the flashbacks freeze her in place.

She’s ever so grateful for Gwen. She doesn’t know if she could do this alone.

When she opens the door to her old chambers, Gwen at her side, Morgana expects the nausea to continue, to grow even worse.

And it does, because the room itself is still a replica of all the times she woke screaming; the window panes are still blown out; the stones are still worn where she beat them with her fists; the white sheets thrown over the furniture are every bit as ghostly as they were when she first saw them in her dreams.

And it doesn’t, because her brother is perched on the bed with his head in his hands, and despite how old he’s grown, he still looks like that same blonde rascal she used to tease when they were small.

Morgana steels herself against the waves of emotion and lets go of Gwen’s hand. “I always said you’d be miserable without me.”

Arthur’s head snaps up and his eyes widen, hand going to his hip instinctually. Morgana has to refrain from laughing when he finds nothing there.

“Where’s your sword, little brother? Lose it in the woods again?”

Her attempts to mock him, to lighten the mood, aren’t quite working, as Arthur still looks panicked and utterly shocked to see her. “Morgana,” he manages, and it’s not fair how familiar her name sounds in his tenor. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question,” she says, gesturing at their surroundings. “Didn’t think you’d be so emotional as to mope about in your crazy lost sister’s chambers.”

A trace of indignance passes across Arthur’s face. Progress, Morgana thinks. “How did you find me?”

“Same way I always did,” Morgana replies. “That’s why you could never win at hide-and-seek.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “You cheated.”

Morgana shrugs, and the motion seems to jog Arthur out of his stupor and into superior royal mode. He stands from the bed and folds his arms.

“You are not supposed to be in here.”

It’s ridiculous, how much like a petulant child he sounds. Morgana rolls her eyes. “We’re well past that. Now, we need your help to rescue Merlin, so you’re going to have to shut up and listen for once in your life.”

At Merlin’s name, Arthur’s demeanor cracks, worry briefly taking over his features. “You’re… you know Merlin?”

Gwen steps forward, finally drawing Arthur’s attention. “Yes. He’s the closest friend I have.”

Arthur gives her a curious once-over. “You were at the rally in Ealdor,” he says, pointing (rather rudely, in Morgana’s opinion). “You were beside him.”

Gwen nods. “And he was beside me. He’s always beside me. Merlin is kind and just and supportive and honourable and good, and that has nothing to do with his magic. He protects people.” She raises her chin, elegant and strong. “And I won’t see him executed. It’s my job now to protect him. Not even you, Arthur Pendragon, can stop that.”

Morgana is quite sure she’s just fallen in love. Judging by Arthur’s expression, he is similarly impressed. Morgana turns from Gwen to her brother, arching an eyebrow. “Well. You heard her.”

Clearing his throat, Arthur adjusts his posture into a slight bow. “I don’t believe I ever got your name, my Lady.”

My Lady? Morgana thinks, almost rolling her eyes again. He really is laying it on thick. Although, Gwen does deserve the title. And she responds with a slight blush. “It’s Gwen— Guinevere.”

Arthur nods, expression serious. “Guinevere. I apologize if I— I’m sure that your belief in Merlin is justified. To tell the truth, I’ve found myself expressing similar sentiments in the few days I’ve spent with him. But…” Arthur sighs. “The fact remains that he’s been arrested for conspiring to kill me.”

“Yes, we know,” Morgana says impatiently. “But you must realize that Merlin would never hurt you. Merlin doesn’t use his magic to hurt.”

Arthur frowns at her suspiciously. “And how exactly do you know Merlin?”

“Don’t be jealous,” Morgana teases. “I’m getting to that.”

The tips of Arthur’s ears turn pink. “I am not jealous.”

“Sure,” Morgana says with a pointed look. “Anyway, Merlin is entirely innocent of crimes against the crown, because it was my guardian, Lord Agravaine, who was behind it all. He framed Merlin so he could lock him up and kill him.”

Arthur looks more confused than ever, the poor sod. “Lord Agravaine— kill Merlin? Why would anyone want to kill one insolent peasant sorcerer so badly?”

“He’s more than just one sorcerer, Arthur,” Morgana tells him. “He has a destiny. And so do you. And we don’t have time to sit around and discuss it all because he’s going to be executed in a matter of hours. So will you please just pull your head out of your arsehole and come help us save him?”

Morgana can see the conflict on Arthur’s face as he struggles between wanting to believe her and wanting to be stubborn. Thankfully, what little common sense he has wins out. “Alright. No matter what he has or hasn’t done… I can’t just stand by and watch him die.”

With a satisfied grin, Morgana turns to lead the newly formed party from the room, but Arthur calls her back, suddenly.

“Morgana.”

She looks over her shoulder to see her brother standing, awkward and unsure, more vulnerable than she’s ever seen him. “I… wanted to say… to tell you…”

Sensing his discomfort with their audience, Morgana places a hand on Gwen’s elbow. “Give us a moment, won’t you, love? I’m afraid my brother’s about to get sentimental on me.”

“Of course,” Gwen nods. “I’ll be right outside.” She makes to leave without questioning whether or not she’ll be safe under Morgana’s warding spell, and the trust sends Morgana’s magic humming with delight.

The hum dies down when she locks eyes with Arthur again, their years apart catching up with them. “Well,” Morgana starts, already closing herself off. “Whatever you’re going to say—”

“I’m sorry.”

Morgana’s words die in her throat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t fight for you,” Arthur continues. “I wasn’t strong enough. You were always challenging Father, so I thought I had to be the obedient one. I thought it would be worth it, to lose you rather than face his wrath. But it wasn’t. Not a single day without you was worth it.”

Despite her mental protests, tears start to well at the corners of Morgana’s vision; she hastily blinks them away. “It’s alright. You hated magic, so you hated me. Just like him.”

“I never hated you, ’Gana.” The old nickname brings about another wave of emotion. “And recently I’ve been told not to hate magic so much.”

“Merlin?” Morgana guesses, trying to change the topic.

Arthur nods, though he looks rather put out about it. “It’s hard not to be inspired by that clumsy, foolish idiot.”

“Terms of endearment, coming from you.”

As expected, Arthur’s cheeks tint again. “Don’t start.”

Morgana smiles. “I’m your sister. It’s my job.”

Silence descends between them, the conversation having reached a tentative conclusion. Jerkily, Arthur goes to move past her, and Morgana catches his arm.

“Arthur.” He stops. She swallows carefully, looking into his eyes. “I can’t forgive him for the way he treated me.”

He nods in understanding, glancing away.

Morgana sighs prematurely at what she’s about to say. “But… I think I’d like to try forgiving you.”

After a moment, a crooked smile starts to take over Arthur’s face. “Really?”

“Don’t go getting a big head about it,” Morgana warns, letting go of his arm and heading out to where Gwen waits in the corridor. She can feel her brother’s smug delight behind her as he follows. For once, she doesn’t find it entirely irritating.

~<:>~

There isn’t a warning in the world that could have prepared Arthur for his sister’s return.

Of course he was thinking of her, with all that’s happening with Merlin. And of course she would know to find him there. And of course her first instinct would be to antagonize him. He’s surprised he didn’t spontaneously combust from all the conflicting emotion.

It’s no surprise, however, that he would be reckless enough to follow Morgana’s lead, even when she’s clearly planning something indisputably illegal. To save Merlin, Arthur reminds himself. Anything is justifiable if it involves saving Merlin.

Arthur could swear he’s had that thought a thousand times before, but he’s interrupted from dwelling on it when they reach the public courtyard where the pyre has been assembled. It’s crowded, as the sun is beginning its descent. Disgust courses through Arthur’s gut as he wonders how many of these people actually want to see a sorcerer burn and how many were coerced into gathering under threat from his father. The line between the two is so thin, Arthur can’t fathom why he’s never noticed it before.

Several figures approach where their little trio is huddled at the edge of the crowd. Arthur recognizes all but one of them; Gwaine, Percival, Freya, Will, Lancelot… they’re all here. In Camelot.

“You brought them here?” he asks Morgana.

She makes a noncommittal head gesture. “They came of their own accord. For Merlin.”

Arthur was right, before— Merlin does inspire trust in everyone he meets. It makes Arthur feel a little less special, but he ignores that for the time being, distracted by Morgana looking worriedly between Freya, Will, and Lancelot, who all appear discouraged. “It didn’t work?”

“My magic was useless,” Freya says, miserably. “He’s been put in a haze by… some spell. I don’t have enough power to free him.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Will assures her. “This is why we made a back-up plan.”

At this, Morgana gives a sharp nod. “Good. Everyone in position, then. Arthur…”

But Arthur is no longer paying his sister any mind. His attention is far too focused on the figure being led out in chains, two guards hauling him forward from the sides, one pushing him along from the back. He does look dazed, and defeated, and lifeless, his skin even paler than usual, his dark hair a mess, his eyes barely open. The crowd grows louder at his entrance and it’s all Arthur can do not to scream his name.

“Merlin,” he whispers instead, hoping that by some miracle, Merlin will hear him.

~<:>~

Chapter Text

From his rather blurry vantage point, Merlin can see the Camelot square, packed with all manner of outraged citizens. Most of them seem to be shouting in his direction. In truth, Merlin can’t really tell. Where he would normally be able to reach out with his magic, he’s now left with only his five muted senses.

He vaguely registers being led up onto a platform. The pyre. So, he’s going to burn. And he suspects they won’t be taking off the shackles until his body turns to ash. Weakly, Merlin strains against them, to no avail. Agravaine must have gone to great lengths to procure an item powerful enough to absorb Merlin’s magic like this. And why? What does Agravaine know that makes him so desperate to kill Merlin? Is he just another person who’s caught wind of Merlin’s destiny?

The thoughts leak from his head as the guards grip his arms from either side, pulling him back toward the pyre. For a fleeting moment, Merlin catches sight of what looks like Gwen in the crowd below. But that’s impossible. She’s not here, and he’ll never see her again.

Resigned to his fate, Merlin closes his eyes and waits for the guards to align him against the pole, lash him to it, press the torches to the stack of wood. He waits for the heat, and the pain, and the humiliation of his own screams.

But the moment never comes. Because there is a voice, suddenly, shouting above all the others. “Stop! I command that you stop, immediately!”

There are only two people arrogant enough to command anyone, and Merlin doubts Uther Pendragon has any mercy to offer him. When he opens his eyes, he can see Uther on the low balcony overlooking the courtyard, glaring down at his son, who stands at the foot of the platform with his hand raised.

Arthur isn’t paying his father any mind. Instead, his gaze is focused on Merlin, bright blue eyes filled with so many conflicting emotions. There’s a humming in Merlin’s wrists as his magic tries to jump out, as if delighted to be in Arthur’s presence once more. Or maybe it’s just delighted that Arthur is stepping up to defend him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Uther hisses, his bitter tone carrying in the enclosed space.

“This man is innocent!” Arthur says, turning to the crowd as he does. “The crimes he’s been accused of belong to another!”

There’s a dangerous glint in Uther’s eye as he leans forward, gripping the stone ledge. “And what proof have you of this?”

Merlin doesn’t miss the way Arthur’s shoulders tense, his stoic demeanor wavering as he considers whether to challenge his father further or remain the loyal son. To Merlin’s surprise, the hesitation vanishes rather quickly, and Arthur sets his jaw. “The word of my sister, Princess of Camelot.”

Shocked murmurs sweep through the square, everyone craning their necks to see the elegant figure who has come to stand beside Arthur. Merlin has a prime view of the whole affair, as does Uther, and they must be wearing matching expressions— though the king’s has more deep-seated fear and fury— because the lost princess of Camelot, Arthur’s long-dead sister, the source of kingdom-wide mythos for the past ten years… is Morgana.

As in Merlin’s step-sister, Morgana. Though Merlin is quite certain, at this point, that an annulment is in order, once Hunith finds out that her new husband tried to kill her son. Or at least conspired to have him killed.

All of that is beside the point. What is the point? Merlin’s mind is still a bit foggy from the shackles, and from this new information being thrown at him. Arthur and Morgana, related? How is that possible? They could not look any less like siblings. Granted, Merlin thought the same of Arthur and Uther, and he can see now, as he did before, that it’s all in the posturing.

The two Pendragons stand with regal poise, heads raised in challenge against their father and king. Uther looks back with disdain. “Morgana.”

“Hello, Father,” Morgana replies, cold.

“You expect me to trust her words?” Uther asks. “She is a sorceress!”

A new wave of consternation crashes over the crowd. Merlin is far less shocked by this particular revelation. He watches Arthur tilt his shoulders toward Morgana, as though expecting her to react, but her steely exterior does not change. She keeps her gaze locked with Uther’s and Arthur turns back to face his father as well.

“She is,” he confirms, and for the first time, it doesn’t sound like an accusation. “But that does not make her word any less credible. She is your daughter, just as I am your son. And she deserves the same respect.”

Merlin can’t believe what he’s hearing. Arthur Pendragon, prince of arrogance himself, is defending magic. The same man who, just a few weeks ago, thought that magic was the source of all evil. It occurs to Merlin that Nimueh could very well have spelled him into some kind of warped dream during their encounter. He would be convinced, were it not for his visceral lack of magic (although that, too, is disappearing the longer he looks at Arthur).

Uther is still reeling from the onslaught when Morgana speaks again. “As does Merlin. He may be a sorcerer, but that is his only offense! He never conspired to kill the prince or the king.” Morgana levels her piercing stare just beyond Uther. “The credit for that treason goes to Lord Agravaine.”

The saga of scandalized gasps continues as the people take in this dramatic declaration. Merlin is once again unsurprised, if a bit wary as he spots Agravaine up on the balcony, lurking in the shadows behind the king.

“Ridiculous,” Uther dismisses. “Lord Agravaine has been nothing but loyal to the crown and to Camelot. He was the one who uncovered this sorcerer’s treachery.”

“Yes, all by himself, of course,” Morgana counters. “Not the least bit suspicious.”

“There is no reason for Lord Agravaine to want me dead! We are allied against the plague that magic has spread over this kingdom.” Uther points his gloved finger at Merlin. “That boy is Emrys, the sorcerer destined to destroy Camelot! It was only right that Lord Agravaine assist me in capturing him.”

“Merlin is far less of a threat to Camelot than you,” Morgana snaps. “As I’m sure Lord Agravaine is aware.”

Disgruntled, Agravaine steps forward. “My king, I assure you—”

“I need no assurances,” Uther cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I know I have always had your full support in wiping out the stain of sorcery.”

“Really?” Morgana arches an eyebrow. “He practices quite a lot of magic for someone allegedly opposed to it.”

“Do not seek to slander my advisor with your lies! He has not been corrupted by the darkness as you have and he has defended my rule for more years than you have drawn breath!”

As Uther spits the last part, Merlin sees Agravaine’s entire demeanor change, his eyes taking on a dangerous rage. Sweeping his cloak behind him, he stalks over to the king. “Forgive me, my king, but as your advisor, I would advise you not to threaten the princess. In fact,” he says, moving even closer. “I would command it.”

The shock on Uther’s face might have been more satisfying were Merlin not intensely aware of the mortal peril Agravaine’s presence suggests. “You dare to command me?” Uther says, outraged. He glances between Agravaine and Morgana. “Surely, you’re not what they say…”

“What? A traitor to the crown?” Agravaine finishes. “Of course I am. What kind of person would choose to support the rule of an arrogant old tyrant!”

The square is bubbling with panic as Agravaine’s words descend heavily around them; Merlin can see Morgana and Arthur growing restless as well.

“You,” Uther finally recognizes. “All along, it was you.”

Agravaine flashes one of his sinister smiles. “Yes. It was me. I conspired to kill you. Because there is only one truly noble Pendragon. You are not her, and neither is your son.”

“You would commit regicide for a sorceress?!”

“Don’t bother trying to sew guilt in my conscience,” Agravaine sneers. “You are no innocent.”

“And what about the boy you framed?” Uther asks, turning right around on the subject of Merlin (honestly, his hypocrisy is absurd). “You were willing to let him burn for you!”

Agravaine shakes his head. “I did not lie to you where Merlin is concerned. He is every bit the dangerous sorcerer I made him out to be. And he will destroy this kingdom, as he is destined to put your son on the throne— a mere copy of you, younger and even more pig-headed! Together, they represent Camelot’s doom!”

“You’re wrong!” Morgana interrupts, drawing all eyes back to her as she steps forward. “You haven’t seen the whole picture. Merlin is meant to put Arthur on throne, yes. But he is also meant to bring magic back to Camelot. He and Arthur are destined to instill a new peace in these lands! Together, they will be Camelot’s salvation!”

Agravaine appears on edge at her words. “Are you certain of this?”

With a bristling laugh, Morgana responds, “Of course I am. My visions, as you know, are never wrong.”

While Agravaine stands dismayed on the balcony, Merlin’s eyes wander down to Arthur. Morgana’s whole visionary revelation is the first he’s heard of him and Arthur working together to bring magic back to Camelot. A few days ago, his first thought would have been something along the lines of, What, him? There must be another Arthur, because this one’s an idiot.

But now, it makes an uncomfortable amount of sense. Having a joint destiny… it would explain their chemistry, the strange attachment Merlin has to Arthur, how badly he wants to protect him despite his prattish Pendragon nature. And as much as Merlin abhors attributing everything to destiny… he finds, in this case, it doesn’t quite bother him. Because at least he and Arthur are destined for something good. And to be together.

He catches Arthur looking back at him, a flash of worry crossing his face. Merlin meets his eyes and he doesn’t quite recognize what passes between them, but it feels familiar. Like something they’ve done a thousand times.

Their staring breaks when Agravaine speaks again. “Your visions are irrefutable,” he says to Morgana. “But I can’t trust that you’re telling me the truth. I know you want to save your brother’s skin. And despite what any prophecy says, you cannot deny justice to all those who have suffered under our great king’s rule. He deserves to die for his sins.”

Before anyone else can act, Agravaine unsheathes a dagger from his belt and arcs it toward the king.

“No!” Merlin hears Arthur shout in distress.

But the weapon never reaches its target, as a blow of magic sends it flying out of Agravaine’s hand and down into the square below, where Morgana catches it. She looks too surprised to have foiled the attack herself. Merlin follows her gaze up to the blonde figure with her arm outstretched, standing far enough back to indicate that she’s just emerged onto the balcony.

Morgause. Merlin has no idea what she’s doing here. It’s nice to see that both of his step-sisters have turned against the man who tried to kill him, though. What a lovely family reunion this has been.

Agravaine and Uther are both far less amused by the series of shocks and betrayals. With an overly-masculine flourish, Agravaine draws his sword, (“Attack!”) prompting Uther to do the same, (“Defend your king!”) and any sense of calm left in the crowd evaporates—

As chaos erupts around them.

Civilians start effectively screaming and running while those involved in the conflict brandish their weapons. It seems that Agravaine has more than a few of the royal guards in his employ, as well as privately contracted men dressed in black (how inconspicuous), all of whom burst out from their positions to commence attacking those not on their side. Several head for Morgana and Arthur, both of whom are very much armed, but the movement still sends a spike of panic through Merlin’s chest and he wrestles against his restraints because gods, he has to help, but the magic counteracting his own is so strong that it seems futile—

And then Merlin sees them.

At first he’s convinced the madness has set in, because his best friend has appeared before him once again, and he knows— he knows— that she can’t be here. But then she knees one of Agravaine’s goons in the bollocks and seizes his sword, twisting quick enough to catch the blade coming towards Morgana, the metal clanging as it collides, and then Merlin really sees her, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Yeah, that’s Gwen.

And she’s not alone. Beside her, joined in defense of the Pendragons, is Leon, Arthur’s curly-haired knight, and Elyan, wielding one of his own hand-crafted swords. Merlin watches as Elyan expertly disarms another attacker, barely breaking a sweat, and spins his blade— the flash of it drawing Merlin’s gaze to another pocket of activity, where three familiar wild-worn figures fight back-to-back against a group of armored men. Will’s pulling out all the stops, going for the cheap shots, using speed and distraction to his advantage. It’s a perfect contrast to Lancelot, whose sword is like an extension of his arm, graceful and cunning in each deliberate swing. And Freya, pushing blasts of untrained magic from her palms, diluted, but chaotic enough to be effective. She sends one guard careening backwards several meters until he crashes into another, and as the two of them go down, Gwaine appears in the space they left, accompanied by none other than beefcake Percival, both charging into combat like they were made for it.

Merlin can’t believe that they’re all here. That they all came for him. All of them, even Elyan, and Percival, and Morgana. Even Arthur.

His heart swells with affection, and gratitude, and loyalty, to think that he might have inspired so many people to take such risks for him. It sends an additional wave of shock through his whole body— a shock that quickly turns to anger, because how dare Merlin be the one trapped in chains while his friends are out there in the line of fire? How dare Agravaine presume that his flimsy, half-baked shackles could hold Merlin there?

Nimueh’s words echo in the back of his skull. You are magic… Merlin is magic. It doesn’t belong to him, it is a part of him, something that cannot be carved away. Not now. Not ever. Not while he still breathes.

He can feel the metal on wrists start to crack, his veins ignited with the smallest flicker. And his eyes must be glowing, his lips quirking, because something gives him away to the guards he completely forgot were still near him.

“Shit,” says the one on his right, grabbing hold of Merlin’s arm. “Burn him. Burn him now!”

And they do manage to drag Merlin back onto the pyre, and they do manage to lash him to the pole, and Merlin lets them scramble down from the platform to safety before he really concentrates on the magic that’s begun surging within him again.

He closes his eyes. But in his mind, he can see the battle still raging around him. He can hear the press of torch to dry wood, and the crackle as the flames jump over, and the distant shouts from his steadfast companions, unyieldingly desperate to save him.

They’ve had their turn, Merlin thinks, bracing strong against the fire. Now, he must save them.

The shackles explode, metal shards dissipating into nothing, and Merlin gasps at the rush of magic that floods back to his senses. Around him, the flames grow closer. With one hand, he unties himself, and with the other, he reaches into the heat of the fire, bending its form, willing it to curl and peel away, becoming a billowing cloud of skyward smoke.

The sudden spectacle isn’t quite enough to tear everyone away from their fighting. Merlin needs a bigger distraction. And he knows exactly how to cause it.

He flattens the enemies closest to him with a gust of magic and hops down into the fray. He needs to get to Arthur and Morgana. Parting the small sea of guards on the way there is a simple feat; buried tree roots and guided wind does most of the work for him.

When Merlin reaches the center of the pack, he finds himself face-to-face with Arthur, who stares at him, breathless. “Merlin,” he says, like he’s going to hug him, or snog him, or pour his heart out in the middle of the battle.

“Later,” Merlin replies, pulling Arthur aside to blast back an oncoming attacker. Arthur looks a mixture of frightened and impressed at this display.

“I suppose your aptitude for running toward danger makes a bit more sense now.”

“Shut up and help me.”

And Arthur’s there, attentive. “What do you need?”

Amidst the inexplicable and overwhelming emotion that induces, Merlin almost doesn’t notice Morgana appear at Arthur’s side.

“The book,” she says, extracting it from her satchel. “It helped us get here. Let’s hope it helps now.”

Merlin takes it from her, waves his hand across the cover, and stares into Kilgharrah’s ageless eyes. Will you help us? he thinks.

The dragon blinks once and bows. Always.

Merlin nods, tucks Kilgharrah under his arm, and sprints for the platform, his magic seeping into the book even as he runs. He doesn’t know the proper spell to cast, but his intention is clear, and his power great enough, that it doesn’t seem to matter. He clambers up and slams the book down, open, just in time for the dragon to come tearing out through the pages, snout first, headed straight for the sky. The flap of his wings on the way up, coupled with the roar he releases, halts all battle instantly, as every person freezes to admire the magnificent, impossible beast that has soared to life above them.

Drained from the effort, though still pulsing with power, Merlin stands, turning to face the crowd in the shadow of the circling dragon.

“There is no need to fight for a man whose only loyalty is to himself,” Merlin says, voice carrying across the courtyard. Consciously, he’s not sure which side he’s addressing. Perhaps that’s to his benefit. “All of you, stand down. Let there be no more bloodshed.”

He focuses on the balcony, where Uther and Agravaine both look purple with rage. “You vile, traitorous dragonlord!” Agravaine hisses. “There will be no more bloodshed once this murderer is dead!”

As he lunges for Uther once again, Merlin channels his bond with Kilgharrah, sending the dragon swooping down to snatch Agravaine up in his claws. There does appear to be some miscommunication, however, as Kilgharrah, upon returning to the sky, engulfs Agravaine with his flame-breath and swallows him whole.

Shock cascades through the remaining courtyard occupants, accompanied by the sound of weapons clattering to the ground. Merlin shoots Kilgharrah a disapproving glare, but the dragon doesn’t seem at all intimidated. Merlin supposes Agravaine’s loss won’t leave a terrible gap in the world, and dragons imprisoned in books for decades do deserve a proper meal now and then.

Merlin is also delighted to see that the majority of Agravaine’s forces have surrendered, and some of Uther’s have even gone into a state of truce as well. He finds Arthur’s eyes and gives a brief, reassuring smile, which Arthur returns, the brilliance of it beaming into Merlin’s core. He moves to run toward him again, toward the danger he’s chosen, toward the man who apparently is his sodding destiny (because Merlin’s life couldn’t be any more exhausted with vainglorious inevitability).

But he only makes it halfway. “Fools!” Uther snarls at his men. “Pick up your weapons! Kill the traitors! Kill the dragon! Kill the sorcerer! Kill them all!”

“Father, there is no need!” Arthur shouts back. “They’ve surrendered.”

“Silence! You are enchanted, and you know nothing of insurrection! You will obey your king!” Uther scans the crowd frantically, looking more unhinged by the second.

The knights shift uncertainly, looking to Arthur. Merlin can practically see the dynamic of power slipping from Uther to his son, who sets his chiseled jaw and straightens. “I am not enchanted, Sire.” There’s respect and disappointment laced equally in Arthur’s tone. “And I believe it would be best if you retired to your chambers while we sort this out.”

Uther is livid. “We?” he spits. “You and that low-life sorcerer? You think you have the power to outrank me?!”

“You are not well, Father,” Arthur says, gesturing to his men on the balcony. “You should not be commanding anyone until you rest.”

“I am your king!” Uther screams, wrestling against the guards who have begun to drag him back inside the palace. “You will not betray me!”

His rambling assertions fade once the double oak doors slam shut, and utter silence descends on the square. There’s a new twisting in Merlin’s gut when he looks at Arthur— the sense that, like always, this is his fault. And Arthur’s expression is so painful, so shattered with guilt, that Merlin has to reach for him.

He takes about two steps forward and is immediately caught in a crushing hug, Gwen’s dark curls brushing his face. The spell is broken, voices emerge, people moving in accordance with Arthur’s commands. Merlin is stuck between Freya and Will, embracing all of his friends, half-listening to their comments and stories and relief that he’s alright. Percival claps him on the back and Gwaine boasts his heroic deeds, but Merlin is really focused on the Pendragon siblings standing some distance away, carrying out their duties with a stoicism that does not suit either of them.

Merlin manages to catch Arthur’s eye for a split second before he turns away.

~<:>~

Chapter Text

In the wake of everything, Arthur’s world blurs.

He can’t recall how many hours it’s been, how many days he’s spent trying to reason with his father, trying to undo the mess he’s left behind. It should have been more of a shock to learn how unhappy the knights were under Uther’s rule. How unhappy everyone was, really. But Arthur can’t muster the strength to lie to himself any longer.

At least he has Morgana again, resolute by his side. She handles what he can’t, jumping in when she senses him start to falter. It’s her instinct, Arthur supposes, to take care of him, and to rule in his stead. She is the elder sibling, after all.

And yet, despite the comfort that Morgana’s presence provides, Arthur can’t help feeling like there’s something missing. Someone, rather. Someone he misses now like he’s never missed anyone in his life. Someone who has returned to his village, undoubtedly happy to be free of Arthur and all his troubles.

In truth, Arthur was sort of hoping that Merlin would burst back into his life the way he did before and sweep Arthur away on some adventure. “Later,” he promised, all those days ago in the courtyard. Arthur’s still waiting.

Those thoughts linger as Arthur approaches his father’s chambers for their daily meeting, and he forces himself to shove them down, out of the way. When the guards open the doors for him, he finds Uther standing at the window, like always. The king doesn’t turn at his entrance. Not even when the doors close again.

“Father,” Arthur greets him. He gets nothing in response. Clearing his throat, Arthur continues. “I have a decree from the council. I’d like to discuss it with you.”

Uther is still for so long that Arthur begins to think he’s hallucinating seeing him at all. But finally he stirs, reaching up to remove the crown that’s been resting so heavily atop his skull for so long now. And he speaks.

“I never told you about your mother.”

The abruptness of the topic is the only thing that keeps Arthur from recoiling. Instead, he freezes, still clutching the decree in his hands, anticipating whatever tragic tale is likely to follow.

Uther turns over his shoulder, just slightly, but doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes. “I told you that Nimueh killed her. I never told you how.”

Arthur swallows the rising lump in his throat. “Father, you don’t have to—”

“It was my fault,” Uther continues, shifting forward, slowly, until he reaches the table between them. “Ygraine and I were desperate for an heir. I was desperate. Nimueh promised that, for a price, she could give us one. And I took that vile witch at her word.” Gently, the king places his crown upon the wood in front of Arthur, his expression shadowed and withdrawn. “I was a fool. I did not know that the price for your life… would be your mother’s.”

The statement hits and Arthur’s lips part to allow the sharp intake of air, piercing through his lungs, through his soul. His life, for his mother’s.

She wasn’t killed by a sorceress after all. She was killed by her own family.

Of course, Arthur blames himself first, too caught up in the guilt of brutally replacing someone he’ll now never meet. But, as he turns his father’s words over in his mind, the guilt quickly turns to hurt, and confusion, and rage.

“You had an heir,” Arthur says, almost whispering. “You had Morgana.”

Uther blinks up at him, belatedly, wavering. “Yes… but…”

“You wanted a son.” There’s a ringing in Arthur’s ears, a shake in his muscles. “You… sacrificed my mother… because you wanted a son!”

Arthur slams the decree onto the table, startling the king backwards. “Arthur, I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t listen! You never listen!” Arthur shouts. “Nimueh told you there would be a price! You’ve blamed all of magic, all these years, for your own bloody mistake!”

“Nimueh tricked me!”

“She is one person! You’ve condemned hundreds to death and exile! You convinced me to hate my own sister!”

Arthur stands, heaving, seconds from striking his father, who looks every inch the mad king his bitterness has turned him into.

“You,” Arthur snarls. “Are not fit to rule.”

Spinning on his heel, he stalks back over to the decree, snatches it, and raises it up in his fist for Uther to see.

“The council has elected to remove you from power. All this needs now is my signature. Which, before now, I was hesitant to provide.”

Arthur plucks the quill from the nearby inkwell and scrawls his name, messily, practically tearing through the paper. When he’s finished, he holds it up again.

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t stamp this with the royal seal.”

There’s a crack in Uther’s steely exterior that Arthur recognizes. He’s seen it in the mirror many times. “I’m your father,” Uther says, weakly.

Arthur shakes his head. “That’s not good enough anymore.”

He leaves Uther there, brow beaten and worn. When the doors slam shut behind him, he pretends he isn’t the one who flinches.

~<:>~

Morgana finds him later, in much the same way she always does. This time with a plate of cheeses in her hand.

“I heard you signed the decree,” she says, carefully pushing the door closed. Arthur merely grunts from where he’s reclined on his bed, wallowing in misery. “Oh, don’t be so glum,” Morgana chides. She sits down on the edge, facing him, and holds out a piece of cheddar. “You did the right thing.”

“Hardly feels like the right thing, does it?” Arthur says as he takes the cheese from her fingers but doesn’t eat it. “Overthrowing a king.”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic. It’s all perfectly traditional—”

“Did you know?” Arthur asks, desperate, but dreading the answer.

Morgana blinks. “Know what?”

“How mother really died.”

Her silence is a rather staunch indicator, and Arthur watches her mood break down. She reaches over to place the plate on his bedside table, leans back with her hands folded on her lap. “Yes,” she admits. “Agravaine told me, some years after I left.”

Arthur has to clench his teeth together for a moment, trying hard to maintain his composure the way she is. “And did you hate him for it? Even more?”

Morgana scoffs. “Of course I did. I still do.” Hesitantly, she rests a hand on his knee. “And it’s alright for you to feel that way, too.”

“It’s not alright,” Arthur says. “None of it.”

“I know.”

She does. She’s the only one who does.

Arthur gazes down at the cheese in his hand and moodily consumes it, his mind distracted with thoughts of his father and his mother and his sister and he can’t help longing for the one person who isn’t involved in any of this, who could make him feel better in an instant, who’d probably joke and call him a clotpole or a dollophead for being a sour, guilty idiot when he should really be running the kingdom and fixing his father’s innumerable mistakes, and then he’d probably grace Arthur with one of his captivating smiles and Arthur would melt and it would all be very embarrassing, but at least Arthur’s heart would be full and maybe he’d never get to feel that way again if he didn’t—

“I miss Merlin.”

Arthur curses his own jumbled thoughts for letting that out in front of his sister. It would seem the emotion of the past several days has finally caught up with him.

Predictably, Morgana bursts out laughing, fixing him with a patronizing expression. “Are you just realizing that now?”

“Shut up,” Arthur glares. He can feel himself turning red.

Morgana shakes her head. “You know, you can go and see him whenever you want. Ealdor’s not that far away for a man with your resources.”

“Yes, but…”

“What?”

Arthur flounders, pathetically. “He left.”

We were supposed to have a destiny, he means. We were supposed to be together. What if he doesn’t want it? What if he doesn’t want me?

Morgana has the nerve to look fed up. “Well, go and get him back then, you dunce.”

~<:>~

Returning to Ealdor isn’t quite the relaxing resolution that Merlin had envisioned.

For starters, his many new (and old) friends from out of town have decided to visit for a while, and although Merlin and Hunith both appreciate the business at the inn (not that they need it now, what with Hunith on the brink of collecting her widow’s inheritance), it’s far more hectic than either of them are used to.

And, when Merlin’s not entertaining his visitors— and every interested passerby that Gwaine manages to wrangle with tales of Merlin’s greatness— he’s doing work for Gaius, catching him up on everything and practicing ways they can both keep in contact with Kilgharrah now that he’s solidly out of book form and free to roam the kingdom.

Not to mention the whole Morgause situation. As far as Merlin can tell, his former step-sister (whose true lineage, Merlin may never know) has returned to her abode across the street. For what and why, Merlin isn’t sure, and he certainly doesn’t have the time or the courage to approach her about it. Despite her alignment against Agravaine, Merlin can’t help but feel her presence like a cloud looming over the village.

In short, Merlin’s homecoming is utterly consumed with external chaos. And despite all the people currently surrounding him, his sorry soul can’t help but long for the one person who isn’t there.

It’s ridiculous, he thinks, to be hung up on someone he’s only known a few weeks. Someone he hated at first— and still doesn’t entirely like. Someone ridiculously out of his league and far too busy with serious royal affairs to even think about a peasant who spent most of their time together insulting him.

At the very least, Merlin takes comfort in knowing that he’s not the only one pining. He looks up from his hiding place next to Gwen’s forge to find his best friend staring out the window as she works, her eyes glazed over in memory.

Merlin allows himself a small smile, but he can’t bring himself to tease her. The Pendragon siblings are truly a force to be reckoned with. Especially in matters of the heart.

“Merlin!”

A voice carries through the windows from farther down the street. Likely Gwaine or Will on the hunt for him, Merlin assumes. Gods, can he not have peace for one afternoon?

As the shouts of his name grow closer and start to multiply, Gwen puts down her tools and shoots him a look. “I think you’ve managed to incite a search party.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and tucks himself further into the corner with his book (which he definitely hasn’t been reading for several minutes now). “They’ll go away.”

“It could be important,” Gwen reminds him, her tone light but chiding.

“Then they’ll find me.”

Gwen opens her mouth to say something else just as Merlin is proven right and the door to the blacksmith’s shop swings open. Unfortunately, it appears that Gwen was right as well, because the bodies spilling into the rather cramped space represent more than just a few of his friends.

Merlin stands. “What’s going on?”

“Merlin!”

It’s Will who pushes to the front, grinning wide enough that Merlin’s not sure whether he should be relieved or anxious, though any illusion that he had the option not to be anxious is shattered at Will’s next words.

“Your prince is here.”

~<:>~

From atop her horse, Morgana can almost see the whole village. Remarkable that such a short time back in Camelot made her forget how small her temporary home was. Her eyes land on the house where she knows her sister still resides, though it’s not long before they wander down the street to the chimneyed roof of the blacksmith’s shop.

Alright. So maybe Arthur’s not the only one with unfinished business in Ealdor. But he didn’t need to know that.

With a flourish, she dismounts to stand next to her brother, who is laying it on pretty thick for Hunith while they wait for the mob of cohorts to find Merlin. Of course it’s Arthur’s first instinct to charm the mother, Morgana thinks with fond exasperation. Her little brother, ever the picture of gentile posturing.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Merlin and his friends,” Hunith says, delighted. Morgana watches Arthur’s ears turn pink and smirks to herself. “This is such a wonderful surprise.”

Arthur nods, obviously trying to keep it smooth. “I only wish we could have come sooner. There’s been… much to attend to back at the capitol.”

“Of course,” Hunith agrees. “If you don’t mind my asking, your Majesty, is there something that we should be worried about?”

“No, no, no,” Arthur dismisses with a wave of his hand. “This is strictly a social visit.”

The implications hang heavily in the air and Hunith exchanges a conspiratorial smile with Morgana. Arthur looks like he wants to disappear.

Luckily, he’s spared any further questioning, because the approaching crowd of people has grown close enough for the three of them to properly see. And there, right at the front, with Merlin and the others in tow, is Gwen.

Morgana can’t help her heart lifting in her chest, a smile rising to her cheeks. She’s rewarded with one of Gwen’s own winning smiles, and then Morgana’s feet start to carry her forward, and Gwen breaks into a light run, both of them lifting their skirts to more easily cover the distance between them, until finally they meet.

There’s barely a pause before Gwen throws her arms around Morgana’s shoulders and Morgana catches her about the waist, relatively sure that Gwen’s feet are no longer touching the ground but too joyful to even notice the weight. They stay there for one breath, maybe two, but Morgana savors the moment as though it’ll never end.

When she places Gwen back down and Gwen’s hands stay resting on her shoulders, Morgana knows she hasn’t read their relationship wrong. She watches Gwen’s gaze dart to her lips, and when their eyes meet again, Morgana throws all caution to the wind. She leans down and kisses her.

Gwen seems startled for the briefest moment, and then she’s kissing Morgana back with fervor, fingers scrunching up the fabric atop Morgana’s collarbone. Morgana moves her thumbs up the side of Gwen’s corset in an absent gesture, yet she feels every inch of contact. Her magic is burning her from the inside out and it’s never felt this wonderful before.

The shining moment is cut short, however, as someone clears their throat behind them, and they both break from the kiss, suddenly remembering that they are not yet alone.

Looking back over her shoulder, Morgana meets Arthur’s gaze, briefly glancing at the rest of the people gathered near him, who all look away at once, each choosing a different spot on the ground, horizon, and sky to innocently observe.

When her eyes return to Arthur, Morgana can sense his pleading. He wants her to stay and be his buffer against the prying crowd. But as far as Morgana’s concerned, she’s coddled him enough just convincing him to come here. He’s a big boy and he can gather the courage to talk to Merlin all on his own.

“Don’t mind us,” Morgana says, throwing her brother a cheeky grin and squeezing Gwen’s waist just so. “Carry on.”

With that, she turns her full attention back to Gwen, sliding an arm around her and guiding them toward Morgana’s former garden so they can have some privacy.

~<:>~

Arthur watches his sister sneak off with her lover and wishes he could just skip to that step. But, as soon as Morgana and Gwen are out of view, all eyes are on him.

Including Merlin’s.

What the hell was he thinking?

Gwaine, shaggy-haired tease that he is, is the first one to speak. “Princess,” he greets. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Don’t think he’s here for us,” Will answers, nudging Merlin with his elbow.

The others murmur with laughter; Merlin flushes, and Arthur tries not to get tongue-tied as they make scattered eye contact, both visibly uncertain.

Taking a step forward, Arthur clears his throat. “Yes. Er— Merlin.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows but doesn’t give Arthur anything else to work with. Bastard.

“Is there… somewhere we could speak alone?” Arthur asks, deciding to be blunt with it.

Of course, their audience reacts to that as well, clapping Merlin on the back and grinning from ear to ear. Shrugging off his mates’ hands, Merlin gives Arthur a nod and moves past him, indicating that Arthur should follow.

The prince lingers long enough that the others start mouthing things and making gestures at him, all of which, Arthur surmises, are intended to be suggestive. He tries to play it casual and just waves them off, fighting his embarrassment as he turns and starts jogging to catch up with Merlin.

They seem to be headed for the woods.

Bloody brilliant.

~<:>~

Gwen cannot quite believe that she just kissed Morgana. That Morgana just kissed her. That a princess could ever be so enamored with the daughter of a blacksmith that she would embrace her in front of other people. It’s something out of a storybook, and yet it’s real, and it’s just as overwhelming and terrifying as it is wonderful.

Gwen’s head is still spinning as Morgana leads them around her former property to the garden, where Gwen supposes they’ll sit down and actually talk about this. She can’t imagine what she’ll say. All she knows is that she’s infatuated and very seriously considering a move to the capitol— rationally, because there are more opportunities for her there; irrationally, and truly, because Morgana is there.

It doesn’t make sense. Gwen has never felt attraction like this for anyone before, something so entirely out of her control. The romantic in her wants to give in and let Morgana sweep her away, but her responsible nature is prodding at her to slow down. She’s very much looking forward to this moment of privacy so they can work through it.

Unfortunately, as they turn the corner, it appears they are still in unwanted company. A certain blonde sits stoically on one of the garden benches, piercing gaze flickering between them.

Morgana slows to a halt, loosening her grip on Gwen’s waist.

“Sister,” Morgause greets. “I was wondering when I’d get a visit.”

“I’ve been a bit busy,” Morgana retorts. “And it’s not like you left a note.”

All previous romantic musings are gone from Gwen’s mind and she now feels even more out of place. She shifts away from Morgana, catching her attention, and Morgana looks as though she wants to apologize, but her sister speaks first.

“No need to run, little one.” Morgause rises and begins making her way toward them. “I’ll leave you two in just a moment.”

Morgana tenses, moving as though to shield Gwen, one arm outstretched. There’s an energy humming around her, ready for defense, the closer her sister gets. Gwen can’t explain how, but it’s almost like she can feel the magic radiating from beneath Morgana’s skin just as much as Morgana can. She’ll have to add it to the list of things for them to discuss once Morgause is no longer present.

The blonde comes to a stop just a few paces away, attention focused on Morgana. “I just need you to know—”

“What?” Morgana asks, clipped.

Morgause softens her expression. “I understand why you didn’t trust me.”

That seems to hit the mark, and Gwen watches as Morgana relaxes, too.

“But I hope you do now,” Morgause continues. “And I hope that you’ll let me be in your life, even though you’re not hiding anymore.”

Morgana’s brows push together and she steps forward, taking her Morgause’s hands. “Of course I want you in my life. You’re my sister. Neither of us has to hide anymore.”

There’s a considerable shift in mood as the sisters smile at each other. Morgause is a far sight less threatening when she smiles. Gwen stands by quietly while the two of them hug, and when they break apart, Morgause sends her a nod of acknowledgement before heading inside the house.

And then Morgana turns, and Gwen gets the full blast of her again, and she half-collapses onto the nearest bench, because her knees are weak and her heart is ridiculous.

“Gwen!” Morgana rushes over with needless concern, kneeling down in front of her, hands gently but frantically searching for injury. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Gwen insists. “It’s just— the sight of you.”

Morgana pauses, a pretty blush spreading across her cheeks. “Oh.”

Gwen isn’t all that embarrassed. Morgana must know how striking she is. And they’ve just kissed. Clearly there’s an attraction between them. She just has to speak her mind.

“Morgana,” she starts, and with the way Morgana’s attention latches onto her, like she’s the most important thing in the world, all reservation flies out the window. “I want to say— I don’t have any money— not much that’s my own, anyway, and no status— not nearly enough to match yours— but I really, really like you and I feel that I could grow to love you quite easily— in fact, I may be halfway there already— and if I were to come to Camelot, I would certainly try to make my way, but if you could be there for even a part of it, to help see me through— I just— I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you and I know it’s rather fast and obviously you don’t owe me anything, but I—”

“Gwen.”

Morgana’s looking at her like she hung the moon. She shouldn’t be allowed to look at her like that.

“I might already be halfway in love with you, too.”

The words settle in Gwen’s chest, and from them blooms the most euphoric sensation; it travels up into her cheeks as she smiles, giddy with how incomprehensibly amazing this whole situation has turned out to be.

Morgana smiles back at her, adding to her elation. “I was actually going to ask if you’d consider moving to Camelot with me.”

Gwen widens her eyes as she grabs Morgana’s hands. “Yes! Of course, yes!”

“You’re sure?” There’s a hint of insecurity between Morgana’s brows. “I don’t want to pull you away from your life.”

“Morgana!” Her name comes out with familiar, fond exasperation, and Gwen loves the way she’s already used to saying it. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The relief and joy reflected in Morgana’s irises is enough to spur Gwen forward, taking Morgana’s face between her hands and kissing her again. The position is somewhat awkward, Gwen leaning over her own knees, but Morgana remedies that by standing, pulling Gwen up with her.

Their lips and their bodies are on fire, Gwen thinks, but it’s nothing painful. In fact, it’s the most pleasant she’s ever felt. The longer they kiss, Morgana’s hands finding Gwen’s face as well, the more drastic the increase in heat. Gwen would attribute it to the attraction between them, but there is something special about this particular buzz, something Gwen’s felt before and still it ignites her.

She breaks away to look in Morgana’s eyes and she can see the barest echo of gold sparkling there; not glowing, but shining, like faint starlight.

“I think I can feel your magic,” Gwen breathes.

Morgana looks alarmed, and then concerned. “Is it hurting you?”

“No.” Gwen shakes her head, biting her lip where she can still feel the traces of Morgana’s kiss. “It feels magnificent.”

The worry vanishes into pure adoration, and Morgana presses her forehead against Gwen’s. “I told you it liked you.”

Their lips meet again, and Gwen thinks, she never had any doubt.

~<:>~

They’re in the woods again.

Which is entirely Merlin’s fault, for leading them here, right to the spot where they first met— first collided, rather. He literally couldn’t think of anywhere else they wouldn’t be spied on or overheard. Powerful warlock, sure. He’s still a bloody idiot.

He turns from the tree he’s been staring down and finally faces Arthur, who looks more nervous than Merlin has ever seen him. Good. At least Merlin’s not the only one shitting it.

It takes Merlin raising his eyebrows and saying, “Well?” before Arthur shakes himself out of his stupor and starts speaking.

“Right. I suppose you’re wondering… why I’ve come.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, injecting it with as much sarcasm as possible to mask his desperate curiosity.

“Right,” Arthur repeats, squaring off to look Merlin in the eye. “I’m going to be king. My father has been unanimously removed from power.”

Merlin blinks in shock. That is…certainly not what he was expecting Arthur to say.

“We’re trying to make the transition as smooth and quick as possible,” Arthur continues. He rubs his hands against his trousers, gaze now skittish. “My coronation is next week.”

Merlin thinks of all the good this will bring, all the relief those oppressed by Uther’s hand will feel. “C-congratulations,” he stammers. And then he remembers that this is Arthur’s father and he’s just legally deposed him. “Er… are you alright?”

Arthur seems startled by the question, but his expression shifts into something more vulnerable when he realizes that Merlin’s being sincere. “I will be. Thank you.”

“Sure,” Merlin replies.

He feels so uneasy, brimming with questions that are far from appropriate given the immediacy of the circumstance. Luckily, Arthur saves him from having to ask.

“For my first act as king, I plan to lift the ban on magic.”

Gods. Merlin exhales, a frozen echo of a breath. He briefly considers that he might have subconsciously affected the airflow around them as his brain stutters to comprehend, stumbles to catch up. The moment is so surreal. It’s impossible.

Those words… Merlin’s waited so long to hear them that he didn’t think he ever would. And to hear them now, from Arthur, the person he’s wanted to believe in him more than anyone else, to know that he’s convinced a Pendragon to change their mind, that he’s managed to finish what his father started…

It hasn’t all been in vain. That thought alone is enough to send his magic humming with glee as he stares at Arthur, an incredible lightness in his soul.

Merlin isn’t sure if Arthur has picked up on his reaction, because the prince still appears anxious.

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long, and I’m sorry for all the people it’s hurt in the past,” Arthur says, and Merlin feels that apology, deep in his chest. Arthur presses on, shaking his head. “It’s thanks to you that this is happening, Merlin. I might have the power to make it happen, but… I didn’t do anything to earn my position. I was just born into it. You’re the special one, and you deserve recognition. The sorcerers in Camelot should know who really saved them.”

Merlin has no idea what Arthur is trying to get at, but by the gods he can’t believe that the man standing in front of him is real. Is this the same arrogant prat that Merlin met in this very clearing all those weeks ago? It can’t be. This man is honorable and humble and courageous and kind and absolutely deserving of his title. He is so much more than Merlin ever would have given him credit for.

Speaking of credit, Merlin frowns, appalled at how Arthur has just described himself. “Hang on. You— do you not remember how everyone rallied behind you after the courtyard battle?”

Arthur hesitates. “Er, well—”

“You have absolutely earned your position, Arthur,” Merlin cuts him off, somewhat angrily. “The knights chose to support you because you earned their loyalty. You’ve earned the people’s trust. They follow you because you inspire them. Everyone loves you.” Merlin isn’t sure why he’s so adamant. It could be the brain damage that’s come with being infatuated.

Arthur still seems uncomfortable. “I doubt everyone—”

“Will you shut up,” Merlin snaps. “Honestly. I’m trying to pay you a compliment.”

There’s a beat where the two of them just stare, Merlin looking indignant with his hands on his hips, Arthur utterly confused, as though he’s unsure whether or not to be offended. And then the blond prat decides to break into a smile so brilliant that Merlin’s heart starts palpitating. Bastard. “I never would have known.”

Merlin shrugs and grumbles. “ ’Course not. You’d have to have a brain to realize.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “There it is.”

This feels more natural than all of the serious emotional talk. Merlin can’t fight his own smile the longer they gaze at each other. This is honestly ridiculous and he needs help.

“Anyway,” Arthur says, clearly more relaxed, taking a casual step towards him. “I’d like to formally invite you to the coronation.”

Merlin pretends to consider it. “Formally?” he asks.

Arthur nods.

“Do you have it in writing?”

There’s a pause while Arthur flushes and Merlin folds his arms, waiting. Reluctantly, the prince reaches behind his back and produces a sealed envelope, which Merlin accepts with some surprise, because really he was only messing about, but this is fantastic material for him to tease Arthur even further.

He opens the invitation and unfurls the parchment, inspecting it through narrowed eyes. “Hmm. Impressive.” He stops over the address, quirking an eyebrow. “You spelled my name wrong.”

“What?” Arthur demands, striding forward and snatching it back, furiously scanning for the error that is very much not there. Merlin tucks his lips together to keep from laughing as Arthur scoffs, underlining the address with his hand. “M-E-R-L-I-N. Merlin. How would you spell it?”

“With a ‘u’,” Merlin replies.

“That’s ridiculous, who—” Arthur only has to look up and take in Merlin’s expression to realize the joke, and then he sets his jaw and shifts his eyes sullenly to the side as Merlin bursts out laughing.

Soon enough, they’re both sporting smiles again, and Merlin could swear it all feels so familiar.

“If you’re quite finished,” Arthur says good-naturedly. “I would appreciate an answer.”

This time, Merlin does consider it. “Yes,” he decides. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

Arthur’s far too eager. Merlin could command that he appear to the coronation nude and he’d probably comply.

Damn. He should not have conjured the image of Arthur nude.

Merlin fights off all other impractical ideas, because he does truly have a condition. “You have to formally invite everyone,” he says, gesturing to the parchment in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur balks. “Everyone in the kingdom?”

“No, dollophead, every one of the friends who fought with us that are currently staying in Ealdor.” Merlin lets Arthur relax before adding, “Although you really should invite the whole kingdom. Not formally, but. It would be courteous.”

“You are the courtesy expert.”

Merlin almost shoves him, almost forgoes all sense of propriety, before he remembers that they don’t do that. Do they? When did they get so close? He can see the blue in Arthur’s eyes and the faint sunspots on his cheeks and— this is dangerous territory.

He goes to back away but Arthur stops him with only his name.

“Merlin.”

It’s unfair that he should be able to captivate Merlin like this. No one can make Merlin comply. Especially not Arthur. And yet, it’s especially Arthur who manages it.

“There’s… something else I wanted to ask you.” Arthur flicks his gaze away. “You shouldn’t feel obliged to accept, but I do think you would be the best man for the job, and you could define the position however you like—”

“Arthur, spit it out.”

Arthur takes a beat to look in his eyes before continuing. “In the past, before the ban… Camelot had a Court Sorcerer. Someone to be the liaison between magic users and commonfolk. An expert in the Old Religion, you could say.”

Merlin’s starting to get it. “You… you want me.”

His throat feels dry as Arthur looks at him. “Yes.”

“What about Morgana?”

At that, Arthur huffs a laugh. “She… has no desire to be a public figure. She prefers to stay behind the scenes and float between positions as she wishes.”

“She’s still the princess,” Merlin argues. “And I’m— I’m nobody.”

Arthur frowns, mirroring Merlin’s earlier anger. “Merlin. You conjured a dragon in the middle of the palace courtyard. Everyone in the capitol knows who you are. And even if they didn’t, you could never be nobody.”

You’re the special one, Merlin remembers. He swallows. “I don’t know what to say.”

Arthur searches his eyes, earnest. “Say yes.”

The sentiment is borderline romantic, to the point that Merlin can feel his magic buzzing beneath his skin. “It’s not that simple.”

It is, of course, that simple, if only Merlin would let himself believe it. “I know it isn’t, but…” Arthur trails off, hesitating. “Well… this might not matter to you. It’s just that I… sort of… need you.”

Merlin’s magic jolts at that, pleasant warmth sending a shockwave through his core. “You need me?”

“I need— your help,” Arthur corrects himself, flushing. “That is— it’s just that— I’ve been so lost these past days in Camelot, trying to make all of these decisions and figure out how to rule, and... and I just kept thinking… ‘if Merlin were here, he’d know what to do’.”

Merlin lets the words sink in, fighting to keep the giddiness off his face. “Really?”

Arthur looks wildly uncomfortable, shifting around in his chain mail. “Well, yes. I suppose you… left an impression on me that I found hard to shake.”

“Is this your long-winded way of saying you missed me?” Merlin teases.

“Shut up,” Arthur says reflexively. “That’s not what I meant.” Then he pauses, softening. “But, yes. That is what I meant.”

Merlin wasn’t expecting him to admit it. “Oh,” he says, stupidly. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? “Well. Thanks?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Thanks?” he echoes, mocking.

“Well, what did you want me to say?” Merlin exclaims, splaying his hands helplessly.

“I don’t know,” Arthur muses. “Something that didn’t make me sound like a love-struck fool.”

Love-struck. Merlin watches Arthur regret the phrase in real time, but he doesn’t flounder or try to take it back. It’s an admission, and one that makes Merlin feel even more secure in what he’s feeling, too. “You accomplished that all by yourself,” he pokes.

Arthur heaves a great sigh. “Never mind. I didn’t miss you at all.”

“You did,” Merlin grins. “You missed being made fun of, just admit it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” Arthur scoffs, looking away. “No one could miss being insulted.”

They’ve shortened the distance between them again, banter bringing them gradually closer. Merlin tucks his lips together as he works up his nerve. “I missed you, too.”

Arthur’s eyes dart back to his, and then down to his mouth, and Merlin doesn’t really care if he’s dreaming. He leans in, allowing time for Arthur to pull back. But the prince meets him halfway, and then they’re kissing.

Merlin is kissing Prince Arthur in the woods behind his house.

His first thought is that all of his friends are going to lose their minds. His second is that he never wants to stop.

His magic spreads gold through his limbs, through his lips, like it’s pleased with this turn of events. Merlin supposes that makes sense, considering his destiny and all that. He’s certainly not complaining either. If this is the position the universe wants him in, kissing a fit bloke with a title and a good heart, Merlin is happy to oblige.

He does have to break away eventually to breathe. When he opens his eyes, he sees Arthur staring back at him, and then the prince’s vision shifts to the side, catching hold of the clearing around them. “Er— Merlin…?”

Merlin follows his gaze to what once was dirt and grass and flushes with embarrassment. Because of course he’s managed to make the bloody forest floor bloom with flora. Out from their feet all the way up to the tree canopy, the woods now resemble more of a garden. There are even flower petals whimsically cascading from the branches, a light but steady rain of lilies, tulips, roses, and cherry blossoms.

“Oh gods,” Merlin mumbles, hiding his face in his hands. “Sorry.”

He can’t believe he’s been such a sap, and in front of Arthur of all people. He’ll never be able to live this down. He can’t believe he let his magic get out of control like this, but of course it’s always been wilder around Arthur, and they did just kiss, but now he probably thinks Merlin is just a simpering, dewy-eyed, overemotional—

“Merlin.” Arthur removes his hands gently, looking him in the eye. Merlin expects to see disgust or discomfort there, but instead, Arthur’s looking at him with amusement and adoration. “It’s beautiful. Your magic is beautiful.”

Merlin can feel himself blushing harder as a wave of relief surges through him. He’s never considered his magic as anything other than a burden. Of course, he knows now that he was wrong to hate it. Still, it helps to hear those words of affirmation, especially from someone who’s supposed to be his destiny.

Said destiny holds out a hand to catch one of the roses mid-fall, and presents it to Merlin with a cheeky smile. “Come to Camelot with me?”

And here Merlin thought he was the sap.

There’s a very small part of Merlin that wants to refuse. He could just stay in Ealdor, live the simple life, shove all the responsibility onto someone else. But he doesn’t want that someone else to be Arthur. He doesn’t want to let other people suffer when he could help.

In the end, he can’t resist it. He knows where he belongs. He knows his duty is calling him.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, and kisses Arthur again.

~<:>~

The coronation is both a somber and joyous affair.

Merlin can feel how anxious Arthur is all morning and he does what he can to ease the tension. They don’t talk about Uther. But they will, in time.

The ceremony starts at high noon. Merlin gets to stand next to the throne with the other council members as they wait for Arthur. He still can’t quite believe he’s accepted a position at the Pendragon court. If only his father could see him now.

The doors to the throne room open triumphantly and the minstrels start their song. Arthur looks majestic in his mile-long ceremonial cloak. He walks with regal poise down the carpet, every bit the king he was born to be. The only thing missing now is the crown.

Merlin can’t tear his eyes away and Arthur doesn’t stop looking at him either. Not until he reaches the throne and has to bow his head to kneel in front of the priest.

As the holy soliloquy commences, Merlin senses warmth radiating from beside him. He knows who it is, but he looks anyway. Morgana stands, perfectly stoic, but there’s the barest hint of a smile on her face and her eyes shine with pride. At least, Merlin thinks, brother and sister still have each other. Even if their history is complicated and their father is shit. They’ll be okay. He knows it.

He knows it as he looks out into the crowd at his friends, all gathered in the front row. Gwen, beaming, adorned with pastel floral beauty, looking between the prince and the princess. She’ll be happy here, Merlin can see. She’ll start her own smithy and she’ll help so many people and she and Morgana will grow old together. Beside her, Elyan. He’ll run the shop in Ealdor until their father passes, and then he’ll join Gwen in the capitol. He might even become a knight. Gwaine and Percival. Absolutely enamored with each other until the end, and knights for sure, the both of them. Lancelot is more of a puzzle. Another knight, perhaps the one to bring Elyan into the fold. Or perhaps it’ll be Leon. All Merlin can really see is a mass of red cloaks and friendship. Then there’s Freya and Will. They’ll take up residence in Ealdor and watch over Hunith. But they’ll visit. And Merlin will visit. It’s all so clear to him.

It’s clear to him as he watches the priest place the crown on Arthur’s head, and the king of Camelot rises, turning to face his people, who erupt into cheers.

“Long live the king! Long live the king!”

Merlin finds himself cheering the loudest, catching Arthur’s attention. He knows he must look ridiculous, grinning from ear to enormous ear and clapping like a madman. But all he sees in Arthur’s eyes is love.

And Merlin knows that love will carry them where they’re meant to go.

~<:>~

Thus is the tale of how Merlin and Arthur came to be. But it is far from the end of their story. In truth, it is only the beginning.