Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin’s having a solid day, all said and done. 

It isn’t much different than the usual in Ealdor—with its ever-climbing stalks of unkempt grass, wooden gates, bleating goats, and nosy villagers. But today there’s a nice breeze in the air. Sometimes it’s all you can ask for on a hot summer’s day. So, Merlin decides to make the most of it.

“Mother,” he calls on his way out of their small hovel. “I’m heading to the clearing with Will.”

“Oh, Merlin, sweet, can you take care of the laundry before you go?” she calls back, sticking her head out of the kitchen to look at him challengingly. 

For one self-indulgent second, he thinks about refusing, but ultimately decides better of it.  “Sure.” He flashes her a too wide smile, which she returns with a partially stilted one.

“ Without magic, Merlin,” she says. Now, she’s the one smiling widely.

“Yes, Mother,” he says dully, but doesn’t push it. It’s been a bit tense between them ever since Will found out about Merlin’s magic. Even tenser with his mother’s casual mentioning of sending Merlin away somewhere, as though that’s going to happen. Luckily, he’s been able to get her to settle on the matter, especially with Will promising to keep quiet, but it’s still a sore subject between them and he isn’t entirely sure she’s ruled it out.

“Wait,” his mother calls. She approaches him by the doorway, then gives him a kiss on the cheek. “You know I love you, right?” she asks.

And he does. She’s just trying to keep him safe; he knows that. 

“I had an inkling,” Merlin says sarcastically.

“Just an inkling, huh? Nothing more?”

“Not yet, but I’ll update you should it form into a passing thought. When it becomes a full-fledged idea, you’ll definitely know,” he says cheekily. She smacks him on the arm with a dirty cloth and he shuffles out with a smile.

---

Merlin is almost finished hanging the laundry when a man suddenly appears before him.

“You, servant!” the man barks in a brisk tone. He’s pointing at Merlin, facing him from the side and bouncing on his toes as though he has somewhere better to be. “Go fetch my father! I have urgent news for him.”

Merlin looks at him dumbly from where he’s wringing out a soggy pair of breeches.

“What are you doing?” the man asks, outraged.

“Uh,” Merlin looks to the breeches, to the clothesline, then back to the man. He shrugs. “Laundry, I guess.”

“No, you daft idiot, why don’t you do as I command? I am your prince. Now, go fetch my father!” the man commands, then promptly disappears into thin air.

Well, that was weird. 

Merlin looks around, hoping to find someone to share his confusion with, but nobody seems to have noticed the strange man shouting about servants and royalty. Merlin once again looks down to the soggy breeches he’s still holding. Can inhaling leftover lye fumes make you hallucinate?

---

It happens again later that day when Merlin is trying to sleep. He cancelled his plans with Will and told his mother he wasn’t feeling well, so she told him to lie down and sleep it off.

“How dare you sleep on the job, servant!” the man yells. Merlin startles in his spot on the floor. The man stalks over to the window nearby. “The sun is halfway through the sky. Are you some sort of degenerate?”

Merlin groans, looking up at the man with squinting eyes. So much for sleeping it off then. Merlin turns over onto his stomach, smothering his face into his pillow.

“Hey, I asked you a question!” the man says.

Maybe if Merlin ignores him, he’ll go away.

“Answer me!” The man stomps over to him. “I am your prince!”

Merlin lets out another groan. He jolts angrily in his little makeshift bed, completely frustrated. He opens his eyes to look at the man, who looks startled and slightly offended. “Why do you keep saying you’re my prince? You know, for a pickup line, it’s pretty played out.”

The man sputters indignantly, obviously caught off guard. “I-it’s not a pick-up-line!” he argues, then disappears like a petulant child.

Merlin hums to himself. Figures. He turns back over onto his stomach, deciding to write this one off as just a dream, even though he knows better. 

---

Merlin is starting to run out of excuses.

“Servant!” The man calls. Thankfully, Merlin isn’t doing anything important at the time, just enjoying a night out in the clearing, stargazing. It’s his safe place, his time to relax and get away from his responsibilities, from his mother’s worried glances, and even from Will when he’s being annoying.

It’s a wide and open space, not small and cluttered like most things in Ealdor. It reminds him that there are grander things out in the world, makes him feel like they’re waiting for him, even if he doesn’t ever plan on leaving. He just likes the idea that they could be. 

“You know, if you continue to be rude and call me that, I’m not going to answer you,” Merlin says. “And I’m definitely not going to go out with you.”

“Except you just did,” the man points out smugly, then freezes. “Answer me…that is.” His face hardens, covering up his embarrassment. “And I told you it wasn’t a pickup line.”

“Whatever you say.” Merlin shrugs, feigning nonchalance. In reality, the man isn’t that bad looking. No, now that Merlin takes the time to look at him, he’s actually quite…beautiful. For a possible hallucination, that is.

His hair is relatively short, but curling just slightly around his ears, and his face is clean-shaven. He’s dressed in ordinary clothes, but despite this, Merlin gets the feeling that he’s just a little too well kempt for Ealdor. It makes sense, given the whole “prince” thing.

Merlin chuckles to himself, glad that his imagination has some sense of continuity. If he’s really gone crazy, then at least he’s got that going for him.

“Why do you insist on being so insolent?” the man asks.

“This is my space,” Merlin says, gesturing to the empty clearing with wide, open arms. “I can be whatever I want to be here.”

The man looks around. “Where are we?”

“We’re in Ealdor,” Merlin says.

“Ealdor?” the man asks, sounding the word out. “Where’s that?”

“It’s in Essetir,” Merlin says.

“Cenred’s kingdom,” the man barks and Merlin nods. “Why would we be in Cenred’s kingdom?”

“Well, I live here—have my whole life,” Merlin says. “Why are you here?”

The man makes to respond, but stops, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. It’s very…cute. Merlin feels a flash of irritation at himself for thinking it. He shouldn’t be engaging with this apparition, much less developing some sort of weird crush on him. Wouldn’t that be pathetic?

“I don’t know…” the man says, head suddenly turning each and every way, like he’s looking for something, but can’t quite find what he’s searching for. “I’m supposed to be in Camelot…in the castle. I live there. I’m the prince.”

“ The prince?” Merlin asks. “I thought you were my prince?”

“Not if we’re not in Camelot,” the man says, smirking. 

Merlin tries not to be offended. He has no right to be offended. “So, why are you here?”

This makes the man pause. “I-I’m not quite sure.”

Merlin decides to try a different path. “Earlier, you said that you had some sort of urgent message. What was it?”

The man looks at him then and despite his stoic, almost passive face, Merlin can tell that he’s actually...scared. The man shakes his head frantically. “I don’t know,” he says, more to himself than to Merlin. 

“Okay,” Merlin placates, knowing that he’s not going to get much else out of him. “Do you want to look at the stars with me, then?”

“What?” the man asks, thrown off, but he doesn’t look scared anymore, so Merlin takes it as a win. 

“Maybe you can tell how close we are from the castle by the constellations,” Merlin says. Really, he just thinks that the man needs to calm down. If stargazing works for Merlin, why shouldn’t it for him?

“Okay,” the man says shakily after a pause, then lies down next to Merlin. The stars lull them both into peaceful, slow breathing. Eventually, the man lets out a sigh and disappears once again.

---

The man appears before him many more times after that, usually when Merlin doesn’t want him to—when he’s hanging out with Will, trying to sleep, or doing chores with his mother. Not that Merlin wants him to show up, he doesn’t .

This happens for about a week or so, the man popping into Merlin’s peripheral on and off. Every time, he looks at Merlin like he’s the most confounding creature that he’s ever come in contact with, then disappears, often before Merlin can even try to start a conversation. Not that he would want to do anything to keep the man around for longer than necessary. He wouldn’t . 

Oh, who is he kidding? This is the most interesting thing to happen to Merlin since he learned how to make his boots race around the house when he was five. 

Consequently, after a while, Merlin finds himself getting used to and even anticipating the man’s appearances. Merlin was always one to grow attached to people too easily, anyways; when he latches onto something or someone, he latches on for life. It’s a quality of his that has generally yielded more positive results than not, so he can’t complain. Just ask Will. After just one hour of making mud pies together when they were small, Merlin promptly declared Will as his new best friend, and they’ve been practically inseparable ever since.

And due to the nature of…whatever the man is or whatever powers are binding him to Merlin, it looks like he and Merlin won’t be separating any time soon, even if Merlin wanted them to. 

---

“Merlin, my dear! Can you gather the dishes when you’re done?” his mother calls from the other room. 

“Merlin,” the man repeats, suddenly appearing. “What kind of name is that?”

“My name,” Merlin says around his last bite of porridge, surprised that the man is speaking to him this time. “Why? Do you have a better one?” Merlin stands up from his place at the table, then begins gathering and stacking dirty bowls, cups, and wooden spoons.

“My name is Arthur, obviously,” the ma—Arthur says. “Prince Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says slowly with a grimace, as though the word feels wrong in his mouth. “Sounds pretentious.”

“What? No, it doesn’t!” Arthur argues. 

“I hate to break it to you, but it does,” Merlin says. “And from what I’ve seen so far, the name fits.”

Arthur scoffs. “What would you know ? You’re just a peasant with a peasant’s name, Merlin .”

Merlin stops short. “What did we say about being rude?” he asks sharply, but there’s no real heat behind it. 

“We didn’t say anything about it. You did,” Arthur responds just as sharply. “And rudeness begets rudeness, Merlin.”

Merlin faintly thinks that he likes the way Arthur says his name—even when it’s just dripping with disdain, maybe even especially so in that case. Arthur’s voice has this very refined, proper lilt to it, one that almost makes Merlin think that he isn’t imagining him, that for some reason a prince from a neighboring kingdom has come to visit Merlin, of all people. But that can’t be.

Right?

Merlin wants to ask him about it, but is a bit hesitant to do so, especially after the reaction he had last time to Merlin’s prodding. 

“Fair enough,” Merlin admits, instead. “Let’s try not to be rude with each other, then. Or we can be equally rude to each other all of the time, but with the knowledge that it doesn’t really mean anything.”

“What kind of arrangement is that?” Arthur asks. 

Merlin turns to face him. “A friendly one. Or, one that friends have.”

“Friends?” Arthur laughs out loud. “As though I would become friends with a simple peasant.”

“I think you just did,” Merlin says with a wide smile because he’s already decided, just like he decided with Will.

Merlin then gathers the half-forgotten stack of dishes and makes his way to the large basin in the next room. Arthur doesn’t follow him, already having disappeared.

---

“Where do you go?” Merlin asks Arthur the next time he appears. It’s a lazy time of day and he’s attempting to whittle a cut piece of branch into a dog. He’s recently taken up doing this after he’s done all of his chores for the day, mostly because his mother says that he can’t just spend all of his free time lying in the clearing or goofing around with Will.

Arthur gives him a questioning look. “What do you mean?” He looks more relaxed now, so Merlin figures that some light questioning might work, as long as he doesn’t force it. 

“When you’re not here, where do you go?” Merlin asks, whittling forgone. It was looking less like a dog and more like a blob with ears anyway. “You said you’re from Camelot. Do you go back there?”

This seems to throw Arthur for a loop. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Is there anything you can remember? From home, perhaps?” Merlin asks, trying to be neutral. 

Arthur pauses, thinking. “I think I can remember...decorations. We were celebrating something, and it was last notice—I know this because I had to release my manservant, Morris, from his duties to go help out in the kitchen. You’d like him, you’re both completely dull.”

“As though you’re a good judge of character,” Merlin shoots back. 

“I associate myself with you , so probably not,” Arthur says. “Not that I seem to have a choice otherwise.”

“Hey, I’m just as stuck with you as you are with me,” Merlin says, but he keeps his tone light.

A few minutes later, Arthur asks. “Do you think I’m dead?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin says. He’s still not entirely sure that Arthur really exists yet.

“I mean, there has to be a reason we’re stuck together, right?” Arthur says, not sounding so confident.

Merlin’s answer is the same. “I don’t know.” But he wishes he did. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur nods thoughtfully, then disappears. Merlin decides to go back to his whittling. Starting with a new branch, this time, he decides to make a dragon. 

---

Sometimes, despite his mother’s wishes, and his better knowledge, Merlin uses his magic to help with his chores. It’s not necessarily because they are too difficult or tedious, it's just that...his magic is a part of him. And trying to hide it or separate himself from it is much harder than his mother can understand.

So, who cares if he uses it to help him gather the kindling? He’s out past the clearing, covered by trees. It’s not like anyone can see him do it, anyways. 

“You-you’re a sorcerer,” Arthur says. Well, except for him.  

Although Merlin has gotten used to Arthur’s appearances, this time he’s startled enough into dropping his bundle of dried twigs, which were previously hanging in the middle of the air. 

Merlin can feel his own face harden. “It’s not illegal here.” Not illegal, but dangerous. He bends low to gather the falling twigs from the ground. 

“In Camelot, you would be hanged for that,” Arthur says. “Perhaps even burned.”

“What, for talking back to you?” Merlin asks, being purposefully obtuse. “Please, do arrest me, my lord. I’ve committed the most egregious of sins.”

“You know what I mean,” Arthur says. “And maybe I will arrest you.” He reaches for Merlin’s wrist, perhaps to pull it behind Merlin’s back, but his hand passes right through, never making contact with Merlin’s skin.

This shocks Merlin into dropping his bundle once again. Cursing himself, he leans back down to collect them again. Once he’s finished, he looks back up, only to see that Arthur is looking at his own hand absently. He tries to swipe it across Merlin’s head, but it just goes through again. 

“What did you do to me?” Arthur asks. His anger is like that of a petrified wave, hanging in the air and threatening to crash down on the both of them.

Merlin stands up straight. “I didn’t do anything.” 

“Well you must’ve. You’re a sorcerer,” he spits. “Something like this can only be done with sorcery!” He gestures to himself, trying to indicate that his ghostly state is all Merlin’s fault. 

“Perhaps, but it’s not my doing,” Merlin says. “Why would I call some random prince, if that’s what you are—”

“Of course, I’m a prince, what are you talking about?”

“—to me . As you said, I’m just a simple peasant with a simple peasant’s name,” Merlin finishes. He starts ahead, hopping and sidestepping all of the dips and turns in the forest floor without looking. He knows them all like the back of his hand at this point. 

Arthur follows him on foot, following the same pathway. But where Merlin turns and hops over a large branch, Arthur walks right through it, not seeming to notice as he does. “I’ll be watching you from now on,” he says, eyes squinting. “Like a hawk.”

“I hope you enjoy watching me collect the kindling,” Merlin says, letting said kindling lift from his arms and back into the air, mostly just to annoy Arthur, who gasps next to him. When Merlin looks back over for his reaction, he’s disappeared again. 

---

Arthur pops in every few hours, like he usually does. Each time, he stares Merlin down like he’s the source of all of his problems. Sometimes he appears very suddenly, jumping into Merlin’s vision like he’s expecting to catch him performing some arcane ritual sacrifice, or pricking a doll made up to look like his royal highness. He generally calms down when he catches Merlin doing neither. 

In fact, after a few days of Merlin barely performing any magic at all—he’s still trying to lie low—Arthur starts to look a little...bored.

Figures, then, that he would catch Merlin just as he’s enchanting the dishes to wash themselves.

“How do you do that?” Arthur asks. His face is a bit triumphant, like he’s finally got enough evidence against Merlin to prosecute him under Camelotian law. 

“Most times I don’t,” Merlin says simply, leaning back against the wall in their small kitchen. 

“What?” Arthur asks. “I don’t understand. Are you cursed, then?” His voice is oddly sincere. 

“No,” Merlin can’t help but smile. “Well, maybe, with you here.” Arthur scowls at that. “What I mean is, it’s not something I often have to think about. My mom said I was making things float before I could even walk.”

“Before you could walk?” Arthur asks incredulously. “How did you learn so young?”

Merlin laughs out loud. “I didn’t learn anything. I was born with my magic.”

Arthur looks at him like he’s caught him in a lie, like Merlin should be ashamed of being dishonest with royalty such as himself. But the longer Merlin remains silent, the softer Arthur’s face becomes. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can get anything out, Merlin’s mother is walking into the kitchen with a smile on her face. 

“What are you laughing about?” she asks brightly, but her smile drops as Merlin drops the still self-animating dishes and cloth. The little crease in between her eyebrows gets deeper and her eyes are full of disappointment. “Merlin, what did we say about this? What if someone else walked in?”

“We’re in our own house. I thought it’d be okay,” Merlin defends uselessly. Really, he didn’t think about it. He was just being lazy and they both know it. 

His mother gives him a scolding look, then turns to wash the dishes by hand. Merlin approaches her cautiously in an effort to help, not missing Arthur’s questioning look as he does.

After a few minutes of scrubbing, rinsing, and drying, Merlin carefully breaches the quiet. “I’m sorry,” he says.

The disappointment and anger fade from his mother’s expression almost instantaneously, her eyes now lit with compassion. “I know. It’s okay, I understand. You just... we just —well, we have to be careful. You know what could happen if word got out about your magic.” She places the stone bowl she was holding in the pile with the other dried dishes, then turns to wrap her arms around him, petting his hair softly. 

“I know,” Merlin says against her shoulder. “I’ll do better.”

“I just want you to be safe,” she says. She leans back to look him in the eye. “Maybe I should send you away.”

“No,” Merlin argues. “I won’t leave you. I want you to be safe, too.”

Merlin’s mom nods her head at this, but Merlin gets the sneaking suspicion that while he’s won this battle, the war is far from over.

---

Later on, Arthur appears before Merlin as he’s lying in the clearing. 

“Why do you keep your magic a secret? I thought you said it isn’t illegal,” Arthur says, apropos of nothing. Or perhaps not. What was hours ago for Merlin may have been mere seconds for Arthur. And Merlin wasn’t sure during what part of the conversation he left, only that he was gone when Merlin and his mother finished cleaning up. He guesses he has his answer now. 

“It’s not, but Cenred has been known to collect sorcerers,” Merlin says. “And I’m not too keen on fighting another man’s wars. Plus, I can’t leave my mother here, not now.”

“Why not?” Arthur asks, as though it doesn’t cost him anything to do so. But what’s a social intrusion between a prince and a peasant?

“Kanen and his men like to raid Ealdor during harvesting season. Last year we were barely left with enough to get us through the rest of the winter. This time, we think he means to take it all, by force if he has to. I will not see her hurt,” Merlin says. 

“Even if it means using your magic?” Arthur asks quietly. “Even if it means being taken away?”

“Yes,” Merlin says without hesitation. 

“That’s almost...noble of you,” Arthur says, looking down and away from Merlin. He’s wearing an unreadable expression, but in lieu of saying anything else, he lies down beside Merlin in the soft grass with a sigh, even though Merlin knows he doesn’t feel any physical change from it. 

Merlin smiles. “You’re going to have to decide, then,” he says, looking to Arthur at his side. 

“Decide what?” Arthur asks. 

“If I’m just a peasant with a peasant’s name, an evil sorcerer, or almost...noble,” Merlin says, looking back up. He doesn’t mean for the question to come out so seriously.

“Somewhere in between all three,” Arthur says. “So, you’re alright, I guess. For a sorcerer.”

“You’re alright, too, I guess,” Merlin says, shrugging, “for a pompous prince.”

Arthur doesn’t disappear for a long time, but he doesn’t say anything, either. That’s fine. Merlin finds that he enjoys his company, even in silence. 

---

“You should come to Camelot,” Arthur says about a week later, as though it’s taken him that long to come up with perhaps the worst plan ever. He’s caught Merlin at a bad time—he’s currently throwing stones across the small lake next to the clearing with Will. 

“What?” Merlin asks out loud before he thinks better of it. 

“Huh?” Will asks, confused. 

“You should come to Camelot,” Arthur repeats, pressing on. “You can ask my father for aid to help you defeat Kanen.”

“You want me to go to the place that you said would have me burned at the stake?” Merlin asks. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d have a lot of luck there. I might as well go to Cenred, now. At least with him I won’t die .” Probably. 

Will swats Merlin across the head playfully. “Who are you talking to?” he asks, laughing.

“Ow,” Merlin says, rubbing his head. He gestures to Arthur. “I’ve got this weird prince guy in my head and he’s trying to send me to my death!” He punctuates the last part by looking Arthur in the eyes. 

Will’s eyes glaze over where Arthur is, never catching on the prince’s form. “Is it a magic thing, then?” he asks. Merlin nods because it’s the most likely option and Will goes back to throwing stones, uttering something like, “Only you, Merlin,” under his breath. 

Merlin can’t help but smile despite himself. This is why he and Will are such good friends. Arthur, on the other hand…

“You obviously wouldn’t tell anyone about the magic thing,” Arthur argues, as though it’s really that easy. “And while you’re there, you can find out what happened to me.”

Merlin scoffs. “Is that what this is about, then? You want me to investigate for you?” 

“No,” Arthur argues. “Okay—well, maybe. But I do want to help you with your village. And I will. You and I both know that going to Cenred for help is useless.”

He’s right about that; Cenred doesn’t care about the smaller villages, especially one like Ealdor, which is so far from the kingdom it might as well not exist. 

“And Camelot would?” Merlin asks.

A pause. “Not normally, no,” Arthur says.

Merlin throws his hands in exasperation. “Then what’s the point—”

“But,” Arthur interrupts, “this isn’t a normal situation. You have me in your head.”

“And how is that a good thing, again?”

“Think about it,” Arthur continues, “I can tell you anything you need to know—where to go, who to talk to, how to get an audience, and what to say to win my father’s favor.”

“Like I could do that even with your help,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes.

“No, probably not,” Arthur says. “But if you find a way to reverse…whatever this is, and return me back to my body, then I can help you.”

Merlin looks at him for a minute, contemplating. He can’t help but admit that Arthur makes a strange sort of good point. It could theoretically be his best shot, if he wants to both keep his mother safe and stay by her side. Kanen’s men won’t come until harvesting season, which isn’t for at least another month, so Merlin has the time to do it. And it would get Arthur out of his personal business, which makes the deal actually enticing enough to consider.

Merlin is about to turn Arthur down officially, when he catches the expression on Arthur’s face—a desperate, pleading look, his emotions so potent that he can’t even keep up his usual façade of stoic, unbothered royalty. It almost strikes Merlin as funny, because just a week or so ago, Arthur looked at him as though he were dirt under his shoe, then he looked at him like he was the worst type of human being possible, and now it’s as though Merlin is his last hope. 

Maybe he is.

“I’m not even sure you’re real,” Merlin argues. Or alive. But it doesn’t matter because he already knows he’s going to help.

“Yes, you are,” Arthur says, seeming to realize this as well. “You’re not that creative.”

“He better be real,” Will says, “or I’m telling your mother about this.”

Merlin huffs. He was wrong about Will, he decides. And definitely wrong about Arthur, who’s smiling now, clearly happy that he’s won. After this is over, he needs to find better friends.

---

“Mother,” Merlin says as they’re eating together later that night. He’s not entirely sure how to go about this, so he just blurts, “I think I ought to go to Camelot.”

His mother freezes mid-bite, then looks up at him like he’s grown a second head. “You—what?”

“I would like to go to Camelot,” Merlin says simply. “For a short time. To get my...bearings.” He makes a complicated hand motion, one that is supposed to signify his magic. 

She eyes him suspiciously. “What are you up to?” Her face drops, her eyes suddenly worried. “Did something happen?”

“No, no! Nothing happened,” Merlin lies. “I just think I should get out...and stretch my legs, so to speak.”

His mother hums. “And you wish to do this...in Camelot?” she asks slowly, suspicion back again. 

“Yes,” Merlin says awkwardly.

“You’re doing a great job,” Arthur says sarcastically, suddenly appearing. Merlin is happy to say that he doesn’t startle at all. “Really stellar work.”

His mother looks down at her bowl like she’s going to take another bite, but Merlin knows that she’s really just trying to collect her thoughts. Merlin uses this time to give Arthur a look that he hopes says, “Let me handle this.” 

Arthur seems to get the message. He puts up his hands in a faux placating gesture and leans passively against a nearby wall, watching Merlin with mirth in his eyes. Merlin fits in a small scowl before his mother looks back up. 

She gives him one last discerning look, clearly weighing the supposed severity of whatever he has planned, against her wishes for him to leave Ealdor, before saying, “I suppose it is a safe enough place to go...to stretch your legs.” She attempts to use the same hand movement that Merlin used earlier to represent his magic. 

Merlin smiles widely. “Thank you, Mother,” he says, then gathers the dirty dishes from the table, including the one in front of her. 

“Hey, I wasn’t done with that,” she complains, but he’s already in the kitchen. He hears her chuckle softly in the other room, though. 

“Why does she think it’s safer in Camelot than in Ealdor?” Arthur asks, now at his side. “Does she not know of the ban on magic there? And why didn’t you tell her about asking for aid?”

Merlin looks to the archway that leads to the kitchen, making sure his mother hasn’t followed him. “I didn’t even know about Camelot’s magic ban until you told me. And if she knew about that and why I’m going, I’d be tied to that doorpost,” he explains, pointing. 

Arthur doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, then, “She must care for you a great deal.” His face bears an unreadable expression.

Merlin shrugs, smiling. “She’s my mother. She cares for me, and I her. That’s why I’m doing this.”

“I see,” Arthur says thoughtfully. He looks like he might say something else but must decide against it.

Merlin doesn’t have time to react before his mother calls, “If you’re going to Camelot, I must write to Gaius, then—”

“You know Gaius ?” Arthur asks. Merlin shushes him harshly.

“He’s the court physician there and a good friend,” she continues, “so he should be able to provide you with a place to stay, as long as you do the work he asks of you.”

“Sounds great!” Merlin shouts. 

“How do you know Gaius?” Arthur asks. 

“I don’t. My mother does. I’ve never met him,” Merlin answers. “Why? How do you know him?”

“I’ve known him for as long as I can remember. He’s treated my family since before I was born,” Arthur says. 

“So, maybe he’ll know what happened to you,” Merlin guesses. Arthur nods. 

Merlin briefly wonders if it’s some kind of fate, that his mother of all people would know someone directly associated with Arthur and the royal family, in Camelot of all places. He looks to Arthur and decides that whatever kind of destiny would try to saddle him with Merlin surely must have a great sense of humor.

Chapter Text

Merlin’s mother sends him off with a tearful goodbye, a sack full of the measly amenities they could spare, freshly cleaned clothes, a small tattered bedroll, and a sealed envelope. It’s about as hard as he expects to leave—to leave his mother behind, to watch her face get smaller and smaller the further he gets from the house. He can’t help but look back every few steps as he goes, but once he can no longer see her, he remembers why he’s doing this, who he’s doing this for. 

Arthur walks with him as the village becomes but a small speck behind them, engulfed by the hills surrounding them. He flickers in and out of Merlin’s space, offering silent companionship and distracting banter when needed. Merlin thinks it’s oddly intuitive of him to know what Merlin needs and when he needs it. Not that Merlin can make any claims on the kind of man Arthur is anyway. 

As they journey along, Arthur instructs Merlin on how to set traps and how to prepare and cook game with the very few tools Merlin could bring along. He also shows Merlin the safest places to lay his bedroll for the night. Merlin already knew how to do these things to some extent, but Arthur seems to have an expertise in them, one that no doubt comes from years of hunting and traveling, so Merlin does as he says. 

It seems that in no time, Merlin can see the large, bustling presence of Camelot just over the horizon. Arthur startles beside him at the sight of it, letting out a quick breath, his face looking conflicted, as though he’s both excited to be closer to home, but also a bit apprehensive to continue on. 

Merlin can understand why. Neither of them knows what will greet them there, especially Arthur.   Merlin thinks that if he could, he would take Arthur’s hand to try to reassure him, to tell him that everything is going to be okay, even though Merlin isn’t sure of it, himself. So instead, he strides ahead, hand twitching slightly by his side. Arthur follows shortly after him. 

They make their way past the outer walls of the Citadel, passing through dirty, pebbled roads lined with packed-in homes and spots of villagers readying themselves for the day, and into the castle’s main square, which is littered with clusters of Camelot citizens. Each are carrying small, lit candles, which flicker brightly in the partial darkness of the early morning.  

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks, question aimed at Arthur. 

“They’re holding a vigil for the prince,” a woman next to him answers. She has dark skin, short, brown hair that’s pulled back loosely, and dark brown eyes. 

“A vigil? What happened to him?” Merlin asks, feeling Arthur growing anxious by his side.

“I’m not sure, exactly,” the woman says, “just that he was attacked by a sorceress a few weeks ago.” Despite the conversation, she says this with a chirpiness to her voice, not one which indicates that she’s happy about the circumstances though; it just seems to be a part of her natural speaking style. 

“Perhaps I am dead, then,” Arthur says, voice strained.

“They’ve been holding a vigil for him each morning since, hoping that he’ll recover,” the woman continues, sadness coloring her features.

Merlin looks to Arthur, eyebrows raised. Not dead, then. Injured, but definitely not dead. The corners of Arthur’s mouth turn up.

Suddenly, as if on cue, the vigil dissipates around them, soon leaving Merlin, Arthur, and the woman still standing there in the mostly empty square. 

“Do you know how it happened?” Merlin asks her, perhaps a bit too frantically. The woman looks at him strangely, so Merlin smooths his features into what he hopes is an easy-going smile. “You see, I’m meant to be helping the court physician, Gaius. I just don’t want to walk into a delicate situation and say something stupid.”

The woman’s eyebrows go up in recognition, “Oh, Gaius! I know him. I didn’t know he was taking on a new apprentice,” she says.

“Well, here I am.” Merlin laughs, spreading his arms out wide. The woman laughs along with him. 

“I’m Gwen,” she says, sticking out a hand.

He shakes it. “Merlin.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says with a smile.

“You too,” Merlin says, also smiling.

Arthur coughs loudly, looking agitated. Merlin would roll his eyes at him if he could, but he’d rather not burn bridges after only a few minutes in the city.

“So, about the prince...” Merlin leads.

“Ah, yes,” Gwen says. “Well, we don’t know exactly what happened, just that he was attacked the night before the celebration. That’s when they found him.” 

“Celebration?” Merlin asks.

“Yes, a celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the ban on magic in Camelot.” Gwen states this neutrally, as though she has no opinion on it whatsoever.

Merlin tries to keep his face from falling. And suddenly his being here in Camelot has just become very real, both in the sense that he’s in a land where the persecution of those who have magic is celebrated , as well as in the sense that what Arthur said to Merlin of his last memory seems to have been true. 

And it’s not like he didn’t already believe that Arthur was real—he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. It’s just that, in this moment, Merlin knows that it’s his responsibility to help him, and not in the transactional way he originally agreed to, but in the way you help someone who needs it, the way you help a friend. What kind of person would it make him if he did differently?

Probably someone just a touch safer…and saner.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, though,” Gwen says, pulling Merlin from his thoughts. 

Merlin looks at her questioningly. 

“Socially-speaking, I mean. Like, about the prince. You’ll be fine. Not that you aren’t fine already.” Her eyes go wide. “I mean fine...as like, a gentleman. Not fine, like—well, I mean you are—but that’s not something I would personally say...like that, that is…” she trails off, looking nothing short of mortified. “I have to go. My lady is expecting me.” She gestures vaguely to the castle. So, she must be a servant to someone of noble blood.  

“Okay,” Merlin says, utterly confused, but also charmed in a strange way. Arthur huffs beside him. 

“Okay,” Gwen mimics breathlessly, backing away very quickly. “Bye!”

“Bye, Gwen,” Merlin calls after her, surprised at how quickly she makes her way across the square. 

“She’s always a bit strange, isn’t she?” Arthur says, mostly to himself, it seems. 

“You know her, then?” Merlin asks loudly, startling a group of guards nearby. 

“She’s the maidservant of the Lady Morgana—my father’s ward.”

“Why didn’t you say anything, then?” Merlin asks, covering it in a cough. 

“You always tell me to shut up when I try to help you,” Arthur says. “And you were getting information, so I didn’t see the point.”

Merlin decides he should really tell Arthur to shut up more. 

“Plus, you were too busy flirting that I doubt anything I would’ve said would’ve gotten through, anyways,” Arthur says, almost...bitterly. But why would his royal highness be bitter about Merlin flirting with a pretty girl?

Merlin decides to test the waters, quickly coughing, “Jealous,” into his hands. 

Arthur scoffs. “As though I would ever be in competition with someone like you for a girl’s affections.”

Not exactly what Merlin meant. He tilts his head, one eyebrow going up to signal this. Arthur goes red all over. Huh, Merlin wasn’t sure he could do that. Hey, if anything, it’s more of a sign of him being alive than otherwise. Embarrassment is one of the core tenets of being human. 

“Get over yourself,” Arthur finally says, stalking off towards the castle, presumably in the direction of the physician’s quarters. Merlin follows behind dutifully with a smile on his face.

At least Arthur didn’t refute it. 

---

When they reach their destination, it’s empty. Or, well, Merlin assumes it is, at first. That is, until an elderly man makes his way out of the room in the far back. He walks slowly, cautiously, wary of every movement and using a thin, wobbly cane to aid his steps. He must be injured. 

“What happened to you?” Arthur asks aloud, seeming to have forgotten that the man can’t hear him. From the look on his face, Merlin can tell that he cares a great deal for him. 

“Can I help you?” the man asks, suddenly noticing Merlin. 

“Ah, yes,” Merlin says, startled. “Are you Gaius, the court physician?”

“I am, indeed,” Gaius confirms, stepping further into the room. “And who might you be?”

“Oh, I’m Merlin,” he says, then swings his bag around to fish for his envelope. Once he finds it, he meets Gaius across the room to hand it to him. Gaius pockets it for later, explaining that he doesn’t have his glasses on him at the moment.

“Hunith’s son?” Gaius asks. “I was expecting you a few weeks ago.”

“You were expecting me?” Merlin asks. 

“Yes, your mother sent a letter asking me to take you on as an apprentice about two months ago,” Gaius says.

Figures, that was around the time Will found out about his magic. It makes sense that she would want to secure a place for Merlin to stay, especially if he had to leave in a hurry.

“I hadn’t heard anything further, so I was going to send a letter back, but then I had my fall, and well, I’m remiss to say that it fell to the wayside,” Gaius continues. 

“Are you okay?” Merlin asks, knowing that Arthur would want to know. Merlin does too. 

“I’m alright, considering,” Gaius says, then almost trips over a pile of books on the floor. Without thinking, Merlin uses his magic to push them aside.

It’s only a small movement, but Gaius seems to catch it, nonetheless. “What did you just do?” he asks, but he lets Merlin help him to a nearby chair, so Merlin doesn’t exactly fear for his life.

“Merlin, you are an absolutely useless idiot,” Arthur says. Merlin scowls at him.

“Tell me! What did you just do?” Gaius asks, fiercely this time.

Sputtering a bit, Merlin explains that he didn’t do anything. Gaius then throws a flurry of questions at him, asking where he learned magic, who taught him, did he start learning when he was young? Merlin explains, just like he did with Arthur, that he didn’t learn magic. He was born with it.

“That’s impossible,” Gaius says. “Magic like that often requires spells, incantations. And even with knowledge of them, it can take years to master.” He sounds like he’s speaking from experience. Arthur’s eyebrows go up, seeming to have realized this as well.

“I can’t explain it any more than you can,” Merlin says. “It’s just the way I am.”

“Indeed.” Gaius eyes him strangely, as does Arthur for that matter. “You seem to be quite the oddity, my boy.”

Merlin can just feel Arthur’s comment surfacing, but surprisingly, instead, he asks, “Will you tell him about me?” 

Merlin shakes his head almost imperceptibly. While Gaius seems to be trustworthy, based on the way Arthur and Merlin’s mother regard him, Merlin doesn’t want to push it, not yet. They’ve only just met and while Gaius seems to be accepting of his magic, it doesn’t mean that he’ll help him or even believe him.

“And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that you shouldn’t disclose your…gifts with anyone else,” Gaius adds.

“Of course not,” Merlin confirms.

“Good,” Gaius says, satisfied. “Well, now that you’re here, I could definitely use your help.”

Merlin nods. Gaius probably could’ve used his help a few weeks ago back when Merlin was originally promised. It almost makes Merlin wish he arrived earlier. 

In scanning the room surrounding them, Merlin finds it to be particularly unkempt, items strewn haphazardly on the floor and across the small tables crookedly scattered about the area. It makes sense—Gaius looks to be in a lot of pain, so he probably doesn’t have time to do much cleaning, not that he strikes Merlin as someone who is particularly neat, otherwise.  

“Whatever you need,” Merlin says dutifully, finding that he genuinely wants to help.

---

Merlin thinks that maybe he was a bit too eager in his efforts to do everything Gaius asked of him because after hours of gathering herbs, four trips hefting heavy medical supplies back from various market vendors, as well as delivering potions and tonics throughout the castle and Camelot’s upper quarter, he finds himself slumped into one of Gaius’ rickety chairs, hardly able to stand due to his exhaustion.

“Merlin,” Gaius greets. “Glad to see you’re back. I need you to make one more delivery for me.”

Merlin just groans, too tired to be polite anymore. “Can’t it be delivered tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not. The draught needs to be delivered to the Lady Morgana’s chambers tonight,” Gaius says with a touch of urgency, handing Merlin a small bottle.

Merlin looks down at the potion dumbly. That’s the king’s ward, the woman Arthur said Gwen worked for. “Is she okay?” Merlin asks.

Gaius looks at him like it isn’t his business, which it isn’t, but he answers anyway. “The poor child suffers from nightmares. The draught is to help ease her sleep. So, I recommend getting it to her before nightfall.”

Merlin lifts himself from the chair dramatically and does as he’s told. It’s as he makes his way towards Morgana’s chambers that Arthur appears next to him again.

“Where have you been?” Merlin asks in a harsh whisper. He didn’t miss Arthur, he didn’t .

“I can’t exactly control this, Merlin,” Arthur says, gesturing to himself.

“Well, it seems that you like to disappear when it’s awfully convenient for you.”

“I can’t help it that the powers that be don’t want to make me sit through six hours of errands running with you,” Arthur says. “What would I even have to contribute to that, anyways?”

“We could’ve worked out our game plan,” Merlin says, catching an odd look from a nearby serving boy. Merlin smiles to cover himself, but doesn’t care enough not to say, “I’m still here for a reason, you might remember. And it’s not draught delivery.”

“You agreed to help Gaius. I didn’t tell you to do that,” Arthur argues.

“What else would you have me do? The man looks like he’s fit to tip over any minute,” Merlin argues back, regrettably at full volume this time.

“Who’s fit to tip over any minute?” a voice asks from behind him.

“Gwen,” Merlin greets with a smile. She looks at him curiously. “Oh, just someone I saw outside of the local tavern.” She still looks at him like he’s something strange, so he adds, “Sorry, sometimes I talk to myself. I’m often my best company.”

Arthur scoffs beside him.

“It’s okay. I do it, too,” Gwen says, accepting the lie. She looks to the bottle in Merlin’s hand. “I take it that’s for my Lady.”

Merlin nods, handing it to her when she reaches for it. “I heard she has nightmares.”

“Yes,” Gwen says. “They’ve been getting a lot worse lately, ever since…” she trails off, catching herself before she gives away too much.

“Ever since…what?” Merlin pushes. Gwen looks hesitant to say, so he takes a shot in the dark. “It must have to do with the prince being injured. I heard that Morgana is the king’s ward, so she must have known him well.”

“We practically grew up together,” Arthur says, contemplatively. “Where are you going with this, Merlin?”

“She did,” Gwen confirms. “So, I could see why what happened to him is bothering her.” She looks a little lost to her thoughts for a moment, but then jolts slightly, coming back to the present. “He’ll be better soon, though.”

“You’ve seen him?” Merlin asks, trying not to sound too excited. Gwen shakes her head. “Then how do you know?”

“I don’t, really. I just have to believe it,” Gwen says solemnly.

“For Camelot’s sake,” Merlin guesses.

“Yes, for that,” Gwen says, nodding. “But for Morgana’s sake, as well.”

Merlin isn’t quite sure what to say, so he just nods and hands her the draught, which she accepts passively. “Well, I hope this helps, then.”

“Me too,” Gwen says. “Thank you, Merlin.” She shoots him an appreciative smile, then heads inside.

“I didn’t know she cared for Morgana so much,” Arthur says once she’s gone. “Or that Morgana would care enough to be saddened by my absence.”

Sometimes, Merlin thinks, for all of Arthur’s brash arrogance, he doesn’t have a lot of self-worth. Not as a human being, really. Merlin noticed a long time ago that Arthur is quick to measure himself by his title as a prince, or his fighting prowess, or his knowledge of hunting and gathering, and little else. Merlin didn’t even know how close he and Morgana were until now.

“I think that it may be more than that,” Merlin says, deciding not to ask him about it. “I think that Morgana may have seen something when you were attacked. And Gwen knows about it.”

“What makes you think that?” Arthur asks.

“I don’t know…just the way Gwen spoke about it, like she was speaking around it,” Merlin says. “Why not just come out and say that Morgana’s upset you’re injured?”

Arthur pauses, nodding. He then snaps his fingers and strides briskly towards Morgana’s chambers, as though he’s going to burst in.

Merlin makes to grab for him, but his hand phases through Arthur’s shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” Merlin asks.

Arthur turns to look back at him. “I’m going to spy on Morgana, of course,” he says, then promptly bumps into the door. He stands still for a moment, staring down the dark mahogany as though it’s personally offended him. He then shakes his head, tries again, and bounces back looking even more confused.

He tries one more time for good measure. No luck.

“Oh, well, that’s just fantastic!” Arthur throws his arms up. His hand knocks against the door roughly and Merlin has to stifle a laugh in a cough.

“It looks like you actually are stuck with me, then,” Merlin says. “I can’t believe you never tried leaving the room without me before.”

“What can I say, Merlin? I must’ve been too entranced by your lovely peasant smell to leave,” Arthur says, halfheartedly, the remainder of his focus settled on the door in front of him, as if it’s a puzzle he can solve. 

“You can smell me?” Merlin asks, checking himself over with a small whiff. “How’s that even possible?”

Arthur turns back to look at him, face awash with utter disgust. Laying out a deep, frustrated sigh, he must decide that Merlin isn’t worth the time nor effort, so he turns a scrutinizing look back towards the door. “I didn’t get the chance to try because I wasn’t able to stick around for this long before,” he says thoughtfully.

Now, that’s something to think about. Back in Ealdor, Arthur would only seem to spend a few minutes with Merlin during each given visit, often only enough time to share a brief conversation before disappearing. But ever since they started their journey to Camelot, Arthur has stayed with him for longer and longer. Perhaps, the closer they got to Camelot, the longer he was allowed to stay.

Merlin isn’t quite sure what to make of that. It could be a good sign; a sign that as they’ve gotten closer to Arthur’s body, that they’ve gotten closer to the truth, maybe even closer to reuniting him with it. Or maybe it means that Arthur’s getting further and further away from reality, that his grasp on the mortal plane is starting to slip, and maybe it’s too late for him. Merlin can neither describe nor justify the sadness that idea leaves him with.

If Arthur has the same realization, he doesn’t say anything. Merlin decides not to bring it up, either way, and since they’re done here, he turns to start walking in the other direction.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Arthur asks. “You obviously need to go in there.”

“Are you crazy?” Merlin whispers, stopping and turning to face Arthur.

“We need to find out what she knows!”

“And you think that me bursting into the chambers of a noblewoman is going to help us do that?” Merlin asks. He resumes walking and Arthur follows him, probably because he has no other choice, Merlin now realizes. “Do you always go into things this thick-headed?”

“Do you always shrivel in the face of a challenge?” Arthur snaps. “Or are you just a coward?”

“I’m not a coward,” Merlin snaps back.

“Then why are you acting like one?” Arthur yells.

At this point, they’re far enough from Morgana’s chambers that Merlin can stop whispering. “You might want to remember that I’m the one taking all the risks here. You get to shout and make funny comments and bump into things all you want, and I’m sure you were able to do that beforehand just fine, but I don’t have that luxury. Not with who I am and what I’m trying to do for my village, for my mother .”

Merlin storms off, not caring about the sad look on Arthur’s face or whether or not he’s following behind because screw him. He has no idea what it takes for Merlin to be here or what he left behind.

By the time Merlin reaches the physician’s quarters, Arthur is gone, so Merlin figures that he disappeared on the way back. Merlin is too tired to care and he’s still angry, so he finally lets his exhaustion take him over and falls into a quick, petty sleep.

That night, he dreams of a rumbling voice, deep like a growl, calling his name over and over again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Merlin awakes to Arthur watching him.

“You know, Merlin,” Arthur says. “It would appear that I’m still able to show up even while you’re asleep. It wouldn’t be so terrible if I could actually go anywhere or do anything, though. Or if you weren’t the world’s heaviest sleeper and wouldn’t wake up for anything short of an animal stampede running through your room. But no, instead, I was stuck here with your snoring for half the night, the sound of which probably could rival that of an animal stampede. So, thanks for that. It makes me really glad to be magically stuck to you.”

“You know, for an apology, it’s pretty weak,” Merlin says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You should try something a little more heartfelt, next time.”

“It wasn’t an apology,” Arthur defends.

“Okay,” Merlin says sitting up straight, spreading his arms wide. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Hear what?”

“Your apology.”

“I’m not apologizing to you!” Arthur exclaims.

Merlin flops back onto the bed, closing his eyes. “Then you can watch me sleep for a few more hours. And I’ll make sure to snore extra loudly this time, too.”

“You can’t make yourself snore louder.”

Merlin lifts a hand in the air, waggling his fingers. “I’ll just use my magic to do it, then.” He can’t, of course, but Arthur doesn’t know that.

Arthur lets out an exasperated sigh and when Merlin opens an eye to look at him, he looks equal parts uncomfortable and annoyed.

“Fine,” Arthur huffs after a few uncomfortable moments of silence. Merlin sits up in excitement.

Arthur takes a few, dragging steps towards him, looking like this is the absolute last situation he would ever want to be in, in the last place and with the last person, too. He lifts his hand just above Merlin’s head, makes a fist, and twists it back and forth in a strange turning motion. After a moment of this, he retracts his hand, then takes a few steps back.

Merlin is dumbfounded. “What was that supposed to be?”

“You know…” Arthur starts, somehow looking even more uncomfortable than before, “an apology.”

“You’re going to need to work on that,” Merlin says, standing up. “Like, a lot.”

“Don’t be rude. That...wasn’t easy for me,” Arthur says, slightly bashful. If bashful is a thing Arthur could be.

Merlin lazily makes his way over to Arthur. He then lifts his hand, letting it hover near where Arthur’s shoulder would be, and flexes his fingers in a clasping motion. Looking him dead in the eye, he says, “Rudeness begets rudeness.”

“Oh, aren’t you clever,” Arthur says, eyes squinting, but he’s smiling. 

And suddenly, they’re fine. Merlin doesn’t know how it happened, whether it’s because he slept off his anger, or because the idea of Arthur being confined to watching Merlin drool for hours on end seems like punishment enough, or maybe because Arthur’s weird apology actually worked, but they’re okay.

Arthur clears his throat, looking away quickly. It’s then that Merlin realizes that he’s been staring into Arthur’s eyes for far too long, smiling like a lunatic. Merlin feels his grin drop, but he can’t help but linger for another second or two, mostly to watch Arthur squirm, but...also not.  

Merlin lowers his hand back down to his side and Arthur quickly walks to the other side of the room, almost as though Merlin was actually, physically keeping him in place.

Arthur starts, “So, now that that’s settled, what’s our plan going—"

He’s interrupted by a knock at the door. “Merlin!” Gaius calls. “The king has called a meeting this morning and I need your assistance in getting there.”

Merlin feels himself still, eyes widening. The king?

“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute,” Merlin calls, quickly donning his neckerchief. He turns to Arthur to answer his question, only to see that he’s disappeared.

An exceedingly small part of Merlin is glad because, well…he doesn’t really have a plan quite yet. And admitting that to Arthur, especially after what happened last night, would no doubt result in a lot of self-righteous indignation on the prince’s part. Merlin already has enough to deal with.

The rest of him, though, is completely freaking out because not only does he not have a plan, but he’s essentially on his own now. To see the king of Camelot. 

---

Getting Gaius to the meeting is no small feat, nor is it a quick one. Although Gaius is already weeks into his healing, he’s still quite injured. Luckily, he seems to have already anticipated this because they arrive early. The hall is relatively cleared out, save for a few servants preparing the area—wiping the floors, pulling back the curtains, and setting the large council table centered in front of the throne. Despite this, a few council members also arrive early and each of them greet Gaius with the familiarity of old friends.

Merlin guides Gaius to the chair of his choosing, thankful that the old man isn’t going to be made to stand throughout the session. Of course, Merlin wouldn’t have had a problem supporting him throughout it if that were the case. Maybe then it would give him an idea of what he’s supposed to be doing here.

Merlin is eyeing the large room, wondering if he could blend in with the servants still rushing about preparing the place, when he spots Gwen over in the corner. She’s dusting the smaller, yet still elegantly crafted chair seated at the throne’s left hand.

“Gwen!” Merlin calls. Her head shoots up, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, but as soon as she spots him approaching her, her face lights up. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m just readying my Lady’s place before the meeting,” Gwen says. Her eyes flick over to Gaius and then back to Merlin. “I see you’re here to assist Gaius.”

“Yes, I go where he needs me to, even if it’s halfway across the kingdom to pick yarrow or to make deliveries to some blind-as-a-bat noble who chugs the phial before I can tell him it needs to be taken in increments,” Merlin says, huffing.

Gwen laughs, seeming to find his exasperation amusing.

“Speaking of,” Merlin says, lowering his voice, “how did the draught work out for Morgana? Did it take care of her nightmares?”

Because while Merlin doesn’t necessarily have a concrete plan, he does remember what he gleaned from Gwen last night. And because he has next to no chance of having a conversation with Morgana, herself, Gwen is his next best chance at getting information about what happened to Arthur.

Gwen’s face forms into a frown, which is an answer enough for Merlin. Still, she shakes her head. “Not entirely.” She looks up to Merlin, who must also be frowning because she gives him a sort of placating smile. “But from what she tells me, they weren’t as bad as the night before.”

“That’s good,” Merlin offers. “Maybe she won’t be as haunted by the prince’s injury, then.”

“Yeah…maybe,” Gwen says absently. Her eyes soften around the edges just slightly and her smile starts to fade into something tinged with this sort of…longing sadness.

And Merlin has seen it before. It’s the kind of smile his mother used to wear when Merlin would get into trouble with Will, or that one time he got caught stealing, or more recently, when he was being stupid and obvious about using his magic. It says, “I love you; I’m worried about you.” And seeing it in Gwen’s smile makes Merlin’s heart clench with bittersweet nostalgia.

He puts a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll get through it. She has you, after all,” he says sincerely. Morgana would be lucky to have someone like Gwen to care about her. Anyone would.

Gwen’s sad smile fades in place of a brighter one. “Thanks, Merlin. I appreciate that,” she says, and he nods in return. A few beats later and they both realize Merlin’s hand is still on her shoulder. Her eyes widen and she goes red. He re-collects his hand awkwardly, then coughs to hide his mutual embarrassment.

“Anyways,” Merlin starts.

“Yep,” Gwen interrupts and Merlin can’t help but let out a burst of laughter.

Because for all of Arthur’s complaining, Merlin isn’t actually interested in Gwen, not like that, at least. The thing is…he doesn’t anticipate being here for long, but in the time that he is, he doesn’t think having Gwen as a friend would be such a bad thing.

It’s then that Merlin remembers why he set out to talk to Gwen in the first place, but after the conversation they just had, pushing any further with questions just…doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because before Merlin can even think to say anything, Gwen’s attention is drawn across the room.

With a quick goodbye to Merlin, she takes off, doing her best to lightly race across the hall without disrupting the cluster of councilmen taking their seats at the table nearby. By the hall’s entrance stands a noblewoman with pale skin and dark hair that falls down to her expensive, gold-embroidered silk dress in long, wavy tresses. She stands tall and regal, but as soon as Gwen approaches her, she looks ready to collapse in relief, as does Gwen.

And even with Gwen’s babbling and stammering and blushing around him, Merlin suddenly gets the impression that, like him, she means nothing by it; that she already has her eye on this woman, who is no doubt the, as of yet, enigmatic Lady Morgana.

Gwen leads Morgana in Merlin’s direction to the chair she was making up before. Merlin decides it’s best if he’s not here when they arrive, and in knowing better than to try to take a seat at the table next to Gaius, he lets himself fade into the background, leaning against one of the heavy pillars off to the side of the main meeting area.  

Soon enough, the king arrives and the hall goes quiet. He stalks forward towards his throne in thick, heavy steps, both taking his time and seemingly not wasting any. Council members and servants stand and bow respectively as he passes, but in lieu of acknowledging them, he treads on, eyes locked ahead, yet they flicker once or twice to the empty chair seated at his throne’s right hand. Once he’s seated, though, he doesn’t look to the chair again.  

The meeting then goes on as Merlin suspects they all do, save for the special note the king makes of Gaius’ return, to which Gaius is greeted with even more welcomes than when he arrived. After that, it’s mostly talks of taxes and grain reserves and the general business of running a kingdom. Merlin mostly tunes it out to be honest, and halfway through, figures he didn’t really have anything to worry about. That is, until the end, when the subject of fortifying defenses against magical attacks within the kingdom is brought up.

There’s a certain desperate, cutting edge to these talks, in a way that reveals the very raw and open wound that the attack against Arthur left behind, in both a political and personal sense. Merlin has to bite his tongue so hard he nearly bleeds when a council member recommends an increase in public executions as a possible deterrent for magic-based attacks. The notion seems to be widely agreed upon, emphatically so on the king’s part. And save for a few darting eyes and uncomfortable looks coming from fellow council members and a few servants, no one dares to speak up, not even Gaius, whose face remains blank during this, almost carefully so. 

“I almost forgot what it was like,” Arthur says, suddenly appearing. Although, Merlin gets the feeling that the prince has been standing there for a while. Sparing a look towards Arthur out of his side eye, Merlin waits for him to finish the sentence. He waits for him to say…he doesn’t know.

But Arthur doesn’t finish it and perhaps it’s to be expected. It’s difficult to convince someone of something when they’ve been told the opposite all their lives, especially when they’re thrown back into the original environment that enabled such thoughts. Even if they know better, and Merlin thinks Arthur does now, it can be so easy to fall back into what you were taught. And Merlin knows that he’s not really in danger, not from Arthur anyways.

No, Merlin is starting to learn who his true enemy is. He spares another look up to the king. He looks tired and worn on his throne, like he’s settled into his own grief and hatred and, little by little, it’s causing him to decompose.

Merlin wonders if Arthur can see it too. 

---

Merlin thinks about trying to strike up another conversation with Gwen after the meeting has ended, but she looks to be too engrossed in attending Morgana, so he decides to leave her to it and focuses himself with attending Gaius, instead. 

Off to the side, he hears a small commotion, but when he finally gets a chance to tilt his head up to look, the matter seems to already have been settled—a servant girl must have dropped a vase in front of the Lady Morgana, who placates her as she worries after the pieces scattered across the ground—so Merlin decides to look away in an attempt to not make more of a show of it than it has to be. 

As Gaius finishes the last of his goodbyes, he and Merlin start their long journey back to the physician’s quarters, Arthur following behind in silence.

“Is it always like that?” Merlin asks. The question is aimed toward Gaius, but Merlin notices Arthur perk up in his peripheral, almost as though he’s forgotten that no one else can see him.

“Mostly, yes,” Gaius says, “but I do admit it was a bit more…intense this time.”

“Because of the prince’s injury…”

Gaius doesn’t look surprised that Merlin knows this. “So, you’ve heard about that, then. I suppose it would be odd if you didn’t at this point.”

“Well, the empty throne gave it away, mostly, as did the fact that the entire castle seems to be walking on eggshells around the king. Oh, and it didn’t help that I arrived during one of the morning vigils. Aside from that, Gwen filled in the rest.”

Gaius chuckles, but doesn’t offer anything further.

“It’s nice to see that the people care so much for him. They truly seem deeply saddened by his absence,” Merlin says, leaving the sentence hanging off intentionally.

Gaius only nods, then prompts Merlin to turn left at the end of the hallway.

Merlin tries again. “And I suppose his injuries must be serious if he’s still out of commission a few weeks later.”

Still nothing from the old man.

“But they must not be too serious because he’s still alive, from what I’ve heard.”

At this, Gaius eyes Merlin suspiciously.

Merlin decides to take a more direct approach this time. “I heard that he was attacked by a sorceress. Is that true?”

For all of his strange silence, Arthur can’t seem to help letting out a scoff at Merlin’s impropriety.

Gaius stops in his place, causing Merlin to do the same. His eyes scan Merlin’s face, as though he’s assessing motives. Then, he raises a singular, judgmental eyebrow, and lets out a put-upon sigh. “Merlin, I think that it’s best for you not to step into matters that do not concern you.”

Merlin’s gaze reflexively flicks to Arthur and he has to stifle a laugh. Really, as though he has a choice anymore. 

Gaius continues. “And it’s probably best, given your…special talents, that you keep your curiosity to yourself around here, even with Gwen.” He lowers his voice. “You wouldn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to yourself.”

Merlin nods in understanding, but he already knows the risks. He looks to Arthur again. Somewhere along the way, he decided they were worth taking.

The three of them remain silent for the rest of the journey, conversation finished and forgotten. Once they arrive at the physician’s quarters, Gaius has a new list of chores for Merlin to do, although this one is much shorter than the last.

Merlin does as he’s instructed without much complaint and Arthur continues to follow him around. Again, not that he has a choice in the matter.

As Merlin finds himself traversing the fields surrounding the outer wall collecting herbs, Arthur gives him advice much like he did on their journey to Camelot. Only, this time, he doesn’t make fun of Merlin when he stumbles over the occasional branch or stone, nor does he berate Merlin when he drops a bundle of rosemary due to poor binding.

Merlin thinks they’re both a little shaken after this morning’s meeting, especially Arthur. Today was the first time he had seen his father—his family —in weeks. And all he could do was watch from the outside, watch a world that exists without him, unable to interact with it or even tell his loved ones that he’s alright. 

And Merlin can’t tell them. At best, he’d be banished for making false claims about the injured prince. At worst, he’d be executed for sorcery.

Arthur disappears again sometime in the early afternoon and Merlin is finally finished with the list, so after he drops off the necessary supplies for Gaius, he decides to head back out to the woods, make a small camp, and practice his long-forgotten whittling.

Back in Ealdor, when Merlin dreamed of a grander, more interesting life, whittling used to be an activity which agitated him to some degree. The fact that even with all his chores, he still had the time to sit down and mindlessly carve for hours on end almost seemed like a reminder of how static and boring and ordinary it all was.

But here in Camelot, where life is dynamic and complex and ever-changing, Merlin finds himself taking a strange sort of joy in the mindlessness of the activity. It feels like a much-needed break, a time where he doesn’t have to think about the dangers of being here or how much he misses his mother and Will, or even his magic. He can just lose himself to repetitive carving and suddenly, time and space cease to exist.

“Why do you do that?” Arthur asks a few hours later. It’s late into the evening now, and after a number of abandoned attempts, Merlin is working on a new, steadier cane for Gaius made out of a large, thick branch he found in the woods.

“Do what?” Merlin asks, still engrossed in getting the arch of the handle just right.

“Use your hands for that,” Arthur says. “Why don’t you just use your magic to shape it? Why expend the extra effort? We’re far enough into the woods where no one would see you.”

Merlin pauses, deciding how to put it. “You’re a fighter right?” he finally asks. “You must be, if you’re a prince.”

“I’ve been trained to kill since birth,” Arthur says, as though it’s the most normal thing to say in the world.

Merlin chuckles to himself. “Of course you were.”

“I resent that response.”

“Of course you do,” Merlin says. Before Arthur can snipe back, he trudges on, “Anyways, what I’m trying to say is, you must know how to fight, both with and without a weapon.”

“Naturally, I am also trained in hand-to-hand combat,” Arthur says. “What’s your point?”

“Well, sometimes I just want to be good at things without my magic,” Merlin says, “just like you wanted to learn to fight without a sword.”

“I thought you said magic was a part of you,” Arthur says. “Why would you ever want to part with it?”

“I don’t—and it is a part of me. But that’s what it is—a part. It’s like an extension of myself, like…a limb, or a weapon—something useful to be wielded when I need it.”

“For more than carving kindling, I suppose,” Arthur says with a rye kind of smile, one that seems unlike him, but somehow suits him as well as most things do.

Merlin laughs. “For however I see fit, just like you can use your weapons however you see fit—for honor or destruction, or even to carve wood if you’re bored. It’s what you do with it and what you don’t.”

Arthur is silent yet again after that, perhaps deciding that Merlin isn’t worth talking to, with his strange allegories and poor whittling practices.

Despite this, Merlin is actually quite proud of the work he’s gotten done this afternoon. The cane doesn’t turn out as sturdy as he hopes, nor is the craftsmanship anything special or particularly good, but it’s much better than what Gaius is already using. And a part of Merlin, the part that’s still very young, just hopes he likes it. 

“My mother loved whittling,” Arthur says, drawing Merlin’s attention to him once again. It looks like it’s painful for him to say, only not in the embarrassed way he looked when Merlin made him apologize earlier. “Or, so I’m told,” he adds on, turning away from Merlin’s gaze. 

Merlin pauses for a few minutes. “I know nothing of my father,” he says. “But sometimes...I like to think that there’s something about me that is like him—maybe it’s something like whittling...”

“Or magic,” Arthur says. 

Merlin feels himself smile a little. “Yeah,” he says, then decides to conjure up something painful, himself, something true. “It’s how I feel close to him, even though I’ll never know him.”

Arthur pauses briefly, then nods, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to, really, and Merlin isn’t sure he wants him to. 

A few moments later, Merlin packs up his things, making sure to safely secure his beloved creation to his waist and thigh with leftover rope and sets off. The sun has completely set already, so Merlin has to find his way back to the castle in mostly darkness, only the full moon and the few torches lit outside the rows of villager homes enough to lead him on the correct path.

As the cool night breeze softly swirls around him, Merlin almost swears he can hear someone whispering to him. “Did you say something?” he asks Arthur, who shakes his head. They’re inside the castle walls now and Arthur’s face is lit by one of the fire pits by the main entrance.

Merlin . the whispering voice insists.

Merlin’s head whips around to find its source, only to no avail. “Did you hear that?” he asks Arthur, stopping in his tracks.

“Hear what?” Arthur asks. “Seriously, Merlin, if you’re starting to lose it—”

“I’m not,” Merlin says. “I just thought I heard…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.” He continues to walk ahead. “You really didn’t hear anything?”

Arthur eyes him suspiciously. “No, I didn’t.”

Merlin must just be tired, then—that’s it. He’s had a long day and he’s probably just sleep deprived and going a little crazy from it. Soon enough, the whispering stops, though, and Merlin readily commits himself to forgetting he ever heard anything.

That is, until he starts hearing loud arguing coming from the physician’s quarters.

He turns to Arthur. “You heard that, right?”

Arthur nods to him, then breaks into a defensive stance, placing himself between Merlin and the cracked door. He presses up against the wall adjacent to the opening, seeming to forget, once again, that only Merlin can see him. Instead of arguing this point, though, Merlin decides to follow his lead and flattens himself against the wall next to him, carefully placing his bundle of herbs on the floor by his feet.

“I saw him, Gaius,” a woman’s voice argues loudly. “Just like I saw the sorceress. How do you explain that?”

Gaius must be saying something that Merlin can’t quite make out because the woman goes quiet for a moment, then she rebounds, shouting even louder this time, “No—no it’s not just the nightmares! It can’t be .”

Merlin and Arthur look to each other. Morgana . Well, Merlin guesses that they are spying on her, after all. He moves in a little closer. 

“I think there might be something… wrong with me,” she says, voice sounding raw and wrecked, almost like her words are being ripped out of her. “I don’t know what to do.”

“No, there is nothing wrong with you,” Gaius insists. “What you witnessed…it’s not something that bears lightly on the soul, nor on the heart. And sometimes, when people feel that much pressure—that much grief, the pain can manifest itself in various, unorthodox ways. Our minds try to form new pathways and make connections that aren’t there just in an effort to make sense of it all.”

Morgana remains silent through this, seeming to consider his words.

“Here, I’ve brewed a new draught for you,” Gaius says, presumably handing her the object in question.

“Gaius, I—”

“This one is a bit stronger, but it should give you a peaceful night’s sleep.”

“Okay,” Morgana says, quiet as a mouse and sniffling. After a few minutes, she says, “You’re right—perhaps the stress is starting to get to me.”

“It happens to the best of us,” Gaius says. “You just need to rest, my dear child. Everything else will pass with time.”

“This…stays between us. Right?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you…you’ve never been anything but kind to me. I’m sorry for shouting at you.”

Merlin can hear the smile in Gaius’ voice. “Let’s chalk that up to the stress, too, why don’t we?”

Morgana laughs softly, as does Gaius. A moment later, he leads her out. Merlin retreats into the darkness of a nearby alcove to avoid being seen, but Arthur stays in place, watching as the two say their goodbyes and Morgana finally departs.

“I guess you were right, Merlin,” Arthur says, once Gaius heads back in. “She did see something. And it must’ve been terrible.”

Merlin would act smug about the statement—he was right , after all—if Arthur doesn’t look so devastated when he says it. Instead, Merlin stays in the dark alcove, trying to collect his thoughts. What did Morgana mean when she said that she saw “him?” And if she saw the sorceress, then that means that she saw what happened to Arthur. Maybe then, if she saw some sort of spell, they can figure out how to reverse it.

Merlin goes to step out of the shadows, but Arthur holds out a hand to stop him. “Hold on,” he says, watching through the still-open doorway. Seconds later, he stands back to make room for Gaius, who returns to the narrow hallway carrying a small satchel, leaning heavily on his cane. He leaves, shuffling down the remainder of the hallway. Once Merlin hears him slowly clear the surrounding set of steps, he steps out. 

“We need to follow him,” Arthur says, keeping his eye on Gaius. “Quickly, before he gets away.”

“This again?” Merlin asks, mostly because he’s tired and quite done with the espionage for today.

“This isn’t like the last time,” Arthur defends. "I think he’s going to wherever my body is.”

“What?” It sounds like a ridiculous conclusion.

“Think about it, why would Gaius go somewhere this late with his medicine bag? If he needed to make a delivery, he would ask you. If he needed to treat someone, he would ask you to assist him like he did this morning.”

“Unless it’s someone who doesn’t want anyone to know they’re being treated,” Merlin argues, but in saying so, he seems to have just made Arthur’s point. Arthur clearly recognizes this, so he pushes forward. He suddenly stops short, the forces of the magical bond acting against him.

“C’mon, Merlin, he’s getting away. Just… trust me!” Arthur says, body straining in place.

And damn it, Merlin does.

“This better not end up with me dead,” Merlin says, pointing to Arthur and walking towards him.

Arthur immediately shoots forward, getting as far as he can before the bond stops him again.

“Remember, if I die, you probably do too,” Merlin adds.

“Yeah, yeah, that or I’m stuck with your corpse.” Or they both go on to haunt a third person. “Now, let’s go!”

And that’s how they follow Gaius, with Arthur walking as far ahead as he can to watch him and Merlin trailing slowly behind, sneaking behind statues and vases, or crowding into alcoves and nooks in the wall to avoid being seen. He feels stupid doing it, but Arthur actually looks like he knows what he’s doing, so Merlin resolves to just go along with it.

Finally, Arthur stops in his place looking from the edge of the hallway. Following a distance behind him, Merlin asks, “What? Did you see something?”

“He’s turning into one of the hallways that lead to my chambers. My body is probably being kept there.”

“Hold on.” Merlin trudges over to where Arthur is standing. “Are you telling me that this whole time, we could’ve just gone to your room?”

“Of course not, Merlin, don’t be an idiot,” Arthur says. “If my body is in my room, that means that it’s heavily guarded. There’s no way you could’ve gotten past them.”

“Oh, well, that inspires a lot of confidence—"

Arthur suddenly jolts in place, then moves forward.

“What are you doing ?” Merlin whispers harshly. He remains in his spot in the middle of the hallway, figuring that because of the bond, Arthur won’t be able to continue on. Only, a few moments later, when Arthur is just a few paces away, Merlin feels himself jolt and begins to move forward, too, only without his permission. He flails a little bit, trying to get his legs to stop, but as Arthur continues to stalk along towards his chambers, so does Merlin. Then, as Arthur turns the corner to his chambers, he leads Merlin directly into the view of the guards standing outside of it.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” one of them barks. He’s a rather tall man with medium-length dirty blonde hair and a short, messy beard. The guard next to him is average-sized and wearing a helmet.

Merlin pauses, looking to Arthur for help, but the prince is still walking towards the chambers, almost like he’s in a daze, still dragging Merlin along with him. As he approaches the door, instead of bouncing off of it like last time, he passes through, leaving Merlin alone with the guards.

“Gaius came by this way, right?” Merlin says, thinking on his feet and approaching the guards with as much confidence he can muster. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Leon,” the guard—Leon says, leering at him.

“Well, nice to meet you, Leon.” Merlin sticks out a hand to shake. Leon looks at it derisively, so Merlin drops it back down to his side awkwardly. Clearing his throat, he says, “I’m Merlin, Gaius’ new apprentice.”

Leon turns to the other guard, murmuring, “Did you hear of Gaius taking on an apprentice?”

“Not really,” the guard replies just as quietly. “Although, it does make sense, with his injuries and all.”

It’s then that Merlin is supremely thankful for his own forgetfulness, as well as his luck, because, otherwise, he wouldn’t have held onto the cane all of this time. “That’s partially why I’m here,” he cuts in, pulling it from its bindings and holding it up. “Gaius sent me out to do a number of errands today, including getting this cane. I tried to get back as quickly as I could because—well, you’ve seen the one he’s using, it’s all wobbly and terrible and it looks like it’ll slip out from under him at any minute—but I had just missed him.” He’s hoping to go for a bit bumbling and harmless. “So, he told me that if he wasn’t there when I got back, I should bring it here, so I decided to…do that…” he trails off.

Leon lets out a small, frustrated sigh, like he figured the only interaction he would be having at this post would be in the form of some sort of epic fight and Merlin rattling off about canes is pretty much the antithesis of that. “One moment,” he says, then opens the door to Arthur’s chambers, sticks his head in, and says something Merlin can’t quite make out. Looking in, Merlin just catches a flash of Arthur, who’s standing in place and staring off absently.

Leon nods his head a few times, then steps into the room, holding the door open for Merlin, who passes through with little hesitation. The first thing he notices are the scorch marks—deep black stains which spread from the bed outwards, encapsulating nearby furniture and even touching upon the large curtains by the window.

The second thing he notices is Arthur, but not the one still standing absently in the middle of the room. No, what Merlin sees is Arthur’s body. It’s lying in the center of the bed; eyes closed and face unresponsive. It’s breathing slowly, yet deeply, almost as though it’s merely sleeping.

Merlin instinctively steps forward to...

Suddenly, a spark of energy rushes through him, prickling his skin and making his hairs stand on end. Almost instantly the rush dissipates, then returns once again, like a crashing wave hanging by the shore, waiting for the next to take its place. 

It lures him in and he feels himself take an involuntary step forward. As he moves, so does Arthur, almost as though he were waiting for Merlin’s permission to do so.

“Merlin,” Gaius greets, his voice snapping Merlin back to reality. He’s standing at a table over by the window, pulling medical supplies out of his bag and still leaning on that terrible cane. “I see you brought what I asked you to.” His attitude seems cordial enough, but even with everything going on in the room right now, Merlin can tell how upset he is.

“I’ve got it right here,” Merlin says, trying to remain present. He makes his way over to Gaius, handing him the new cane with a shaky hand as another wave passes through him. He bears down, teeth clenched, trying not to move. Only, the more he resists, the more powerful the wave gets, still trying to pull him towards the bed. He can’t help but flinch on the next one. 

At this, Gaius’ anger seems to lessen, his eyes softening. He switches the new cane out for the old one and normally, Merlin would enjoy watching him appraise it, but there’s too much going on right now and he’s having difficulty focusing.

“Gaius, I need to speak to you about something,” Merlin says, eyes flickering over to Arthur, who must’ve moved again when Merlin did. He’s by the bed now, standing over his own body like a statue, head tilted up and eyes glassy. “In private, please,” Merlin adds, trying to keep his voice even.

Just like Merlin could read Gaius’ anger earlier, Gaius must be able to read Merlin’s urgency because without argument, he turns to Leon and calmly says, “Merlin will assist me from here on out. You may resume your post.”

Leon looks apprehensive for a minute, but nonetheless nods and leaves the room without a word, shutting the door behind him. Another wave hits then, and Merlin almost collapses. Gaius reaches out to steady him, but Merlin ignores him in favor of leaning on the table nearby. It rattles under his weight, but it’s better than putting any more weight on Gaius.

“Merlin, what on earth is going on?” Gaius asks. Now, Merlin can hear the urgency in his voice.

Merlin just shakes his head. He can only focus on keeping himself upright as wave after powerful wave rush through him at full force. Still, he endeavors to watch Arthur, who’s still standing over his own body. Only now his gaze is pointed at Merlin, staring him down impatiently and still waiting. 

Because I’m a part of this. Merlin thinks. Because I always have been.

Merlin lets the wave pull him in, slowly joining Arthur by the bed. It’s like a key in a lock. Arthur moves, stretching his hand out the body before him and letting it settle flat atop it’s chest. When it makes contact, the waves begin to subside and the energy funnels, collecting just under Arthur’s palm and glowing bright. 

Gaius gasps nearby. “What—”

Merlin ignores him, opting instead to follow Arthur’s lead, placing his hand right next to Arthur’s. The rest of the energy suddenly contracts and collects into Merlin’s hand, light shining between his fingers. It’s so... warm.  

And then it dissipates, growing weaker and weaker under his touch until it grows cold. A few moments later, a quick sting has both Merlin and Arthur pulling their hands away simultaneously. 

A rejection. 

Arthur looks at his hand blankly, eyebrows knitting together in confusion as he slowly starts to break from his trance. “Merlin, where are we?” he asks. “What’s going on?”

It reminds Merlin of that time in the meadow, in the beginning days when Arthur was just a scared prince, lost and struggling to remember his home. 

“I—” Merlin falters, head shaking. Because he thought this was going to be it— the moment where he saves Arthur. But he failed…and he doesn’t know why . He turns to Gaius, a strange mixture of defeat and impatience filling his tone. Still, he says it steadily, “I need to know what happened to the prince.”

It’s then that the body before him starts convulsing. Merlin’s gaze instinctively snaps to Arthur, who flickers out and disappears.

Chapter Text

Gaius spends the better part of the night calming the prince’s convulsions. Merlin does his best to help, which mostly comes in the form of running back and forth from the physician’s quarters collecting herbs and mixing them with very loose instructions. Merlin’s work must be to Gaius’ satisfaction, though, because by daybreak, the prince’s body is peaceful once again and he looks simply back to being asleep. 

Even after a few hours of this, Gaius still doesn’t offer any information, nor does he answer Merlin’s questions, but he doesn’t ask Merlin to leave, either, so he doesn’t. 

Eventually, Merlin finds himself sitting at Arthur’s bedside, watching him. He watches the even rise and fall of his chest, the slight movement under his closed eyes, and the occasional, funny twitch of his nose. It stands as proof that he’s here and he’s safe and he’s alive , even if he’s not awake. Right now, Merlin thinks it might be the only thing that can keep the worry at bay, especially with his Arthur still missing.

As the rising sun casts a brighter light across the nearby window pane, Merlin soon notices that this Arthur is somewhat different than his. His hair is longer and stubble shades under the curves of his cheekbones down to the line of his jaw. Aside from that, he looks restless, in a way—his eyes sunken with dark bags forming underneath and his face set with a frown. It’s almost as though all of this sleep has had no effect on him. Of course, the seizures may have contributed to that. 

The last thing Merlin notices, oddly, are the burns. Healed enough to lay bare, they form feathery shapes, flicking up from the bottom of Arthur’s chest all the way to his jawline. It sends a flash of anger through Merlin, hostile and aggressive. 

How could this have happened? From day one, Arthur made his “superior” fighting ability known. So who could’ve been so powerful as to take him on, to put him in this state, and most importantly, to keep Merlin’s magic from healing him? 

“I need to know what happened,” Merlin repeats his earlier statement aloud, finally breaking the hours-long silence. 

There’s a long, awkward space where nothing happens and when Merlin finally looks up, Gaius appears oddly unfazed. He raises a singular eyebrow and asks, “Just why do you need to know?”

Merlin looks to Arthur’s body, to his face, once again. Sometime during the night, the prince’s hair became partially clustered atop his forehead, plastered to the skin with sweat from all of the movement. Merlin gently brushes it out of the way and is suddenly struck, once again, by Arthur’s beauty, by his realness . He’s right here in front of Merlin, no longer just a ghost or someone in Merlin’s head. This is a real person, a real prince and more than that, a real friend , despite what Arthur may say. And he needs Merlin’s help. 

Arthur’s body lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh at Merlin’s touch, but nonetheless resumes his restless slumber. Merlin looks back up to Gaius, who seems to have been watching him. He has an odd look on his face, one which Merlin can’t quite make out, but it’s gone before Merlin can truly try to decipher it. 

“I can see the prince,” Merlin says before he loses his nerve. 

Gaius, seemingly unfazed, slowly raises an eyebrow then looks to the prince pointedly, as though to say, “As can I, he’s right there.”

“No, not like that,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “I mean I can see him even when I’m not in here. He appears to me, almost like a ghost—has for about a month now.”

A pause. “And you can... see him right now?” Gaius asks, face still unreadable.

“No,” Merlin says around the sudden lump in his throat. Clearing it, he continues, “No, I haven’t seen him since last night when the seizures started.” 

Another pause. “You’re worried for him,” Gaius guesses. It’s not a question, but Merlin nods anyway. 

Gaius then studies him for a long time, eyes discerning. He flicks his gaze once to the door and back to Merlin again, then nods once and without another word, stands up, using his new cane to help. Merlin suddenly feels a flash of panic and jumps up to…he doesn’t know what—help him, stop him from outing Merlin, make a run for it— but settles back down when Gaius puts out a placating hand. 

“I think it’d be best if we continued this discussion back in my quarters,” Gaius whispers, looking to the door once again. “In case any prying ears might be listening.” 

“Does this mean you believe me?” Merlin asks. Gaius ignores him in favor of turning to pack his things. Merlin rushes to follow him. “Wait, what about Arthur? We can’t just leave him all alone.” 

Gaius’ eyes widen incrementally at Merlin’s casual use of the prince’s name, but he quickly recovers. “He’s been stable for a while now and someone should be around soon to attend him. They will send word of any changes in his status.” He pointedly looks back to Arthur’s still-calm body to validate his statement. “Also, after what I saw last night, I’m getting the impression that the prince’s ailments are a bit beyond my capabilities at this moment.” 

Merlin has a million questions, but holds his tongue. Gaius is right, it’s best that they aren’t overheard. So, instead Merlin busies himself with helping Gaius finish packing and carrying his medical supplies.

On their way out, Gaius offers goodbyes to the guards, who both wave in kind but ignore Merlin entirely. Leon goes far enough to openly scowl at Merlin, no doubt still finding his odd and sudden appearance last night somewhat suspicious. Merlin doesn’t have the heart to worry about it, given the circumstances. If Leon heard anything, Merlin would have already been arrested by now. 

The walk back to Gaius’ quarters feels longer than it ever has, especially without Arthur there to fill the silence. Merlin half-expects him to suddenly appear, to berate Merlin for being so flippant with his magic and with his big secret, but he doesn’t. Merlin would take it, though. At this point, he’d put up with almost anything just to know that the prince is okay, even the worst of his whining and rude comments. 

And suddenly that worry Merlin’s been putting off all night begins to resurface, along with a sense of overwhelming confusion. It just doesn't make sense. Last night, when he felt that magic and that warmth underneath his palm, he thought everything would be okay. He thought he would finally save Arthur. Then, it rejected him.

But why? If he wasn’t meant to save Arthur, then why has he been seeing him? And if he was meant to save him and Arthur is missing, does that mean Merlin really did fail, that he wasn’t strong enough? 

And what if Arthur doesn’t come back? What if I’m the reason he doesn’t come back? What if it’s all my fault?

With a loud smack, Merlin is jolted back into reality. Apparently he was too lost in his spiraling thoughts to register their arrival at Gaius’ quarters. Gaius, himself, is already across the room by his little library, heavily stacking tome after tome onto a nearby table. 

Merlin warily makes his way over to him. “What are you doing?” he asks. 

“I’m compiling every resource which may explain what you’ve been seeing,” Gaius says plainly, half distracted. 

“So you do believe me,” Merlin asks, confirming what he already suspected, what he already hoped for. 

“I believe that you are seeing something, yes,” Gaius explains apprehensively. “And I do believe that it has to be magical in nature. Whether that is the prince, a conjuring of the prince, or some sort of illusion casted by an enemy of Camelot, I’m not sure...”

Merlin jumps to deny the last two, but decides to let it go for now. “But you believe that I am seeing something?” he asks because that’s what matters right now. “You believe that I mean Arthur no harm, even after what happened last night?”

“Yes, I do,” Gaius says resolutely and without hesitation. 

“But...why?”

Gaius takes a deep breath. “Well...because you had multiple chances to kill the prince in his chambers and you didn’t, because I strain to comprehend why you would lie about something so specific when it could hold such dire consequences for you, and mainly, because I would believe that King Uther, himself, was an evil sorcerer before I would believe that Hunith would raise her child to be anything but good—and send him here, even if he weren’t. Therefore, I decided quite quickly that whatever your intentions in Camelot may be, they must be benevolent.” 

And Merlin is...touched. He’s touched that Gaius would think so highly of him, a virtual stranger, that he would believe Merlin without barely a speck of evidence to support his claims. More off, he’s touched at Gaius’ goodwill towards his mother, of his faith in her. A twinge of sadness strikes Merlin’s heart at the memory of her, of her absence, but it dissipates in the face of the much more pressing matter at hand. 

“Plus,” Gaius adds on somewhat belatedly, “there seems to be something between the two of you. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but even with the prince in that state...there’s a familiarity there. That isn’t something that can be faked so easily, I suppose.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to do with that statement, doesn’t know how to process it amongst all that’s been going on, so he doesn’t. Instead, he turns to thank Gaius, to thank him for everything , but the man has already turned back to sorting through his vast assortment of tomes. So, Merlin takes his answer for the gift it is, and sets forth perusing what has already been laid out—collections regarding vengeful spirits, ghosts, reanimation spells, and necromancy. 

“Why are so many of these about death?” Merlin asks. “Arthur isn’t dead. I saw him breathing.”

“I know he isn’t, but from the little you’ve told me and what I’ve inferred, this is the closest we can get—they’re the only books I have on discorporation, or a removal of one’s soul from their body. It shouldn’t necessarily matter if the body is dead or not.”

Merlin nods. At one point, even he thought that Arthur might’ve been an actual ghost sent to haunt him for whatever reason. Perhaps there’s some sort of connection there. 

“Of course,” Gaius continues, “maybe if you told me about how this all started, or about what happened last night, then I could more accurately find what we need…”

“Only if you tell me what happened to Arthur,” Merlin shoots back, growing a bit tired of Gaius’ seemingly sporadic aloofness and general lack of answers. 

Gaius frowns, almost as though he was hoping Merlin forgot. He drops one last book onto the pile before taking a seat on a patient bed nearby. After a moment of contemplation, he nods, then prefaces, “I assume if the prince had any memory of what occurred that night, then he would be able to tell you what happened…”

“All he remembers is some sort of celebration, which we found out from Gwen was for the anniversary of the purge on magic in Camelot,” Merlin says with a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“And I know you know of the sorceress’ attack from our conversation earlier...”

Merlin nods. “But I’m just not sure why she attacked.”

Gaius sighs deeply. “A few days before the celebration, her son was executed for using sorcery to yield better crops. Uther burned him at the stake, along with his unharvested plants, claiming to ‘purify the land of evil, down to the deepest root.’”

Merlin bites his tongue, still-raw from yesterday’s council meeting, tasting blood once again. 

Gaius continues on with a knowing look, “After the fire died down and the embers were stomped out, the sorceress proclaimed her vengeance on the king…and on the prince. Perhaps we should have heeded her warning more. There is rarely a power strong enough to battle a mother’s love for her child.”

Or a child’s love for his mother. Merlin finishes automatically. He’s hit with another pang of sadness, only not just for himself, but for Arthur, who only seems to have a tyrant for a father.

“So, she decided she wanted an eye for an eye,” Merlin guesses. “A son for a son.”

Gaius nods. “And she wanted Arthur to burn.”

So that explains the scorch marks in Arthur’s chambers and the burns on his skin. A sick feeling settles in Merlin’s chest, one he can’t entirely describe. “But why didn’t he die?” Merlin asks. The fire most certainly reached him, so how did he survive? His eyes widen. “Morgana. She caught her, didn’t she?”

“So you were listening earlier,” Gaius guesses, as though he already suspected it, but he doesn’t look particularly angry about it, his face bearing only slight exasperation and a tinge of...sadness. It makes sense, given the topic. From what Merlin observed last night, Gaius must care for Morgana a lot.

“I heard her say that she saw the sorceress,” Merlin says, treading lightly. 

“She did, indeed,” Gaius says. “A terrible sight. The best we could estimate was that the sorceress cast some sort of sleeping spell on the prince before she started the fire. Perhaps it was meant to be a small mercy, or perhaps it was just so that he couldn’t get away. Either way, Morgana had to see him helpless to the flames surrounding him. It was her scream that alerted the nearby guards. She was found huddled on the floor, scorch marks fraying the edge of her dress. She hasn’t been the same since.”  

“Of course not,” Merlin says, somber. “And what of the sorceress?”

“Dead,” Gaius says. “Burned by her own flames. I suspect it was her plan all along, to kill Arthur and then...join her son, so to speak. Also, for most magic users, casting a spell that size is exhausting. She may not have had the energy to escape, anyways.”

Merlin gets the urge to laugh, which feels very grim. It’s just...lighting things on fire with magic is something he could probably do in his sleep. And when he was very young, he did. It went away after a while, but for a period of time, his mother kept emergency pails of water around the house.

Merlin wants to ask Gaius more. He wants to ask about what Morgana meant by, “him,” and how she knew to go to Arthur’s chambers that night, and what it all has to do with her nightmares. Only, he’s afraid if he pushes too much, Gaius might shut him down or ignore him again. 

“So is that why he’s like this?” Merlin asks. “Arthur, I mean. He’s still under some sort of sleeping spell?”

“That is the assumption that I’ve been working under,” Gaius says. “But recently, with you here, I’m not so sure. Although, it would help to know everything…”

Merlin takes the cue for what it is and starts from the beginning.

And as he does, he begins to realize that there isn’t much to say. Merlin supposes that this whole thing has been as much of a mystery to him as it would be to Gaius, and there isn’t much information to supplement. Nonetheless, he makes efforts to spare no detail, even telling Gaius his theory of Arthur sticking around the closer they got to his body, an idea which has pretty much been solidified after what happened last night. Gaius sits through this with an almost studious look. His eyes light up during specific beats in the story, notably at Merlin’s theory, as well as at the mention of the minimal distance they can travel away from one another, but he keeps his comments to himself until Merlin finishes. 

“It seems that there’s some sort of magical bond between the two of you,” Gaius says. “Almost like Arthur’s very soul is tethered to yours.”

Merlin. That deep voice in his head calls, almost crooning.

“But why? And why me?” Merlin asks, trying not to flinch. With all of his explaining, he decided not to tell Gaius about the voice in his head, once again not wanting to push it too far and lose his help. Even Arthur seemed put off by it. “I’m a no one from a farming village in another kingdom. Why would the prince of Camelot be bonded to me?”

“Of that I am not entirely sure. Perhaps it’s because of your powerful magic, or maybe for some reason, a bond already existed between you before any of this happened,” Gaius says. 

Merlin. 

Merlin shakes his head. He still doesn’t get it. Magic or not, it just doesn’t make sense. 

“Or perhaps destiny has brought you two together for some reason,” Gaius continues. “Maybe it was always fated that you two would meet.”

Merlin. The voice calls again. I am growing tired of waiting. It says finally before fizzling out. Merlin just barely has enough time to process all of it before Arthur appears before him. 

“Arthur!” Merlin can’t help but laugh out of pure relief at the sight of him. 

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, confused. “What’s going on? What happened?” He looks all around, trying to catalogue his surroundings. “How did we get back here?” To perhaps anyone else, he would seem calm and collected, but Merlin can hear the panic setting in his voice, can see the slight heaviness of his breathing. 

“I take it he's returned safely, then,” Gaius says with a pleased smile. “Wonderful!”

Arthur’s eyes snap to Gaius and he instinctively steps in front of Merlin, as though he’s going to protect him from the old man, who has already returned to perusing through his collection. Arthur turns back to give Merlin a wild look. “You told him? Have you lost your mind?”

“It’s okay,” Merlin says, keeping his voice calm. He puts out a placating hand, stepping around Arthur to address him face to face and Arthur’s eyes lock to his form. “Gaius is trying to help us. He believes me and he wants to help us.” 

“My assistance would be made more useful if you could enlighten me more on your condition, though, my Lord,” Gaius chimes in from behind Merlin. 

“It’s okay,” Merlin says one last time. “ I’m okay.” Arthur’s nods, eyes searching Merlin’s as his breathing evens out. And Merlin is suddenly hit with this strong swell of emotion, one which feels even more powerful than the magic he felt last night. It’s a potent mixture of the stress and magic and exhaustion and the thought that Arthur could be gone forever finally releasing from his system. His eyes start to prickle against his will and he finds that all he wants to do right now is wrap Arthur up in his arms, close his eyes and bask in his warmth. He thinks it might be the only thing that could bring him relief, bring him comfort. 

And when did he get so lost over some prince in his head? Maybe it was the thought of losing him that did it. Maybe it was done a long time ago. Maybe, as Gaius said, it was always meant to be done. 

Arthur looks at him with an unreadable expression. He shakes his head, closing his eyes, then takes a deep, calming breath, and finally opens them. “Okay, what did I miss?”

Chapter Text

Part of Merlin was hoping that after Gaius explained to Arthur what happened to him on the night he was attacked, Arthur would remember something, anything, but he doesn’t. So, just as in the dark as they were before Arthur reappeared, the three of them have no choice but to continue with Gaius’ plan to research ways to get Arthur back to his body. But before they can do that, they must first understand what kind of spell put him in this position in the first place.

“What about this?” Merlin asks aloud. Currently, they’re all sitting in Gaius’ chambers, trying their best to search through the last of the sources Gaius thought might be relevant. 

“Merlin, page,” Arthur commands and Merlin reaches over to turn the page of the book sitting before him, then returns to his own. 

“Here it says that sometimes ghosts are used to exact retribution on an enemy,” Merlin continues. “Maybe the sorceress wanted to use you to get back at the king, Arthur.”

Arthur ignores him, seemingly too engrossed in his book. Merlin frowns, scanning it quickly—something about communicating with the dead. 

“Then why would he appear to you, of all people, instead of Uther?” Gaius asks, redirecting Merlin’s attention. 

“Uther hates those who use magic, so maybe there’s a connection there...” Merlin says, but it doesn’t sound right to his own ears.

“I don’t think so,” Gaius says. “It would be too complicated a feat to pull off. Plus, how would she even know about you?”

“I suppose she couldn’t,” Merlin says, frowning once again. He thumbs through the pages of his book, carefully rereading to see if there’s anything he missed, even though he knows that there isn’t. Frustrated, he slams it closed. “I just don’t get it. If she wanted to punish Uther for executing her son, then why do this to him, where Uther can’t even see him?”

“Perhaps she wanted the pain to last longer,” Gaius says. “Perhaps she wanted him to slowly watch Arthur die.”

Merlin instinctively shoots a look towards Arthur, who continues to remain focused on the book before him, almost carefully so. It’s something that Merlin had to consider last night, Arthur dying. It’s something he still may have to consider, should they not find a way to save him. 

Merlin shakes his head, trying to push it off. “Then why start the fire?” he asks. “Why try to burn him?”

“Perhaps she panicked,” Gaius says. “Morgana found her and screamed, so she had to think quickly. The fire was a last resort in killing him.” 

“But if her original intent was to separate Arthur from his body, then she already completed her mission. Why would she need a backup? And back when you thought it was just a sleeping spell, you said that that alone would be enough to exhaust her. Wouldn’t this be even worse? How could she start a fire after a spell like that—”” 

“No matter the reason for it,” Gaius interrupts, stopping Merlin in his tracks, “the purpose of whatever spell she cast was to harm the prince and the result is what you’re seeing now. At this point, all we can do is work off of what we already know—Arthur’s consciousness is somehow detached from his body while it’s still alive. Whether that be due to the spell the sorceress cast or not, I suggest that that is all we focus on for now—his state, as is.”

Merlin nods his head. Obviously, speculation has gotten them nowhere. If only they knew more about that night. He hesitates briefly, not sure how to broach the subject. “Are you sure that Morgana didn’t see anything? Maybe if she heard some sort of spell, I could—”

Gaius shuts him down with a scolding look. “I assure you that if the poor thing saw anything of substance to help the prince, she would have already come forth with it.” 

Merlin nods. It makes sense: Morgana seems to be more openly distraught about that night than anyone. If she saw something, she would’ve said something. Merlin sends Gaius an apologetic smile and the old man’s expression softens before he turns back to the tomes before him. 

“So, we’re back to where we started, then,” Arthur says, finally chiming in, “with nothing.”

“Pretty much,” Merlin says. “But we’ve been there before and we’ve survived.” 

“So far,” Arthur says, but before Merlin can think of a response, he has already returned to his book. A few moments later, he says, “Merlin, page.” Merlin rolls his eyes, but leans over to turn it for him. It’s a particularly dense book, so it should keep Arthur busy for a while.

 Merlin blows out a breath, returning to his own research, and settles in for a long day. 

---

In the three days following the beginning of their research, after scouring nearly every resource in Gaius’ library on vengeful spirits, specters, ghouls, ghosts, and anything having to do with the reanimation of the dead, they virtually find no solution to Arthur’s predicament—no specific spells, no incantations, not even a tonic which could be helpful. They even visit Arthur’s body a few times, trying a few spells and medicinal remedies, but nothing happens and Arthur doesn’t wake up. 

Nonetheless, they don’t stop trying. 

“Ofgiefan ðe brêostloca lêoðrestan rêost,” Merlin chants in a whisper, hand outstretched. He feels his magic spark in response, growing and collecting in his chest before shooting down his arm and out from his fingertips. He waits for it to find its target, the body before him, but it ultimately dissipates in the air. “Do you feel any different?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“No,” Arthur says, sitting up from his place on the bed. His ghostly upper half sticks straight up and out of the body beneath him while his lower half remains lined up with it, making it look like two men who share a pair of legs. He stands up, leaving the bed and body entirely, then shakes himself in an odd, wiggling motion. “Gods, that felt weird.”

“It was even weirder to see,” Merlin says, plopping down on the side of the bed in frustration and exhaustion. Using incantations to cast spells is different from how he usually uses magic, especially ones as complicated as what he just cast. They’re more concentrated and precise, but more tiring. And this is the fifth one he’s cast today alone. 

“That was the last of the spells for vengeful spirits,” Gaius says in a low voice, shooing Merlin from his place on the bed. 

“Well, at least we can rule that out, then,” Arthur says at full volume, making Merlin flinch. He takes Merlin’s previous place on the bed and lies back with a sigh. “Maybe I’m not here to haunt you, after all,” he says with a smile. 

“Yet you still do,” Merlin says with a taunting smirk. Seemingly as if to prove him wrong, Arthur disappears, his smile turning wry just before the fact. Once he’s gone, Merlin blows out a breath and runs a hand down his face, frustration resurfacing. 

“I take it he’s left us once again,” Gaius guesses. 

“Yeah,” Merlin says dully. “He’s gone.”

“Well, I suppose we are done for the day, then,” Gaius says with a sigh, walking over to the windowsill to rummage through his medicine bag. “Come, let’s pack up our things, and then we will return to my quarters for more research.” Merlin follows him, wordlessly clearing errant herbs and small cut pieces of cloth from the nightstand and tossing them into the basin of dirty water at the foot of the bed along the way. “I have a few more spells I want you to try out,” Gaius adds in a whisper once Merlin has joined him. 

Merlin nods rotely. It’s what Gaius says every time they come here, every time they leave without any answers. Usually, it gives Merlin hope, enough to push him forward into their next stage of research and then into trying whatever new spell, tonic, or elixir they find. Lately, though, with so many failures, Merlin can feel his capacity for hope getting smaller and smaller.

He flicks his gaze back to Arthur’s body, internally noting the paleness of his complexion, the thin sheen of sweat atop his skin that never seems to go away, his sunken eyes, and their restless movements. He looks just as he did the night of his convulsions, perhaps even worse now. 

Gaius registers Merlin's pause and looks to Arthur’s body, as well. “Don’t worry, my boy, we will find a cure eventually,” he says thoughtfully, then pats Merlin on the back. “We are doing all that we can for now.” He turns back to Merlin, eyes soft and full of understanding. 

“I know,” Merlin says, trying his best to believe it himself, at least for Gaius’ sake. 

Without another word, Gaius turns to grab his medicine bag. He must think better of it, though, because once he’s got it in his hands, he tosses it to Merlin, who buckles under the weight. Gaius chuckles, slowly setting towards the door, cane in hand. 

Merlin feels the corners of his mouth go up. If there’s been any good news over the past few days, it’s been Gaius’ slowly increasing endurance. Because Merlin has been here to take on his more labor-intensive duties, the physician has finally been able to get some of the rest he needs to heal, and it shows. Lately, he’s been able to get around with just his cane, only needing Merlin’s help to carry his bag or assist him up a flight of stairs every now and then. 

Just seeing it makes the burden of today’s failure a little lighter. 

On their way out, Merlin makes sure to tuck his list of spells deep into his pocket and tries to keep a calm face as they pass the guards. As usual, Leon waves goodbye to Gaius, but scowls at Merlin, watching him with narrowed eyes until he’s out of his line of sight. 

As Merlin and Gaius are halfway to their destination, something occurs to Merlin. “Why is Leon always the one guarding Arth—I mean the prince’s chambers,” he asks, lowering his voice as they pass a cluster of servants. “The other guards seem to switch positions, so why doesn’t he?”

“That is because he isn’t a guard,” Gaius says. “He’s a knight.” At Merlin’s confused face, he lets out a chuckle. “Didn’t you notice that his armor is completely different from that of his counterpart?”

“No, I didn’t,” Merlin says, more to himself. “I don’t like to be in Leon’s presence long enough to notice what he’s wearing.” Gaius nods in understanding. “But, if he’s a knight, then why does he spend his time guarding Arthur’s chambers? Shouldn’t he be off training or something?”

“Indeed, but Leon and the prince have a special sort of relationship,” Gaius says and Merlin’s heart sinks at his phrasing. “You see, Leon was a sort of mentor to Arthur growing up and when Arthur came of age, took him on as his squire. He trained Arthur to be the knight that he is today.” 

“So, he was like an older brother to him,” Merlin says and Gaius nods. Merlin releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding and mentally berates himself. Arthur isn’t actually his prince. Merlin keeps forgetting that, somehow. 

“He’s been standing outside his door ever since he was injured, from sunup to sundown,” Gaius continues on. “There is rarely a time where I don’t see him there.”

“I didn’t know that,” Merlin says, frowning. 

“Yes, well, as you said before, there are many who care for the prince, those who would be saddened by his absence,” Gaius says.

At the time he said it, Merlin was just trying to get information out of the old man, but his words still ring true. Back then, before he knew anything about what happened to Arthur or why, he still understood the effect it had on the people of Camelot. It was there to greet him when he first arrived and has followed him throughout his journey, settled there in Gaius’ hard-set determination, in Gwen’s hopeful words, Morgana’s nightmares, Leon’s protection, and even in Uther’s rage, his mercilessness. 

By the time they’re back at the physician’s quarters, something else occurs to Merlin. “The king—he never visits Arthur, does he?” he asks.

Gaius’ face falls suddenly, a deep sadness perforating his features. “No, no he doesn’t,” he says, almost simply, before turning away from Merlin to repack his medicine bag. Merlin watches him in silence, not knowing what to say and not tactless enough to ask any more questions. 

When Gaius finishes, he sets his bag aside for the next day, then makes good on his earlier promise and quietly prepares Merlin for the spells they’re going to try next. Merlin listens attentively and once he’s gotten them down, Gaius asks him to go collect herbs for the potions to pair with the spells, which Merlin does without complaint. 

As Merlin journeys to the familiar fields surrounding the citadel, he starts to think about what it means to be devoted to someone: what it is to love them, to be willing to do anything for them no matter what the cost. He first thinks of his mother and Will, of why he came to Camelot in the first place, to save them, to risk life and limb so that they could be safe and free. He was willing to do it even before Arthur showed up, willing to risk everything, to be carted away to some distant castle, his magic used to fight King Cenred’s endless wars. 

Sometimes he thinks that that would’ve been easier than this. At least then he would’ve been assured of his mother’s safety. Here, without Arthur’s help and should Merlin not be able to get back home in time, his village is doomed to starve. So, why didn’t he just stay?

Because of Arthur. His mind supplies easily. Because he was scared. 

And perhaps it’s true—no, Merlin knows it is. He came here because of Arthur, too. He stayed here, continues to stay here, because he wants Arthur to be safe, too. 

Because he’s devoted to him now, too. Because he loves him. 

It’s a notion that shouldn’t surprise him—some part of him has known it all along, he wouldn’t still be here if he didn’t—but the sudden, solid realization of it is like a punch to the chest and before he knows it, he’s fallen to the ground, the herbs he’s already collected dropped and scattered around him. 

“You’re so clumsy,” Arthur says, suddenly appearing. He bends down, almost as though he’s going to help Merlin gather his fallen feverfew, but ultimately settles into a squat, looking Merlin in the eye and waiting for him to recover. And all Merlin can do is just stare at him. “Hey,” Arthur says, waving a hand in front of Merlin’s eyes. When Merlin doesn’t respond, his eyebrows knit together. “I thought I was supposed to be the one who disappears.” 

Merlin watches him for a moment, takes in the sincerity in his eyes, then blinks, shakes his head, and stands up abruptly. “Well—uh,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “now that you’re here, maybe you can make yourself useful and keep a lookout for patches of yarrow.” He quickly snatches the feverfew from the ground and shoves it under his armpit before quickly walking away. “Hurry up, though, they’ll be harder to spot once the sun starts to go down,” he shouts over his shoulder. 

Merlin hears Arthur outwardly scoff behind him, no doubt horribly insulted at the idea that someone like Merlin would try to give him orders. He follows behind and Merlin, still not ready to face him in light of his recent realization, breaks into a sprint.

“You know you can’t outrun me, right?” Arthur yells but nonetheless decides to give chase. He catches up with Merlin easily, but for a solid few seconds, Merlin gains on him, to both their utter confusion. Eventually, though, Arthur finds a strong lead and uses it to propel himself in front of Merlin’s field of vision, startling Merlin into tripping. He hits the ground hard, groaning.

Arthur leans down from above him, a self-satisfied look on his face, which eventually fades into a thoughtful one. “You know, you’re not too bad,” he says, voice infuriatingly even. Merlin, on the other hand, is practically gasping for air. “Not knight quality, obviously, but you’re pretty fast. So that’s something, I guess.”

Merlin rolls his eyes but waits to regain some semblance of his composure before saying, “Glad I have some worth, then,” in a wheezing voice. Gods, he’s out of shape. Was he always this out of shape? He takes another moment to pull himself together, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. To his surprise, Arthur lets him recover in silence, not taking the opportunity to snipe back as Merlin expected he would. 

Once Merlin finally feels semi-normal again, he opens his eyes, only to find that Arthur has seemingly checked out from the conversation entirely. In fact, he’s not even looking in Merlin’s direction anymore, now standing up and staring off into the distance. 

“Did you find some yarrow, then?” Merlin asks. He tries his best to follow Arthur’s gaze, but finds nothing on the other side of it, save for a small cluster of bushes and the barren ground beneath them.

Arthur doesn’t respond, so Merlin studies his face only to find no expression, just a blank, open stare, his eyes unfocussed. Merlin shoots up from his place on the ground, his heart rate rapid. Arthur looks just as he did the other night Merlin’s magic failed, like when he was leading Merlin to his chambers. Only, this time, Merlin doesn’t feel any magic, and Arthur isn’t moving. 

“Arthur?” Merlin calls. Instinctively, he tries putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder to gain his attention, and even though it passes through, as usual, it seems to do the trick. He jolts in place, snapping out of...whatever seemed to be holding him. 

Turning to look back at Merlin, his face smooths and his lips turn upward into an easy smile. “I know, right?” he says with a laugh. “Who would’ve thought?”

There’s a strange sort of silence while Merlin tries to work out what just happened until he suddenly realizes that Arthur is responding to his earlier comment. The longer Merlin doesn’t say anything, though, the more Arthur tunes into the fact that something is wrong. He sends Merlin a questioning look and Merlin studies him for a few more seconds. 

He looks fine—well, as far as Merlin can tell with the sun setting and all. Maybe he just got distracted for a few moments. All in all, it wasn’t that long of a pause. Maybe it just felt longer than it actually was because Merlin was scared of a repeat of what happened a few nights ago.

“Merlin?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says, shaking his head. Arthur looks at him like he doesn’t believe him. “Seriously, it’s nothing.” Because it probably was. “Anyways, I—uh, I think there’s some yarrow over there,” he says, pointing eastward. He had already scouted it out before Arthur even appeared. 

Arthur studies him for a few more moments, then follows his gaze, scanning the area before locking on to the small patch in question. “I’ll race you,” he says. 

Merlin forces a laugh, dipping down to pick up the feverfew he dropped again after their last race. “Absolutely not. I am not doing that again,” he says in what he hopes is a stern voice, but Arthur has already taken off. 

“Dammit,” Merlin says and starts running, clutching the herbs tightly to his chest. 

Arthur beats him this time, but only by a hair. Still, it doesn’t keep him from bragging about it all the way back to the physician’s quarters. Merlin mostly ignores him, though, too fixated on the way the light from the lanterns throughout the castle bounce off of his skin, revealing a paleness that Merlin could’ve sworn wasn’t there before. 

---

Merlin tries to ignore it. 

Maybe it was just a trick of the light. He tells himself. Maybe the exhaustion and stress are just getting the better of me, making me see what isn’t there. 

Only once he does see it, he can’t unsee it. 

Arthur is…different now, and not just in terms of his appearance—although his skin never does shake the pallor that Merlin saw the other night. No, more than that, he’s…absent, in a way—distant, even. Lately, he is less likely to initiate conversation and less likely to react immediately when Merlin tries to. He also doesn't make fun of Merlin as much when he trips over his words or flubs an incantation. He doesn't really make fun of Merlin much at all anymore. 

Honesty, if someone told Merlin a week ago that Arthur was acting like this, Merlin would praise the gods, for he would finally have some peace and quiet. But now, it just feels wrong, almost like something has been taken from him—taken from Arthur, too. 

And he can’t ignore it, he just can’t, not when the situation is so dire. So, he swallows his fear, his sadness, his shame, and does what he thinks is right, what he thinks will be the most helpful. 

“He didn’t even seem to notice it. He just continued on, as though we were still having a conversation,” Merlin says. 

“So, he was unaware that anything happened?” Gaius asks from his place at the table, the feverfew Merlin collected a few days ago laid out before him. Merlin sits down on the opposite side, putting his head in his hands. This week, alone, has been one of the most exhausting of his life, both physically and emotionally. 

“Not until he saw how I reacted, no,” Merlin mumbles, his voice partially obscured by his fingers. 

“Perhaps one of the spells you cast earlier had some sort of adverse effect?”

“No, none of them have worked so far,” Merlin says, shaking his head and looking up. “Not even close.”

Gaius’ lips turn downward and after a few moments of silence, he sighs and says, “I was worried something like this would happen…”

Merlin feels his heart drop. “What do you mean?” 

Gaius stands up and Merlin makes to aid him, but the old man holds out a hand and Merlin stills, remaining seated. Gaius then makes his way over to his library, pulling out a small book that Merlin recognizes by the cover, but is unaware of its contents—it was one of the books that Gaius was in charge of reading when they initially began their research and since it didn’t contain any spells relevant to Arthur’s predicament, it was discarded and placed back on the shelf.

Gaius places it on the table, then turns back to grab another book, then another, and then a few large tomes. Merlin recognizes all of them, has even read a few, and with every new source Gaius assembles, he starts to understand the point the old man is trying to make. Nonetheless, he lets Gaius explain it, anyway. 

“All of these books are different sources on the state of specters after they have passed,” he says. “Some are first-hand accounts and much is speculative. Almost all, though, seem to agree on one fact: a soul is not meant to live in between the realm of the living and the dead. It goes against the balance of nature—you are either supposed to live or die, anything in between is abnormal.” He removes a book from the stack, then, flipping a few pages in. “Which is why we see ghosts, those who, for one reason or another, have enough ties to the living to keep them from passing on.”

Gaius pushes the book forward, angling it so Merlin can see the page he’s referencing. On it lies an illustration of a woman suspended in air, her arms lifted with bindings around each of her wrists. On one side, the binding is a red silk ribbon, which pulls her more toward the left of the page, while the other is a vine made of ivy which pulls her towards the right. An invisible line cuts halfway down her body, bisecting it into two different states: one of the living and one of the dead. The silk side depicts her as being full of light, with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, while the ivy side has her eye closed, her skin colorless and grey. 

“Arthur has a few tangible ties to our realm: his body is still alive, his consciousness is still active, he has many of his memories,” Gaius says. “Only, he has been like this for the better part of a month now. I’m just not sure how much time his body has left in this state, operating without a soul to inhabit it, fighting off injury and infection—”

“Plus the convulsions,” Merlin interjects. Gaius’ eyes soften, but he doesn’t argue with Merlin’s point. There’s a cruel silence, then, one not borne of any cruelty between the two, but in the circumstances.

“I’m afraid that as his body continues to decline, Arthur’s soul will, as well,” Gaius says, finally. “I am afraid that without a secure enough foothold here in our plane, he will pass on to the next.”

“He’ll die, you mean?” Merlin asks and Gaius nods. Merlin can only feel defeated, his shoulders sinking and his head dropping to his hands once again. “Why did you keep this from me?”

“I had hoped that it wasn’t the case, and I didn’t want to worry you,” Gaius says. Merlin knows why—he probably didn’t want Merlin to feel as he does now, didn’t want him to bear the shame of it all. 

It’s all my fault.

“Maybe I should’ve never come here,” Merlin says after a while. Maybe Arthur would’ve had more time then, more of a fighting chance.

“No, my boy,” Gaius says firmly. He places a gentle hand on Merlin’s arm, and Merlin raises his head to look at him. Gaius holds his gaze unflinchingly. “Quite the opposite, for the bond between you two is also something which tethers him here. And the magic you have, the things you can do, is one of the reasons, perhaps the primary reason, that we can still have hope.”

“But that magic didn’t work, it isn’t working,” Merlin says. “And this bond you speak of, if it were truly so strong, why wasn’t I able to save him? Why can’t I, still?” A torrent of emotions build up in his chest, overflowing. He takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts, then whispers, “I just...can’t help but feel like I’m failing.” 

Gaius watches him for a moment in silence, then, eyes discerning. Finally, he says, “You know, for weeks before you came here, I searched through every tome, book, and scrap of paper that I could on sleeping spells, sleeping enchantments, and how to reverse them. I even tried to cast a few spells, myself…”

Merlin’s eyes widen at this. It had occurred to him before, the idea that Gaius may have used magic in the past, especially considering how knowledgeable he is on the subject. But to hear him say it aloud? Merlin wasn’t expecting that.

“...only for nothing to work,” Gaius continues. “I, too, thought I had failed, yet I still kept him alive. I did everything I could to make sure his wounds healed, to help his body fight off infection, to keep his limbs from growing weak from inaction. Would you say, then, that I failed?” Merlin shakes his head automatically and Gaius’ expression lightens. “No, I didn’t, and you know what? If I didn’t do any of that, didn’t do everything in my power to help, we wouldn’t be here, right now, with an actual shot at finding a cure.”

Merlin nods, mostly to himself, in understanding. 

Gaius continues, “It will come, just give it time. And until then, accept that you are doing all that you can and that it is enough. In fact, you may already be helping in ways that you cannot understand yet.” He leaves Merlin with that, returning to his previous place at the table to continue plucking and assorting leaves of feverfew. 

After a few moments of contemplation, Merlin steps over to join him. 

“This morning, the prince felt a bit warm to the touch. I suspect a slight fever could perhaps be the source of his odd coloring, his body trying to burn off any remaining infection,” Gaius explains. Merlin nods, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. After that they work in silence, preparing and jarring the herbs for the next day, and Merlin tries to convince himself that it’s enough, that even doing this much can be helpful. 

The next day, before their daily visit to Arthur's body, Gaius walks Merlin through brewing feverfew tea. They boil water in a tin cup over a small fire, steep the leaves, and let the liquid cool before pouring it into a waterskin. They then journey to Arthur’s chambers, pass the guard and Leon, and administer the treatment. Gaius has Merlin support the prince’s body during this, cradling his head and neck as they pour the liquid into his mouth. After this is done, Arthur shivers in his arms, his breath coming out in stuttering puffs, but eventually he calms, as does his breathing. A sigh escapes his lips as Merlin gently lays his head back on the pillow beneath him, his expression almost peaceful. Merlin wipes the sweat and hair from his forehead, which seems to soothe him further. 

“That should do the trick, but we will have to keep up with it for a few days for it to truly take effect,” Gaius says, somewhere far off. Merlin only nods, his eyes still trained on the prince before him. 

“I can take care of that,” Merlin says with a small smile. “I’ll make sure he gets what he needs.” 

“I know you will,” Gaius says. 

When Merlin finally looks up to address him properly, he catches something in his peripheral vision—Arthur, who Merlin didn’t even notice appear. He briefly wonders how long he’s been standing there, wonders what little he saw of Merlin’s devotion toward him, then notices the color of Arthur’s skin. It's not completely better, but some of the usual red pigment has already returned to his cheeks, lightening up his complexion a little. Merlin lets out an odd, giddy sort of laugh then, suddenly taken aback by the strangeness of it all. 

Arthur appears unnerved by Merlin’s outburst, if his expression is anything to go on. “You seem to be going off the deep end much sooner than I anticipated,” he says, eyebrows scrunched together. 

“Well, prepare yourself, then, because wherever I go, you go, too,” Merlin says. And vice versa.

Chapter Text

After seeing the effects of the feverfew treatment on Arthur’s complexion, Merlin decides to spend any extra time he may have in between his usual chores and their continuing search for a cure learning as much as he can of the healing trade. Gaius trains him when he can, but because the old man also has a schedule full of Camelot citizens who need tending to, Merlin has to pick up most of it by watching him treat Arthur. 

Studiously, he watches him clean Arthur’s burns, watches him mix herbs, water, and bread into poultices to calm inflammation and swelling, and then watches him carefully, yet skillfully redress the area with clean cloth. More than that, Merlin watches Gaius, himself. He watches the dedication the old man has to the prince and the care he has for his well-being shine through in the time he devotes to creating and concocting his treatments, in the detailed manner with which he administers them, and in the gentleness with which he regards Arthur’s wounds. 

Here is where Merlin finally finds the truth in Gaius’ words, in the little things they can do to contribute, even if they haven’t found a cure yet. So, he does his best to emulate him, to focus his love and attention towards taking care of Arthur in any way he can. Eventually, Gaius even gives him a book on healing spells and Merlin spends many late nights practicing, feeling the magic rising in him as he incants, feeling it crawl down his arms, then collect in his hands into a solid ball of energy which dances around his fingertips. It feels stronger than the other spells Gaius gives him, probably because of where it comes from—somewhere deep inside him, as deep as his soul can reach. 

And it works, for the most part. Arthur’s complexion never fully returns to what it was, and every so often, he blanks out like he did before, but never for as long and he always snaps out of it when Merlin speaks to him. It’s enough, for now—enough to give Merlin hope, or, more hope than he had previously. He just hopes it lasts long enough to give them the time to find a real cure. 

---

As Merlin drags himself out of bed, weary-eyed and groggy, he mentally prepares himself for another long day of chores, errands, and research. It’s what they do every day, now. In the morning, he and Gaius prepare for their daily visit to Arthur’s chambers, where Merlin tries new spells and aids Gaius in his usual treatments of the prince’s body. In the afternoon, they come back, research, and decide what spells to try the next day, then Merlin leaves to gather herbs and make deliveries. And in the evening, he comes back to study healing spells and then eventually falls asleep holding whatever book he’s been practicing with. It’s what they do just about every day now. 

Well, except for today, apparently, because when Merlin finally makes his way to the main room of Gaius’ quarters, the old man is nowhere to be seen. Merlin scans the area in his confusion, only to find that Gaius’ cane is gone, but his medicine bag is still over in the corner by the door like it always is—that’s where Merlin usually leaves it when they return from Arthur’s chambers. Merlin scratches his head. Where would Gaius have gone without his medicine bag?

“He went to a council meeting,” Arthur says from behind him and Merlin jumps. “My father called an impromptu one. He does that sometimes.”

Turning around, Merlin instinctively studies him, already mentally deciding on the healing spell or tonic he’d use if anything looked off, but nothing does, at least not more than usual. Arthur looks at him oddly, no doubt still waiting for him to respond. 

Merlin shakes his head. “What? How do you know that?”

“He told me before he left,” Arthur says. “Or, more, he announced it to the room.” He makes a sweeping motion, gesturing to the room at large. 

Merlin feels the corners of his lips turn up slightly, a spark of amusement lighting in his chest at the thought of Gaius shouting his schedule at Merlin’s door with the hope that Arthur’s spirit is there to pass the message on. 

“Wait,” Merlin pauses, suddenly confused, “how did he even know you were here?” 

“He didn’t. He left a note, too.” Arthur points to the letter in question, which lies on the table to Merlin’s right. Merlin turns to pick it up. “He didn’t realize until after he told me, though, that I might not be here,” Arthur adds. 

Now, Merlin’s small smile has grown into a full grin. At this, Arthur smiles, too, a strange look settling in his eyes. 

“What?” Merlin asks. 

Arthur looks startled, as though he didn’t expect Merlin to read him so easily. “Nothing,” he says, looking down.

“No, seriously,” Merlin says, not sure why he’s pushing. He keeps his demeanor calm, though—non-threatening. 

Arthur looks back up, his expression uneasy. “It’s just, I haven’t seen you smile in a little bit, is all.” He looks back down, then. 

Merlin feels his expression drop. It’s been a bit of a grueling week with everything that’s been happening with Arthur. And even though his health has been relatively steady lately, they still haven’t been able to figure out exactly what’s going on with him and every time they try another spell and it doesn’t work, Merlin can’t help but feel defeated and…useless, even despite his newfound skillset. 

Arthur coughs, clearly uncomfortable with Merlin’s lack of a response. “Anyway, Gaius—uh, he obviously went to the, um, council meeting alone—“

Merlin watches Arthur sputter about trying to distract him by summarizing a letter that is right in front of them and he can feel his amusement resurfacing. It’s…endearing, which is not a word that Merlin would usually use to describe Arthur, but it’s the only one that comes to mind. 

“—and he didn’t want to wake you. Thought you could use the rest,” Arthur continues. 

Almost as if on cue, Merlin yawns. Last night, he was up late reading about protection spells, figuring that if he could find a way to prevent Arthur’s wounds from getting infected, then he wouldn’t have to heal them. Maybe then, Arthur’s complexion could find some more stability. Maybe then Arthur could, as well. 

“He also left a list of spells and packed his medicine bag for you,” Arthur says. 

Merlin nods. “It looks like it’s just the two of us, today, then,” he says around another yawn, “just like old times.”

“If ‘old times’ is a few weeks ago, then sure.” Arthur shrugs. 

Merlin rolls his eyes then pockets the list of spells, pulls the strap of the medicine bag over his head, and heads for Arthur’s chambers. 

Ever since Merlin started studying under Gaius as his actual apprentice, the old man has begun to trust Merlin with handling some of the easier tasks involved in Arthur’s care, such as changing his bandages, checking for bed sores, and stimulating movement in his limbs so that his muscles don’t weaken. So, every once and a while, when Gaius is otherwise preoccupied and Arthur’s health is somewhat steady, Merlin completes his duties alone. 

Or, he usually does.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” The guard asks—it’s someone Merlin doesn’t recognize. He puts a hand on Merlin’s chest, forcefully pushing him away from the door to Arthur’s chambers. “Who are you?”

Merlin is too taken aback to give an immediate answer, both because he hasn’t seen this guard before and because…Leon isn’t here. It doesn’t make sense. Leon is always here. Merlin looks around for him, as though he’s just around the corner waiting with a scowl for Merlin. 

“Speak, boy,” the guard orders, snapping Merlin back to the conversation. 

“Uh, Merlin,” he answers. ‘I’m the apprentice to Gaius, the court physician. Where is Leon?” 

Leon always lets him in. He and Gaius have an agreement—as long as Leon can pop in at any moment while Merlin is there to make sure he’s not up to something, Merlin is free to be there without Gaius’ supervision. It makes it extremely difficult for Merlin to cast his spells, but he usually manages to sneak them in if he whispers the incantation and has his back turned to the door. That way, whenever Leon pops in, Merlin has enough time to recover and quickly shift to his normal duties. 

“That is none of your concern,” the guard says. “Now, return to where you came from and either come back with the court physician or not at all.”

“But the prince needs his treatment,” Merlin insists, his irritation growing to the point where it begins to outweigh any intimidation he may have originally felt.

“Then he can get it from the physician. Now go,” the guard says, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. “Before I make you.”

Arthur moves out from behind Merlin then, stepping in front of him to get in the guard’s face. “Stand down,” he barks. “That is an order. ”

“Okay,” Merlin says, not sure what Arthur is hoping to accomplish by threatening someone who can’t see him. “I’ll come back with Gaius.” Figuring he’d be unable to talk Arthur down without looking crazy and aggravating the guard further, he slowly backs away, relying on their bond to pull Arthur along with him. Only, when he’s far enough away from the hall that leads to Arthur’s chambers, Arthur is nowhere to be seen. 

Well, that’s typical—Arthur makes a big scene, then disappears. 

Rolling his eyes to himself, Merlin looks around, not sure what to do. He supposes he could go back to the physician’s quarters and do more research. Or, maybe he could get ahead on his deliveries. Only, he already has a list of spells that he hasn’t been able to try yet, and most of the people he’s supposed to bring draughts to will be at the council meeting anyway. 

So, Merlin decides to quickly head back to the physician’s quarters, pick up the deliveries he’s supposed to be making, and head to the meeting. Gaius could probably use the help getting back afterward, anyway. And if not, perhaps he could use the company. Plus, maybe if Merlin holds on to his medicine bag, they can go back to Arthur’s chambers and Merlin won’t have lost the time to try his new spells. 

---

Merlin can hear the king’s deep, commanding voice three corridors away from the great hall. It sends a shiver down his spine, suddenly reminding him of the last council meeting he went to. Merlin thinks about waiting outside for it to be over. There’s a little alcove opposite its entrance which holds a window to the main square. Merlin could perhaps stay there until the meeting is over, distracting himself with the bustling movement of the castle in the early morning and tuning out Uther and his hatred. He can just catch Gaius and the rest of the nobles on their way out. Besides, who knows if the guards outside would even let him into the meeting without Gaius anyway? He could very well run into the same problem as he did at Arthur’s door. 

Merlin nods to himself, deciding to do that. Only, when he arrives, someone else is standing there. 

Morgana. He immediately recognizes her. She looks much like she did the last time he saw her—beautiful and fragile. Her back is hunched over the windowsill, her head in her hands, fingers clutching the roots of her hair. 

Suddenly, she jolts in place, then whips around to look at him, almost as though she felt his presence. Their gazes lock to one another, and Merlin feels something rise in his chest, something he cannot explain. It’s gone as soon as it came, though, eclipsed by the sudden ache he feels at the sadness in her eyes, at the fear. He’s seen this before when a couple of the boys back in his village came back from an encounter with a wild boar. For a couple of weeks, they would jump whenever anyone approached them, even members of their own families. 

Merlin instinctively turns his arms outwards, presenting his wrists to show that he isn’t a threat. “My lady,” he says, and once she seems to relax, he bows slightly. 

“That is alright,” she says and after a few moments, “You’re Gaius’ apprentice, right?”

“Yes, my lady,” he confirms. “Merlin.” 

“Please, call me Morgana.” She turns back to the window, shifting herself to the far right, presumably so Merlin can join her.

Merlin pauses, not sure what to do. Even though he’s been in Camelot for weeks now, he is still a bit lost on the dynamics of how to interact with nobility. Is he even allowed to be speaking to Morgana, much less sharing a window with her? Nonetheless, he steps up to join her side, quickly deciding that if she is willing to shed the status of her title, then he should as well. 

“I hope you’ll forgive my impropriety. I just…needed some fresh air,” she says. And Merlin gets it, it can be quite intense in there. 

“And that is done best by remaining indoors, I suppose,” he says reflexively, then stills. He’s so used to bantering with Arthur, he forgets that not everyone appreciates his particular brand of humor. 

Side-eyeing him, she smirks, seeming to receive it well nonetheless. “Yes, well, I told Uther that I would still listen from outside.”

“Which you are, of course, instead of talking to me.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say? Uther was just speaking of trade with Gawant,” she says and Merlin truly cannot tell if she’s joking or not. She side-eyes him again, lifting one eyebrow, before turning her gaze back to the main square. 

Merlin lets out a laugh that he cannot stifle. This isn’t how he pictured her, the elusive Lady Morgana, not from what he’s seen of her before, nor from what he overheard that night in the physician’s quarters. 

A sigh breaks Merlin from his thoughts. “You know,” Morgana says. “I used to quite like riding.” She gestures out of the window, where the horses are lined up in the main square, being prepared by a number of knights to be taken out. Perhaps they’re going on a hunt. “Then I had a dream that I fell from my horse.”

Merlin looks at her questioningly. 

“It was so… real ,” she continues, squinting her eyes as though she’s trying to see it again. “I could feel my body hit the ground, could hear the crack of my bones, could smell the blood, almost as if I were really there. I felt all of it. So, I stopped.”

“All because of a dream?” Merlin asks quietly. He knows that Morgana suffers from nightmares, but he didn’t know that they were that bad. He didn’t know that dreams could be that bad.

“Yeah,” she says, still looking out the window. “Dreams can be very powerful sometimes, Merlin. They can tell us our deepest wants, desires,…fears. Even when we aren’t aware of them, ourselves, even when we aren’t ready to know about them.”

Merlin pauses. He knows that Morgana has been through a lot, but this sounds deeper than a nightmare about a riding accident. 

He gives himself time to think over her words, not wanting to treat them lightly before responding. “That’s true, I suppose,” he finally says. “But that means that they’re just us, right?” She looks to him, then nods, so he continues, “If they represent our wants, desires, even our fears—that’s still a part of who we are. It’s like…a reflection. And I don’t think we’re meant to fear our own reflections.” 

Merlin looks straight ahead, then, letting his eyes unfocus so he can see himself in the glass of the windowpane before him. He looks tired, worn. He’s come such a long way in such a short time, no longer the boy in the clearing, goofing around, watching the stars, and whittling to pass the time. But he wouldn’t change who he is, who he’s become. 

“I think you should ride again, sometime,” Merlin continues. “Or don’t. But you shouldn’t have to be afraid of yourself, no one should.”

Something flashes in her eyes, then, something Merlin can only interpret as…hope, before melting back into that sadness he saw earlier. She lowers her head, nods once, then turns away, heading back towards the doors to the main hall without another word. Merlin can hear some rustling on the other side and Uther’s voice no longer rings in his ears, so he assumes the meeting must have ended. 

“Wait,” Merlin calls, suddenly realizing something. Morgana stops halfway down the hall and he quickly rummages through his bag before clumsily pulling out a small phial. “Your sleeping draught. I helped Gaius make it this time and added a little honey for the taste. I can’t believe he was making you drink it straight.” 

He hands it to her and she looks at it for a moment, then turns her gaze up towards him. “Thank you, Merlin,” she says, slowly, sincerely. 

“Well, it’s my job to make deliveries,” he says, shrugging. 

“No, not just for that. Thank you for helping me understand.” With that, she departs. 

Merlin doesn’t have time to think over her words and what they mean before the doors to the main hall fly open. Clusters of council members squeeze their way through the doors, their chatter echoing against the walls, keeping Merlin trapped in the sound. Still, though, his eyes dart around the room, trying to find Morgana to ask her what she “understands,” to ask her all of the other questions that have been rattling around in his head. 

“Merlin,” Gaius says, suddenly standing to Merlin’s right. “What are you doing here? I figured you would be in Arthur’s chambers right now. I left you a note. Did you get it?”

“No, I did,” Merlin says, finally giving up his search and turning to Gaius. He then explains what happened with the guard earlier and how Leon wasn’t there to let him in. 

“Ah, yes,” Gaius says. “I should’ve remembered that Leon wouldn’t be there. He was at the council meeting.” 

“At the council meeting?” Merlin asks, nose scrunching up. “Why would Leon be at the council meeting?”

Suddenly, a new wave of council members filter out, and Gaius huddles a bit closer to Merlin instinctively. “Perhaps we should resume our conversation elsewhere,” he says. 

Merlin tuts, belatedly remembering his original mission to complete his deliveries here. Figuring it’s too late, anyway, as many of his would-be recipients have already left by now, he nods and they head out, Merlin following behind as Gaius maneuvers his way through the crowd with an ease and confidence that he wouldn’t have been able to demonstrate just a week ago. Pride blooms in Merlin’s chest, then, and he reminds himself to complement Gaius on his progress later. 

Once they arrive at the door of Arthur’s chambers, the same guard from before lets them both in, giving Merlin what he can only describe as a “death glare” as he passes with Gaius. Really, he could give Leon a run for his money with a look like that. 

Speaking of…

“Why was Leon at the council meeting again?” Merlin asks once they’re on the other side. He sets the medicine bag on Arthur’s nightstand, laying out the necessary supplies needed to change his dressing. 

Gaius joins him at Arthur’s bedside and calmly begins removing the old bandages. “As the prince is…incapacitated, Leon must step up to take on some of his duties as his second,” he says. “He is now, for all intents and purposes, head knight.” 

“A very hollow promotion that must be,” Merlin says, mostly to himself. 

“Indeed,” Gaius answers anyway but doesn’t say anything further. He hands Merlin the used cloth as he unwraps it.

In the silence of the rote activity, Merlin can’t help but flick his gaze to Arthur’s body. It looks how it usually does—pallid, grey, and glistening. His face is scrunched up and his closed eyes move rapidly, restlessly. The world is moving around him, already beginning to fill his place as he lays here, stagnant, dreaming. 

Merlin chuckles to himself at that—the idea that wherever Arthur is right now, wherever he goes when he’s not with Merlin, is simply a dream. Then he remembers his conversation with Morgana. 

“You have nothing to fear,” Merlin mutters. Because he knows Arthur, knows that beyond his brash, snobby, and sometimes cruel exterior, lies someone who cares deeply for others, who has grown to care for Merlin, a sorcerer, even despite what he was taught in his upbringing. 

Gaius sends him a questioning look. 

“Nothing.” Merlin waves him off. “It’s just something Morgana and I were talking about earlier. 

Gaius stills next to him briefly, then smooths his movements, resuming his work albeit slower this time. When Merlin turns to him, his face is stoic, carefully so. “You spoke to Morgana?” he asks, very obviously trying to keep his voice calm, but his demeanor is tense. 

“I did,” Merlin says, treading lightly. “We spoke during the council meeting.”

“Oh,” Gaius says, seemingly shooting for nonchalance. “And what did you speak of?” 

Something in Merlin tells him not to mention what Morgana said about her dreams. Even though he’s sure that Gaius knows the extent of their severity, what she shared with Merlin feels too personal to repeat. 

“Mostly just…horse riding,” Merlin says, which is technically true. “She said she doesn’t do it anymore.”

Gaius calms at this. “Ah yes,” he says, nodding. He finishes unwrapping and hands Merlin the remainder of the used cloth. “The accident.” 

Merlin has to make an effort to keep his face blank. “She didn’t give many details,” he says as passively as he can manage despite his confusion. Placing the bandages to the side, he fetches a clean rag and the water basin set by the fireplace and hands them both to Gaius. 

“I suppose she wouldn’t,” Gaius says, now somewhat distracted cleaning the prince’s wounds. “It was quite the fall. The poor thing landed on her side and broke bones in her arm and wrist.”

Merlin only nods, a thousand questions running through his head. If Morgana really did fall from her horse, then why did she tell Merlin that she dreamt of it? He understands why a fall like that would make one hesitant to ride again, and could even give them nightmares, but Morgana was insistent that it was the dream that kept her away and acted as though it was some sort of character flaw on her part. 

He just doesn’t get it. It doesn’t make sense, nothing regarding Morgana seems to. 

And for the first time since the morning after Arthur’s convulsions when Gaius told Merlin about what happened that night, Merlin gets the feeling that the old man is hiding something from him—has been hiding something from him. Merlin already knew that Gaius was protective over Morgana and knew that he would be hesitant to dispel any personal information about her that wasn’t relevant to the night of Arthur’s attack. Just a week ago, Gaius said, in his own words, that if Morgana saw something, she would’ve said something. 

“I saw him, Gaius. Just like I saw the sorceress. How do you explain that?” Morgana’s words from before suddenly fill in his head. What could she have seen? Who could she have seen? 

Merlin. That voice growls in Merlin’s head and he almost jumps. He hasn’t heard anything from it since the morning after Arthur’s convulsions and was under the impression that it was gone for good. You should’ve never trusted someone who is so easy to keep secrets. 

Yes, maybe he shouldn’t have, but Gaius’ words, his talk of Merlin’s mother, the ease he put to Merlin’s mind amidst his worries about Arthur’s fate, and the care he has shown for the prince. Well, it told Merlin everything he needed to know about Gaius’ character. 

Merlin shakes his head, trying to stop the negative spiral of his thoughts. What is he even entertaining at this point? That Gaius would lie to him? That after everything he’s done for Arthur to figure out what happened to him and to find a cure, he would keep some piece of vital information from Merlin exactly when they needed it most? No, why would he do that when it is against his own interests? He wants Arthur to recover, too, just as much as he wants to protect Morgana. 

Merlin feels a pang of guilt for doubting the old man, for letting worry, fear, confusion, and the voice turn him against someone he cares about, someone who cares about Arthur, too. 

Movement on the other side of the door brings Merlin back to the present. Leon sticks his head in, checking in on the two of them as he usually does. “Everything alright, Gaius?” he asks. 

“Much of the same,” Gaius responds and it’s then that Merlin realizes that the majority of Arthur’s bandage change has already been completed. He must’ve aided Gaius solely on muscle memory, too lost in his thoughts to pay as close attention as he usually does. “No sign of infection this time, though,” Gaius continues as he looks over his work, genuine relief and satisfaction flashing across his face at a job well done. 

Merlin blows out a breath, a calming feeling washing over him, and with it comes a sort of self-reassurance, not just in the face of Arthur’s good health, but in Gaius’ clear devotion towards him. Feeling another pang of guilt, Merlin decides to squash any negative thoughts he has about the old man, as well as the voice that still tries to convince him otherwise. 

Leon nods in confirmation, then shoots Merlin his signature scowl, albeit a much tamer one than usual, before stepping out to resume his post. After finishing the rest of their treatments, Merlin and Gaius also begin to head out. Without Arthur here to prove any changes from it, attempting to cast the spells that they had planned would be practically moot. 

As they are almost on their way out, though, Merlin remembers something.

“Hold on,” Merlin says. Gaius hangs by the door patiently and Merlin makes his way over to the bed. “Âbêcêdê bordrand ûtan hêo lôca in friðu,” he incants in a whisper, holding his hand on Arthur’s arm. It’s one of the protection spells he learned—a way to shield the object of the casting from any external environmental dangers. 

Merlin feels the magic rise up in him at his words, condensed and powerful much like the healing spells he casts, but more. It travels down his arms, wrapping around, then pooling in his palm before melting into Arthur’s skin, spreading, then dissipating. Despite this, Merlin can still feel its presence, can feel it coating Arthur’s form, almost like a second skin. 

Merlin feels Gaius’ eyes on him and he hesitantly returns his gaze—he hasn’t been able to bring himself to look him in the eye in the few moments since he doubted him—and finds what can only be described as…wonder, as though the old man has just been reminded of Merlin’s power. Or, maybe, it’s because they haven’t seen it put to use much since the night of Arthur’s convulsions.

They both share a look, then a smile, and Merlin’s position on the matter solidifies. Without Gaius, they wouldn’t be here with even this little victory. 

Merlin. That voice croons in his head one last time, its tone full of pity. If you continue down this path, you will fail. Loving someone doesn't always keep them safe. 

Merlin doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how to even begin to decipher it amidst everything else he’s learned today. So he doesn’t, instead focusing all of his attention on the tasks he has set out for the rest of the day, which keep him occupied for the rest of the afternoon and evening. 

---

Later that night, Merlin tosses and turns in his bed, unable to calm his mind without some sort of distraction. Eventually, he gives up the prospect of a goodnight’s sleep or any sort of rest entirely, pulls himself out of his bed with a frustrated groan, and sets for Gaius’ small library. Perhaps he can put his mind to use continuing their seemingly never-ending search for a cure for Arthur. 

Merlin has probably read most of the books in Gaius’ collection by now, but there are still a few, some which were given to either Gaius or Arthur to read, that he hasn’t gotten a chance to look over for himself. Maybe there’s something that they missed that Merlin wouldn’t have. 

As Merlin braces the open doorway into the larger part of Gaius’ quarters, he’s surprised to find Arthur, who is sitting by the window with his back hunched over at an odd angle, seemingly using the moonlight to closely study something laid out on the desk before him. 

Merlin hasn’t seen him since this morning. It isn’t the longest time he’s been missing since they arrived in Camelot, but it is a bit longer than usual. Merlin resolved to push his worry off until the morning, especially if Arthur hadn’t shown up by then, but is pleased to know that he doesn’t have to do that now. 

Merlin approaches Arthur quietly, wary of waking Gaius, who is sleeping just across the room. “What are you looking at?” he whispers.

Arthur startles, to Merlin’s surprise, but covers it up quickly. Although, not quickly enough. 

“I thought your keen awareness skills would’ve allowed you to detect me already,” Merlin jabs playfully. “Or are you getting rusty?”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says. He angles his body, trying to block Merlin’s view of the paper before him. “It’s late and Gaius’ snoring is loud enough to mask a full-fledged ambush. It’s almost as bad as yours.” 

Merlin walks clean through him to the other side of the desk and Arthur sputters indignantly. Merlin ignores him and studies the paper himself, but finds it hard to make out. Squinting, he finds and lights a candle nearby, then places it on the desk. Once the paper flickers into view, Merlin suddenly and jarringly recognizes the elegant, thinly-looped handwriting of his mother. “This is my mother’s letter to Gaius,” he says quietly, realizing. 

“I guess Gaius finally got around to reading it,” Arthur says, trying for passivity, but his demeanor betrays his interest. Merlin nods distractedly, already reading. 

“My Dear Gaius,

I turn to you for I feel lost and alone, and don’t know who to trust. It is every mother’s wish to clutch their child fast to them in times of danger, to want to hide and protect them from the evils of the world. Yet I am afraid I can no longer do so for Merlin. You see, ours is a small village and we suffer at the hands of ruthless men under an even more ruthless sovereign. If Merlin were to stay, I fear for what would become of him, where they might take him, what they might use him for with his abilities, and that he, like many others, may never return from it. So, while it is in both my nature and greatest desire to keep him near me, to hold him close, I know it is my duty as his mother to send him away. It is the only true protection within my power to provide. So, I beg of you, if you understand a mother’s love for her son, keep him safe. And may God save you both. 

Hunith”

And it hits him—everything he’s been hiding away, everything he didn’t even know he was hiding away. The homesickness, the fear of being discovered, the confusion, the secrets, the worry for Arthur—it all just comes rushing out and he doesn't know what to do other than hold the letter close, hold his mother’s words to his chest, and cry. His tears come in bursts, spilling down his face faster than he can swipe them away and he tries to catch his breath between heaving sobs. 

Arthur looks around frantically, clearly not knowing how to react. He’s probably never had to deal with a weeping peasant before, with a weeping anyone before. Suddenly, his face lights up. “Merlin,” he approaches. Merlin looks up, face no doubt a wreck, but Arthur isn’t looking at him—he’s looking above him and pointing toward the window. “Look at the stars with me.”

Merlin wants to laugh—it was a silly trick he used to calm Arthur down all those weeks ago—but nonetheless does as he’s told and turns his head towards the sky. Arthur settles in close to him, so close that if he were physically here, Merlin would probably be able to feel his breath on his shoulder. Just the thought of it makes his skin tingle, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

Then, Arthur is whispering to him, even though he has no need to. “You know, you can tell which direction you’re looking in by the way the stars move at night. You see there—" he points to a cluster of three stars lined up one after another "—that constellation always rises in the east and sets in the west.”

The sun didn’t set very long ago. “So, we’re facing east,” Merlin guesses. 

Arthur nods. “And Ealdor is east. That’s the way we came into Camelot.” He points out the pathway that leads to the entrance to the citadel, then draws a trail up to the large sparse of trees just past the outer wall. So, even though Merlin can’t see it, exactly, he knows that he’s looking in the direction of his home. 

And he can imagine Arthur doing this, can imagine him out on a hunt or some other princely expedition watching the stars to keep from being homesick. He probably hid it from the other knights, too, not wanting to show any weakness. Yet he’s here, showing it to Merlin. 

Merlin looks to Arthur. He doesn’t notice Merlin right away, so Merlin watches him. He watches the cool light from the sky above shine on the left half of his face, watches the warm candlelight flicker faintly on the right. It reminds Merlin of the picture in the book of the girl pulled by silk and ivy. Here is Arthur, both living and dead, both warm and cold, both light and darkness. 

Without his permission, Merlin’s hand reaches up to cup Arthur’s right cheek. It doesn’t find purchase, but Merlin nonetheless holds it there. Arthur jolts then, turning his head towards Merlin, almost as though he felt it. His expression drops in shock, but once it wears off, he closes his eyes and leans into it. For a moment, a brief little moment, Merlin swears he can see the color return to his cheeks, almost as vibrant as it was a few weeks ago, but when Arthur opens his eyes again, he looks the same as he did before. 

Arthur turns away then, looking back up at the stars, retreating from the moment as he often does. And it’s okay—they don’t need to talk about it. They never did, never had to. And what would be the point, with everything going right now, with Arthur’s future so uncertain? 

But Merlin is glad for this moment. He’s glad for all of the little moments he’s gotten with Arthur in the little time they’ve been together. 

In silence, they watch the stars until Merlin’s constellation rises so far above that they can no longer see it from the window anymore and then a little bit longer. 

When Merlin finally traverses back to his bed in an attempt to sleep again, Arthur follows him. He settles down on the floor beside Merlin’s bed, facing away, almost as though he’s guarding him. He flicks a few looks back Merlin’s way when he thinks he’s asleep and Merlin eventually falls into perhaps the first restful sleep he’s had since he first left Ealdor. 

Chapter Text

Merlin wakes abruptly to someone shaking his shoulder. Slowly, he opens his eyes, grogginess and the sunlight from the window in the corner taking over his vision and making him squint. When his sight fully returns, the person in front of him finally comes into focus.

“Gaius, what’s going on?” Merlin asks in a croak. He rubs his eyes, trying to rid them of any remaining sleepiness. 

“You need to get dressed quickly,” Gaius says, voice grave. “Something’s happened to Arthur.”

Merlin sits up abruptly, instinctively shooting a look to the side of the bed where Arthur was sitting last night, only to find it empty. “What happened?” he asks, quickly getting out of bed and clumsily putting on his boots. 

“I am not quite sure, but from the guard’s description, we need to leave immediately.” With that, Gaius walks out. Merlin is right behind him, still pulling on his shirt as he follows. Grabbing the medicine bag by the door on the way, they hurry out, making their way through the castle in what feels like a blur. 

Just before they approach the hallway that leads to the prince’s chambers, Merlin catches a flash of green in his peripheral vision, but by the time he turns to identify it, it’s already gone. Briefly, he considers following it but decides instead to focus on the matter at hand and catches up with Gaius as the old man strides ahead. 

As they turn the corner, Merlin jolts in place, feeling a familiar energy course through him. Picking up his pace, he rushes past Gaius and sweeps into Arthur’s chambers, then freezes at the sight before him—or, more, the feeling before him. Magic, much like the night of Arthur’s convulsions, hangs in the air, broken and shattered like fallen glass. Still, though, it tries to lure him in, enticing him forward, albeit not as strongly as before. 

“What are you doing just standing there?” Leon asks in an angered shout. Merlin’s eyes snap to him from where he stands beside the bed, then to Arthur’s body, which is convulsing just beneath him. Merlin springs into action, racing to the other side of the bed and doing his best to ignore the pieces of strong magic he passes through on the way. 

After a few moments, Gaius finally catches up. He settles in the spot to Leon’s right, breathing heavily from the strain the quick journey here has put on his still-healing body. “How long has he been like this?” he asks. 

“Only a few minutes,” Leon responds, his voice surprisingly even. “I sent word as quickly as I could.”

“You did well,” Gaius praises and Leon relaxes just slightly. Gaius puts a hand on Arthur’s forehead. “He’s burning up. We need to bring his fever down.” He turns to Leon. “Quickly, I need a basin of cold water and a few rags.”

Leon nods once and sets out while Merlin and Gaius maneuver Arthur onto his side. Once Leon returns, the three of them work to cool down Arthur’s body, taking care to lower his temperature slowly so that he doesn’t get overloaded with too much cold and go into shock. 

After a while, a long while, his fever breaks, and his body finally calms. 

A tense few seconds follow this, and for the longest time, the room feels frozen as they all hold their breath, waiting silently for the seizures to start up again. Only an hour or two of calm passes before Gaius seems satisfied enough that they won’t. His tense demeanor relaxes, then, and Leon’s body follows suit. Merlin, on the other hand, can only continue to stand still, can only continue to hold his breath. His body is rigid, his muscles locked and strung taut, yet his mind is anything but. 

He just…doesn’t understand, no matter how much he tries. He thought everything was going well, that Arthur might be getting better, even. Yesterday, Gaius said that there was no more residual infection of Arthur’s wounds, and Merlin knows his protection spell worked. So, what could have gone wrong?

Merlin's eyes lift to scan the room, at first looking for any signs that his Arthur may have appeared. Sometimes, when he shows up, Merlin doesn’t notice him until he says something or steps into Merlin’s field of vision. 

But he isn’t there. 

Then, his eyes lift to the room at large, narrowing to study the remains of the magic that still hangs in the air. Although, there’s much less of it now, and he realizes that can no longer feel it pulling at him—he can’t feel it at all, really. No, upon further inspection, the only piece of magic that seems to remain is that of his protection spell from yesterday, which lies lifeless, broken, and fading in the air above him. 

But…how?

“Was someone here before?” Merlin asks, thinking aloud. His mind automatically recalls the flash of green from earlier. Maybe that person, whoever it was, came in here and did this. Maybe they broke his protection spell somehow. Maybe they tried to finish the sorceress’ job in doing so. 

Leon’s eyebrows twitch in confusion. “No, just the attendant, but they left after I sent the guard to go get Gaius. Why?”

Merlin shakes his head, not knowing what he was thinking. The green—it was probably just the attendant leaving so as not to get in the way while Gaius and Merlin were treating the prince. And even if it wasn’t, who was Merlin thinking it could be anyway? Someone infiltrated the castle in broad daylight and snuck past the guards and Leon, only to break Merlin’s spell, cause Arthur to convulse, and then leave before being caught? No, it doesn’t make sense. 

“Never mind, I just—” Merlin chokes a little on his own words, a lump forming in his throat. “I don’t know.”

Oddly, Leon nods in understanding. He looks down, seeming to be lost in thought for a second, then looks up, his eyes catching Arthur’s form. For a brief moment, a spark of something flickers in his eyes, an emotion appearing and disappearing so fast that Merlin can hardly decipher it. It’s long gone before the man turns to Gaius and asks, “How much longer do you think?” 

Gaius’ face crumples a little at the question, and it takes him a while to respond. “I don’t think it’ll be much longer. Perhaps…a few days, maybe a week?” Leon nods, face blank again. 

“Until what?” Merlin asks, confused. 

Gaius and Leon share a quick, knowing look. 

“Until what, Gaius?” Merlin nearly snaps, his voice sounding raw and wrecked because he understands then. Tears spring in the corner of his eyes, blurring his vision before running hot and fast down his cheeks. He wipes at them uselessly. “No.” he shakes his head frantically. “No.”

Gaius gives him a pitying look, appearing no less distraught than Merlin feels. “My boy, I’m afraid…” he stops to heave a heavy sigh, then starts up again “...I’m afraid the prince cannot go on like this for much longer.” 

Merlin looks at Arthur's body then and sees how much worse he looks now, even after they’ve lowered his fever. “But our work isn’t done. I still have so much left to reread and try—”

“Perhaps,” Gaius interrupts. He shoots a brief nervous look at Leon, probably afraid that Merlin will out himself in his sadness. Calmly, he says, ”But to some extent, the prince has been in this state for too long and we’ve done all that we can do.”

“All we can do,” Merlin repeats to himself in a faint whisper. The words that once gave him so much hope feel empty now, their original meaning twisted and wrung out before him. 

Gaius continues, “Maybe, this is beyond our means now. Maybe…it’s time to just make sure he’s comfortable as he passes on.” 

Anger flares in Merlin’s heart at this, a small controlled rage. “But he’s still alive, Gaius,” he insists. 

Last night, he was right there. He was right in front of me. His words go unspoken, but Gaius seems to be able to hear them, anyway. 

“Merlin—”

“I’m not giving up,” Merlin says and paces towards the door. He needs to get back to Gaius’ chambers, he needs to look for answers, he needs to—

A hand grabs his arm, jerking him back abruptly—Leon. Forgetting himself, Merlin looks up at him challengingly, his eyes daring Leon to try to stop someone so powerful as Merlin, but he falters at Leon’s expression. In it, he finds that look from earlier, the one he couldn’t decipher before. Yet here it is, on full display and staring him down—the unmistakably familiar sight of grief, that which Merlin has become so acquainted with as of late. 

After a few moments, Leon beats it into submission, forcefully replacing it with his usual gruff, placid demeanor. But both he and Merlin know it was there, know that it's still there and that they both still feel it. 

And Merlin doesn’t exactly know why he says it, doesn’t know how he summons up the strength to in the face of an armed knight, but he says, “I won’t give up, not until I find some sort of cure.” It’s a promise, clear and simple, an oath, a devotion. 

Leon’s eyes study Merlin’s, searching intently for any sort of dishonesty or insincerity. It must surprise him that he finds none because, after a few moments, his eyes widen slightly. It’s the first time Merlin has ever seen him look like he’s been taken off guard. Slowly, he releases his hold on Merlin’s arm, then turns his gaze away from him. “Go,” he says. 

Merlin takes it for the answer it is, nods once in thanks, then sets back to Gaius’ chambers without another word. All that has been needed to be said already has been. 

---

Merlin practically rips through Gaius’ library, looking for something, anything, that might help. Pulling out tome after tome, book after book, he cocoons himself in knowledge. Yet still, even after hours upon hours of rereading, he can’t find anything that he hasn’t already tried. No matter how closely he looks, no matter how he interprets the texts in front of him, no matter if he’s read it before or not—there’s just…nothing. It feels like a judgment of sorts, the evidence of his failures laid out before him just before he’s condemned, and Arthur is condemned with him. 

His head in his hands, the tears return. He’s gone so long without crying, but after last night, it seems like it’s all he’s been able to do. Even then, he had Arthur to comfort him, to make him feel so close to home when he’s the farthest he’s ever been from it. Merlin looks to the window, wishing with all that’s in him to be back where he was last night, to have Arthur in front of him, smiling and happy. And Merlin was happy, too—Arthur made him happy, even when he was at his lowest. 

But Arthur is nowhere to be seen and now, Merlin is all alone in his grief. 

Merlin grabs the book nearest to him and throws it across the room, his anger and frustration taking hold of him entirely. It hits the corner of the table that holds Gaius’ workstation, the impact of which knocks over the jar of herbs placed precariously near its edge. It crashes to the ground, the glass breaking and scattering across the floor along with crushed leaves of feverfew. 

Numbly, Merlin crawls over to it, picking up errant pieces of glass and herbs as he drags himself along. It isn’t until he’s near the center of the crash that he feels his palms sting. Looking down, he finds them covered in red and instinctively drops what he’s collected so far. 

“That looks painful,” a voice says from somewhere far off. It’s quiet—so, so quiet, but Merlin nonetheless jolts at the sound of it. 

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, numbness fading quickly to make way for an intense rush of recognition and relief. “Arthur,” he confirms to himself at the sight of the man standing over in the corner. Hot tears prick his eyes again, but he disregards them—disregards everything that isn’t Arthur, who is here, and safe, and alive. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, voice still quiet, yet filled with emotion. For a second, he seems as happy, as relieved, to see Merlin as Merlin is to see him. His hand reaches out then, to…Merlin doesn’t know what. Whatever it is, Merlin will gladly take it. Whether it be to comfort or punish him—Merlin will take it. 

Only, after a flicker of hesitation, Arthur does neither. Retracting his hand and placing it back by his side, he looks down, expression falling. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, and Merlin briefly assumes that he’s having one of his moments where he blanks out, but after Arthur takes a deep breath, he knows that he isn’t. It’s then that Merlin gets the feeling that there’s something terribly wrong. 

Standing up, Merlin begins to approach him. Arthur doesn’t stop him, still doesn’t move, say, or do anything, and for a few seconds, the only sound in the room is the sharp crunch of glass breaking underneath Merlin’s boots. 

The room is mostly dark now, the sun having set during Merlin’s numerous hours of research. Picking up a lantern on the way, Merlin lights it with his magic without thinking, then pauses at the sight before him. There Arthur stands, pale and gaunt, his eyes lidded and with large, dark circles underneath them. 

He looks just like his body as Merlin saw it this morning. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, unable to keep the horror from his voice. “What—” 

“I need to speak to you about something,” Arthur interrupts, but even after a few moments, he still doesn’t say anything—he looks like he can’t say anything. Finally, he lifts his gaze and his expression tells Merlin everything he needs to know. 

“No,” Merlin says automatically, much like he did to Gaius hours earlier. Only now, he’s more assured of himself, less shaky on the foundation of his resolve that this isn’t happening, it can’t be happening. Frantically, his eyes search the collection of books still lying in piles on the floor. “No, we still have time. I still have time to find something that can save you.” 

“Merlin, it’s no use,” Arthur says, his voice louder but rougher, almost as though it hurts him to say. “I’m dying.” 

Merlin’s eyes snap back to Arthur’s. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, unable to keep his tone from sounding so betrayed. “Why are you giving up?” It’s one thing to be discouraged, another to want to give up, but to actually do it? It’s unacceptable. No, not after everything they’ve been through. 

“Because it’s time, Merlin. And I’m not giving up, I’m giving in—giving into what was meant to happen over a month ago.”

“Your death, you mean? You want to die.”

“It’s what I should’ve done nearly two months ago,” Arthur says, then shakes his head. “From the very moment the sorceress attacked me, I was supposed to be dead.” 

The sting of his words hurts more than the cuts on Merlin’s hands, more than any physical pain Merlin thinks he’s ever felt. “The Arthur I met, the one who inspired me to leave Ealdor, to push past my fear of leaving my home in the hope for something better, for myself and for my mother,” Merlin says, “he would have called you a coward for doing this.” 

He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, and although Arthur initially looks taken aback, he doesn’t rise to them. “Look,” he starts. “I’ve already been here for far longer than I should have been, you and I both know that. And, you know what? I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful for the extra time I’ve gotten, and…I’m thankful that I got to meet you.” His voice catches on this, and it almost looks like he might start crying. “And I understand why you’re mad at me. You have every right to be. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you save your village. I wanted to—I really did, and I can’t even begin to tell you how thankful I am for you coming here, for you risking your life to save someone who you barely knew, and for doing all of this to try and get me back, but it’s no use. I’m not meant to be here anymore. My time is up.”

Somewhere during this, Merlin has crumpled back down to the floor. He curls himself inward, resisting the urge to cover his ears like a child to block out Arthur’s words, to block the truth of them. 

“What about your family or the people of Camelot? What about the people who love you? You’ll just be leaving them all behind,”  Merlin says in a ragged whisper. 

You’ll be leaving me behind. 

“I’m doing this for them, too,” Arthur insists. “To them, I’ve been dead all this time, and they’ve already accepted it. My father doesn’t even visit me, and Morgana has been mourning me since the attack. Not to mention that the kingdom has halted since, weakened by a prince who is neither dead nor alive and a king who hurts his kingdom because of it, who hurts innocent people who have done nothing wrong other than to be born with magic. No, I’m doing this for everyone, so that they can move on.”

But what about me? Merlin thinks. How am I supposed to just move on from all of this?

“And, more than that,” Arthur continues. “I’m tired, Merlin. I’m so, so tired that I can barely function. Just talking to you right now takes so much effort that it hurts. I feel like my body is on fire and it’s only gotten worse and worse in the past few weeks.”

Since the night of his first set of convulsions, Merlin guesses. And then he realizes that in all of his desperation to bring Arthur back, to fix his coloring, to make him stay just a little bit longer, he never actually thought about what Arthur was experiencing, what he was feeling. He was so selfish, wanted Arthur to stay so badly that he never even asked. 

Arthur takes another deep breath and bends down so that his face is level with Merlin’s. “But I needed to come back,” he says, voice quiet again. “I needed to come back one last time to say goodbye. If there’s anyone I have to say goodbye to, anyone I need to say goodbye to, it’s you.” 

And now he is crying, and oddly, Merlin isn’t—he can’t anymore, has spent the last few hours, days, weeks in a state of never-ending emotional turmoil and his body has had enough. His tears have all dried out. “But I love you, Arthur,” he says anyway. Another selfish act, but the only one that will allow Merlin to show him, to prove to him how he feels, even if he can’t cry anymore. “I don’t want to say goodbye.” 

Arthur’s face twists up in what looks like agony and hot tears run down into the wrinkled notch of his nose. He doesn’t tell Merlin he loves him back though, doesn’t tell him he’ll stay just a little bit longer. Instead, he reaches out again, his hand coming to cup Merlin’s face just as Merlin’s hand cupped his last night. Unlike Merlin, though, Arthur leans in close. So, so close.

If Merlin could feel anything anymore, he thinks he’d be shocked, but he isn’t. And at any other time, maybe once he got past that shock, he’d be happy at the gesture. But he isn’t—he can’t be because he knows what it means. So, in an absence of feeling or better circumstances, all Merlin can do right now is close his eyes, pretend that he can feel Arthur’s lips on his, and let the man he loves say his last goodbye. 

When Merlin opens his eyes again, Arthur is gone. Suddenly, he remembers what that voice in his head said only yesterday. Loving someone doesn’t always save them. It turns out it was right all along. 

Merlin. That voice approaches softly in his head then, softer than he’s ever heard it. I could have saved you from so much pain, if only you had listened. 

And why should I believe you? Merlin thinks in his head, too exhausted to talk. 

Because I believe I can still help you save the young prince. But there is not much time. 

Merlin sits up but closes his eyes again. He doesn’t know who this voice belongs to, doesn't know if they truly exist, and if they do, he doesn’t know if they’re telling the truth. But truly, what else does he have to lose at this point? What else could possibly be taken from him right now?

“So, what do I do?” Merlin asks aloud, some part of him beginning to rally. 

The voice laughs, a deep chuckle reverberating through Merlin’s mind. You will have to come find me.

“And how do I do that?” Merlin asks. 

You will know. 

And Merlin does. Suddenly, he knows exactly where to go. 

Merlin pulls himself up from the ground, cutting his hands on shattered glass again, but he doesn’t care. He’s only concerned with getting to where he’s going—somewhere deep, deep below, where the voice inside—no, outside his head lives. 

Chapter Text

Merlin makes his way through the familiar, winding hallways of the castle in an almost fugue-like state, the world blurring around him to the point where, for most of his journey, he doesn’t even know where he is, doesn’t know where he’s going. He only knows how to follow the voice in his head, only knows how to go where it wants him to go. It pushes him forward, keeps his legs moving, climbing, turning until suddenly, he finds himself outside. 

The cool, night air nips at his skin, and he only stops to register his new location—in the courtyard outside of the castle’s main entrance—before striding forward as the voice in his head directs him to. After a few more paces, he happens upon what seems to be a rather innocuous, brick-laid section of the castle’s far right corner, but in looking closer at the partitions between the masonry, Merlin can just make out the vague shape of a door. Pushing forward, it unhinges under his hands, and he slides it to the side. 

The now open entrance reveals a dark, dirty flight of stairs and he descends them as quietly as possible, suddenly wary of the voices coming from down below. Distracting the guards at the bottom is easy—all he has to do is make their gaming dice drop to the ground and scurry away with his magic before they leave their post to chase after it. He takes that chance to dart across the room, only seeing the entrance he’s looking for as he approaches it. 

There, he finds himself overlooking another staircase, although this one is much larger than the last. Brutishly carved from old, jagged pebblestone, it descends downward, impossibly long to the point where Merlin can hardly see where it ends, the far half of it completely obscured in darkness down below. 

Steeling himself, Merlin conjures a small flicker of light in his palm and sets forward. After a long time, longer than he expects, he finally reaches the end. Turning a few corners packed with mostly junk—broken castle doors, torch ash, and the occasional discarded statue or decorative fixture—Merlin is starting to feel a little claustrophobic. 

Then, very suddenly, everything opens up, and Merlin is standing before a gigantic, open cavern. He barely gets a few seconds to register the scale of its enormity before he hears a chuckle reverberating against the walls of the cave surrounding. 

And it’s that voice—that ever-transient, nigh-on unreadable voice that’s been living in his head, that’s been taunting him for weeks now. 

But…how is it so loud? How could any human have a voice that loud?

Merlin’s eyes dart around the cave to find its source, but can barely see anything, even with the light in his palm. So he drops it, lighting a nearby torch set up at the cave’s entrance instead. Still, he can’t see anything. “Where are you?” he finally calls. “Show yourself.”

Almost immediately, a near-deafening roar slams against his chest, that which is quickly followed by an incredibly large beast flying directly toward him. Merlin falls to the ground, shielding his face with one arm in protection and extending the other outward in defense, his magic instinctively rising to aid him. But after a few minutes of heavy breathing, nothing comes for him. Nothing happens at all. 

Merlin dares to open his eyes. 

“I’m here,” the voice—the dragon says. He’s huge—absolutely massive, really. His coloring is a mixture of browns, yellows, and greens, which weave in and out of each other, traveling in patterns set by thick scales and sharp horns all the way down to the dragon’s clawed feet, which rest on his perch below, bound in shackles. 

Despite this, the dragon before him stands tall, his eyes old and wise, and his posture…regal in a way. Clearly, he knows the power he wields, knows just how imposing of a figure he presents as. “How small you are for such a great destiny,” he observes, eyes narrowing slightly to scrutinize Merlin, who is caught off guard at the statement. 

Standing up, Merlin ultimately quells the urge to ask what the dragon means by that—it’s not why he’s here. He’s here for Arthur. “The prince,” Merlin redirects. “Arthur. You said you could save him.”

“I said I could help, which I can,” the dragon corrects. “Only you can truly save the prince. And it has been foretold long ago that you will, as it is your destiny.”

“I don’t understand,” Merlin says, quickly growing frustrated. Why can’t he get a straight answer? “Foretold? My destiny? And what does that have to do with all of this? I just want to save Arthur.”

The dragon tuts, as though he’s chastising a young child who has spoken out of turn. “Arthur is your destiny. For he is the Once and Future King, he who will one day unite all of Albion.”

A pause. “I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Merlin says. “I’m just a no-one from a farming village in another kingdom.”

The dragon laughs, a rough and haughty thing. “It has everything to do with you. Without you, without your strong magic, Arthur is doomed to perish, and Albion along with him. It is why you are the only one who can save him.”

“But my magic didn’t work,” Merlin argues. “Nothing has worked, no matter how hard I’ve tried.” 

“Of course, it works. Otherwise, the prince would be long dead by now. It was your magic that saved him after all, young warlock. It is why he found you when his need was greatest. He sought out your magic for protection, even when he didn’t know of it or you.” 

“Then why can’t I bring him back?” Merlin asks, throat tight. “If I have magic so powerful to keep him here in the plane of the living even when he’s supposed to be dead, then why can’t I bring him back to his body?” Weeks full of anger and sadness and shame resurface then, running down his cheeks in hot tears. “What am I missing?”

“Well, the witch of course!” the dragon snarls, a plume of smoke trailing after his words. 

Merlin’s eyebrows draw together. “You mean the sorceress? The one who attacked Arthur,” he says. 

The dragon lets out a sigh, clearly fed up with Merlin’s inability to connect puzzle pieces that he wasn’t aware of in the first place. “I do speak of a sorceress, yes, but not the one you think of.”

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean? Was there someone else that night?”

The dragon only looks at him meaningfully, but Merlin still doesn’t get it. Closing his eyes, he tries to remember everything he knows about what happened that night. “All they found was Arthur on the bed, unconscious and wounded. There was also a fire and the dead sorceress’ body, and…” Merlin’s eyes snap open. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “It can’t be.”

“And yet it is.” 

“But Morgana doesn’t even have magic.”

“She does, and powerful magic, at that. I can feel it from here, most nights. I’m surprised that you cannot,” the dragon says, contemplatively. “Do you not find it strange? The state of her nightmares.”

Of course, he finds it strange—he finds everything about Morgana strange, especially her nightmares. 

A series of images flash before him then, things he’s tried so hard not to think of for fear it would make him lose focus on saving Arthur, for fear it would confuse him even further. 

First is a memory of him outside of Gaius’ quarters, listening to soft sobs and words of, “No—no it’s not just the nightmares! It can’t be,” and, “I think there might be something…wrong with me.” 

And then comes the memory of the window outside of the great hall, of escaping the torrent emotions associated with Uther and the council meeting, only to be greeted with much more confusing feelings and stories of nightmares and blood and broken bones. Then later when Gaius told him that Morgana’s story was real, that the things she saw in her dreams actually came true. Almost like they were…premonitions. 

“Morgana has magic,” Merlin says, mostly to himself. The dragon peers at him, seemingly waiting for him to connect the rest of the puzzle pieces, but he doesn’t. “It still doesn’t make sense, though. Morgana loves Arthur. Why would she want to kill him? What could she possibly stand to gain from that?”

“Of that, I do not know, but she was the only other one there that night. And the other sorceress is dead.”

“What do you mean?” What does that have to do with Morgana? How does any of this—his destiny and Morgana and Arthur and what happened that night—connect at all?

“Surely, you must know, Merlin,” the dragon starts, and when it’s clear that Merlin doesn’t, he curls his lip in disdain. “A spell cannot continue past its caster’s own life.”

Merlin shakes his head. “What?” He's having trouble keeping track of so many different moving parts of information.

The dragon sighs. “Magic is a living, breathing entity, and therefore, it requires life to maintain itself. This is especially the case for more powerful spells and bindings, such as the one cast that night, as well as the magic that binds you to the prince.” At Merlin’s still-confused look, the dragon asks, “Did you not notice yourself getting weaker and weaker these past few weeks?” 

Merlin has been much more tired than usual, sure. But he’d mostly just chalked that up to the stress of trying to save Arthur and the sadness that came with all of his failures to do so. 

“Arthur’s life force is dependent on you, on your magic,” the dragon continues. “It’s one of the main things that has kept him alive all this time, and has thus taken a toll on even someone as powerful as you.”

Merlin remembers what Gaius had said when he explained what happened the night of Arthur’s attack, of how casting what he thought, at the time, was a sleeping spell along with the fire, would have been exhausting for the sorceress. 

“Then by that logic, it would be taking its toll on Morgana, too,” Merlin says, mostly trying to play along to get more information. He still doesn’t believe that Morgana did it. Even if she has magic or even if for some reason she is the result of Arthur’s state, there’s no way she would actually try to kill him. “Whatever spell she cast to kill Arthur didn’t work, so unfinished as it is, it would still be affecting her. It would still be draining her.”

The dragon nods. “More reason to finish the job, as she tried to do this morning.”

Now that makes Merlin pause. This morning? 

“The green,” he finally realizes. “She broke my protection spell.” Technically, it makes sense. She, of all people, could have easily gotten into the prince’s chambers that morning. They grew up together—everyone knows it. And she cares for him. 

Or, does she?

Now that Merlin thinks of it, back when they first got here, when Gwen told Merlin about Morgana’s nightmares, about her sadness at the prince’s state, Arthur seemed surprised that she cared for him so much. At the time, Merlin just thought it was Arthur’s low self-worth distorting his view of his relationships, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe they weren’t actually as close as Merlin thought they were. 

Maybe…it was all an act—the sadness, the tears, the worry. Maybe, all this time, it was just a way to hide the weakness the spell was causing her. Maybe it was just a way to hide what she’s done. No one would ever even think to suspect her—Merlin, himself, is having trouble with it right now. 

Thinking further, it was during that same conversation with Gwen, when he first realized that Morgana could have been there the night of the attack, that Arthur wanted to barge into her room for answers. Maybe a part of him knew, then. Maybe it knew all along that she was responsible for his state and maybe it knew that they would find answers there. 

“Do you believe my words now?” the dragon asks, voice sounding smug.

And Merlin doesn’t know what he believes, just knows that he’s so, so exhausted, and grieving, and he just wants Arthur back. “What am I supposed to do about it, then?”

The dragon gives him a knowing look. 

A spell cannot continue past its own caster’s life. 

Merlin looks back, his face aghast with horror. “Surely you don’t mean…”

No, Merlin could never. 

The dragon’s sigh confirms Merlin’s suspicion. “It is either her or Arthur—a small sacrifice for the good of Albion.”

“Not one I am willing to make.”

“Then you are killing Arthur, instead,” the dragon counters, his voice suddenly taking on a desperate quality that Merlin wouldn’t have thought someone so powerful would be capable of producing. “Even if she sits aside and does nothing, he will still die, and who knows what she may have planned once that is done. But if you take her out now, the spell will be broken. You can still save him. There is no other way.” 

Merlin covers his ears in some strange attempt to rid himself of the dragon’s words, of his influence. But, no matter what, no matter if he wants to believe Morgana didn’t hurt Arthur, the dragon’s words make a certain sort of sense. She was the only one there that night who wasn’t left unconscious or dead. The sorceress didn’t do it, and unless there was someone else there that night, then she’s the only one who could have. And even if someone else was there and Morgana is innocent, why would they leave her unharmed when she had already seen everything? 

And Gaius told him that if she saw something, she would have said something. Was that a lie, too? Was the dragon right all along? Should Merlin not have trusted the old man?

Merlin shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if Gaius knew all along and lied to him. It doesn’t matter if Morgana tried to kill Arthur or why. Merlin still cannot do what the dragon wants him to do. Merlin is not a killer. 

“She’s the killer, Merlin,” the dragon says. “She brought this upon herself.” 

“Get out of my head,” Merlin warns. He’s beginning to regret ever letting him in in the first place. 

You will only be doing what you are destined to do. The dragon speaks in his mind, forcing his thoughts upon him more so than he ever has before. 

You know nothing of my destiny. Merlin shouts back, building up mental walls strong enough to push the invading force out. He feels his magic gather around him then, its hackles rising at the clear threat before it. The fire from the torch blazes white beside him, burning down to the metal and snuffing out until all that is left is ash and the golden light shining from Merlin’s glowing eyes. 

“I only know what is and isn’t, what is life, what is death, what is destiny and destruction,” the dragon growls. Dense, powerful energy builds up around his form and Merlin’s magic rises further in response. “I have seen over a thousand years of it, have seen men and magicians alike fail because they didn’t have the strength to do what was right. I figured you would be different. But you would rather doom us all, you selfish, foolish child.” 

Merlin turns away, ignoring his words, ignoring his attempts to persuade him.

I am not a killer. Merlin thinks, this time to himself and himself only. He repeats it over and over again as he leaves the cave. I will write my own destiny. 

---

The hidden door to the dragon’s cave snaps back in place with a click, blending in with the rest of the brick-laid castle wall as it did before. Part of Merlin wishes he could seal it shut forever, could cut off the dragon, his influence, and magic forever. But it wouldn’t be necessary—his mind has been silent ever since he left the cave, and he knows that the dragon isn’t going anywhere in the meantime. 

Turning away, Merlin is already mentally mapping out the path to his next destination. Looking at the sky, the moon is already edging westward, which tells him that in all of the time he spent traveling to and away from the dragon, most of the night has passed him by. So he must be quick; if he has any chance of doing this right, he can’t be caught, and he’s less likely to be caught if he gets where he’s going before daybreak. It’s when the castle is perhaps at its busiest—with servants readying themselves and their masters, knights rising early to train, and the castle kitchen beginning to plan and prepare the nobility’s meals for the day. 

Quickly setting out, Merlin tries to employ his knowledge of the castle and its structure, as well as what measly stealth tactics learned from Arthur that time they followed Gaius, to get him there as quickly and as quietly as possible. Despite the time of night, there are still a number of guards and night-staff servants patrolling these hallways, and again, Merlin would rather not be caught going where he’s going, as it would not bode well for him, nor his mission to save Arthur. All in all, Merlin is mostly successful in this endeavor. Save for a near-run-in with a couple of overnight cleaning staff, he is able to make his way to Morgana’s chambers largely undetected. 

Stopping just outside of her door, a small part of him, perhaps whatever remains of his sense of humor, finds it rather ironic that he’s doing this after he gave so much grief to Arthur for asking him to before. Taking a deep breath, he puts his hand on the knob and jolts. 

Startled from the feeling, he leans forward, opening the door with him—or, maybe the door opens itself and pulls him with it? Either way, as he falls into Morgana’s chambers, he breaches what feels like a condensed sea of magic. Much like those times before Arthur’s convulsions, it pulses around him, calling him forward in strong, wave-like movements. And even though everything in him—his instincts, his magic, his pounding heart—tells him not to, he decides to give himself over to it, decides not to fight it when it pulls him deeper into the room. And it’s strong—stronger than any magic he’s felt before. 

It’s perhaps the one thing the dragon was right about, Merlin thinks. How could he have missed this? 

The next wave lifts him off of his feet, and he soon finds himself hovering toward the magic’s epicenter—Morgana. There she lies in her bed, her head jerking side to side in discomfort, matching the rhythm of the magic surrounding her. Her eyes roll rapidly beneath their lids, and he watches, for a moment, as she dreams. 

Then, very suddenly she goes still, and Merlin’s feet meet the ground with a thud. Her eyes snap open at the sound, automatically honing in on him and widening. For about half a second, her eyes bore into him, golden and glowing, then dart to the side. In response, a fire erupts behind him, far off by what Merlin assumes is her dressing area. Shocked, he follows her gaze, turning his head to look at the flames. And, right there, he sees it—a beautiful, silk cloak. 

A green, silk cloak, exactly how he saw it yesterday. 

And now there’s no way of escaping it, no way to frame the events of that night. 

Morgana killed Arthur. She tried to kill him again this morning. 

She’s the reason for all of this. 

Merlin lets out an involuntary choked sob, and his eyes begin to water. He feels devastated—betrayed, and not by just Morgana, but by Gaius too. 

Gaius, the person Merlin trusted most, lied to him. He purposefully kept Merlin away from Morgana, kept him away from the truth under the guise of trauma and ignorance. He told Merlin that they were doing all they could do, let him run himself practically into the ground trying to find a cure for Arthur. Leon, too. Who knows how long he’s known of Morgana’s magic—maybe this whole time—but either way he lied to Merlin this morning about someone being in Arthur’s chambers before his convulsions. He looked Merlin in the eye and lied to him. He let Merlin believe that there was still hope—they both did. Even when they were the ones who were keeping it from him in the first place. 

Merlin doesn’t hear the dragon in his head now, doesn’t hear him tell Merlin, “I told you so,” as Merlin would expect him to. He doesn’t need to, to know he was right. Sadness turns to anger now, burning so bright and hot that it makes him feel like his blood is boiling. The fire rages on in the background, making it hard to breathe with every passing second, and Merlin thinks he might die here. Some part of him, something dark and twisted and filled with hatred thinks they both might die here, that he might make it so. 

His magic rises around him as it always does when he’s in trouble, when his adrenaline is rushing and his heart is pounding. It lifts him off the ground now, and red and gold fill his vision.

“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” Morgana asks, still in her bed. Her voice is…resigned in a way, and quiet. So, so quiet. “I saw it, you know. In my dreams. Blood, fire, death, then…nothing. I figured it would be my end. It should be, I think. I deserve it, for what I’ve done.”

He feels his magic lower a little at her words, and so does he. His feet make contact with the ground again, and he looks down at his hands. The cuts have reopened and blood trickles out between his fingers. “And you’re not afraid?” he finally asks, looking back up. 

“You told me not to be,” she says. “The other day outside the council meeting.”

I don’t think we’re meant to fear our own reflections. 

Merlin catches his in a nearby windowpane, then, his figure illuminated by the flames burning around them. He looks exactly as he feels—tired, worn, sad, confused, hurt, and grieving. Turning back to Morgana, he sees much of the same. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her without some sort of sadness in her eyes. And more than that, looking at her right now, somehow, even though he knows they’re not actually related, Merlin can’t help but be reminded of…Arthur. 

Arthur, that arrogant prince who appeared to him months ago, who insulted Merlin, feared him, befriended him, and eventually, trusted him. The man who loved him, who Merlin loved in return, still loves. 

Merlin drops to his knees then, all of his weight giving out under him and his magic lowers its guard again. He doesn't— what exactly was he just going to do? What exactly did he think would be solved by…taking someone’s life? Even if he thought they were evil, this isn’t who he is—or, even if it is, it’s not who he’s meant to be. It’s not who he wants to be. 

The sound of footsteps make their way over to him, and he doesn’t know what to expect from who they belong to, and mostly, he doesn’t care. Still, though, he doesn’t expect Morgana to approach him softly, to wrap an arm around him, to rub her hand around his back in calming circles, or to pull him into a tight hug. And he never would’ve expected to feel so soothed by it. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers over and over again. “It’s okay.” They stay like that for a period of time Merlin is unable to measure, and the longer they hold each other, the tighter they pull the other close. Eventually, his nose finds its way into the crook of her neck, the only part that makes contact with her skin, and underneath it, he feels warmth bloom, one that is distinct from the fire still crawling towards them. 

It feels like… life and magic . And maybe that’s something else the dragon was right about. Maybe they’re one and the same. 

Suddenly, the two of them are thrown back, each sliding across the room in opposite directions from the force of it. Merlin comes grinding to a stop halfway through the dining area, but Morgana bumps against a wall beside her bed, hitting her head on the stone behind her. After this, her eyes are closed and don’t open. 

As fast as he can with his depleted energy, Merlin gets up and moves toward her, reaching out a hand to help in any way he can. 

Then the door flies open. 

“Get away from her!” Leon yells, running over to shield Morgana’s body from Merlin. 

Other guards filter in quickly, a few forcing Merlin to the ground while others do their best to put out the fire. Merlin just lays there, watching blankly as Leon picks Morgana up and carries her out of the room. Images flash across his eyes, memories of people, places he’s never seen before, and some that he has. And he knows then that they don’t belong to him. 

They belong to Morgana. 

And all of a sudden, the world starts to make sense. Invisible puzzle pieces make themselves known now and click together before his eyes, forming the bigger picture that he hasn’t been seeing, that he hasn’t been able to see this whole time. 

Even as the guards bind his hands and drag him away, he can only smile because he gets it now. Everything makes sense, and he knows.

He knows how to save Arthur. 

He just hopes it isn’t too late.

Chapter Text

Merlin’s knees hit the ground roughly, thudding against the well-polished hardwood floor below as the rest of him quickly follows. He only has about a moment to recover before a hand digs into his hair and wrenches his head back so he can see the sight before him—a furious Uther Pendragon, standing just a few paces away up on the dais that holds the three thrones Merlin saw at the council meeting a few weeks ago. 

They must be in the great hall, then.

Surveying the room as best as he can given his exhaustion, disorientation, and limited head movement, Merlin finds a room full of guards, knights, and council members, all who watch him with various expressions of hatred, disgust, and, for some, begrudging interest. Most settle on a mix of all three. 

“We found him in the Lady Morgana’s chambers,” the person behind Merlin says. His tone is smug and derisive, and it’s with a great sense of irony that Merlin recognizes it as one belonging to the guard that wouldn’t let him into Arthur’s chambers the other day. “He was smiling while she was incapacitated, even after we caught him,” the guard continues.

He must’ve been the one to arrest Merlin, then. Figures—he probably got a good kick out of it, too. Not that Merlin would have any real way of knowing for sure. He’s been rather…in and out since what happened in Morgana’s chambers, ever since he felt that burst of energy between them. Ever since he started seeing her memories. 

He’s still seeing them, really. They come to him in abrupt, disorganized snippets, weaving in and out of the space around him with sights, sounds, and feelings that, as time goes on, make it more and more difficult for him to remain in the present. 

The sound of a wailing mother.

A broken balcony and bloodstains on the floor. 

“I’ve seen terrible things—”

And he just doesn’t know why. He already saw what he needed to see to know how to save Arthur, to reverse the spell that was cast that night, back when he was in Morgana’s chambers. And even though he doesn’t exactly have a plan as to how to accomplish this, nor does he exactly know how he’s going to get out of the rather unfortunate situation he’s found himself in, he’s fairly confident that he knows all he needs to know. So, why is he still seeing, hearing, feeling her memories? 

Glowing eyes through fire. 

“I beg you—” 

A singing voice, crystal clear, cutting through the room like a knife. 

“—Do you hear me, boy?” Uther spits, looking angrier than Merlin thinks he’s seen anyone look in his whole life. The ferocity of his voice, along with another yank of Merlin’s hair has him jerking out of his thoughts and away from the memories. “What were you doing in Lady Morgana’s chambers? What spell did you cast on her?” 

Merlin looks up at him with weary eyes. “Morgana?” he asks.

“Morgana,” Arthur calls. “Morgana,” he tries again, his voice impatient. 

A punch to Merlin’s face sends him reeling, but despite his body’s reaction, he doesn’t really feel it, only able to focus on the sound of Arthur’s voice, bright and arrogant and entitled , as though he hadn’t had a care in the world and he wanted the entire world to know it. 

Uther’s face has grown to a level of anger that’s almost comical now. Taking a deep breath, he visibly calms his expression and demeanor, careful to keep cool under the scrutinizing eyes of the council members surrounding. Still, though, his eyes burn through Merlin. “Tell us what spell you cast on Lady Morgana and Prince Arthur,” he commands. “Tell us how to reverse it, and in turn, I will spare you a long, excruciating death.”

Merlin sobers a little at this—not at the threat, but at the implication of what came before it. Does Uther think…that Merlin had something to do with what happened to Arthur? He can easily see why he would think Merlin wanted to kill Morgana, but Arthur, too? How does that make any sense? 

“My Lord.” The sound of Gaius’ voice has Merlin’s attention immediately, as well as everyone else’s. “While Lady Morgana is incapacitated at the moment, I believe that it is due more to the headwound she sustained rather than any sort of spell meant to keep her unconscious.” He doesn’t look at Merlin, purposefully won’t make eye contact or speak to him. Merlin supposes he couldn’t even if he wanted to, not in this situation, and it’s just well enough. Merlin wouldn’t know what to say to him. “Therefore, I do not think that hers and the prince’s…incidents are connected.”

Gaius, in a medical bed, unconscious and covered in bandages. 

“We don’t know that for sure,” Uther argues. “And even so, he still endeavored to kill her in the same manner that Prince Arthur was attacked, almost as though he was trying to finish what that sorceress started. And who knows how long he’s had this planned, how long he’s been conspiring against Camelot with who knows who, to weaken me , by means of attacking my son, and the child who is under my care?” By this point, his voice has raised to a shout, his face red and veins bulging from his neck.

This time, he cannot calm himself fast enough to sufficiently maintain the appearance of a level-headed judge, jury, and executioner, his emotions taking him over entirely. For a moment, Merlin can hear a quiet rumbling amongst the council members, can see turning heads, raised eyebrows, and whispered words of doubt scatter throughout the room. 

Turning back to Gaius, Uther quickly recovers. “I understand how you must feel, Gaius. This is someone who you must’ve trusted deeply. But he betrayed that trust.” His voice is ladened with sympathy. “With his actions, he betrayed the trust of everyone in this castle, everyone in this kingdom .” 

Gaius nods solemnly and still doesn’t look at Merlin. And Merlin can’t help but think, Is that how he sees me, now? Does he truly think me capable of something like that? 

Then, a small part of him thinks. Is he right to? 

Because while it wasn’t premeditated, he did try to kill Morgana. He stopped himself—no, she stopped him beforehand—but he did try to do it. For a few fleeting moments filled with pain and betrayal, he had that in his heart. More than that, he wanted to do it, wanted to do anything it took to save Arthur. The burden of that, of knowing that he has something like that inside of him, is something he’ll have to carry with him for the rest of his life, however short that might end up being. 

“Because that is the true nature of sorcery,” Uther continues, now addressing the room at large. “It corrupts the souls of those closest to us, turns them into people— things that we can hardly recognize. And it is why we must stay vigilant. It is why we must snuff out evil at its deepest roots, why we cannot allow it to grow and take over us all. And in this case, it is why we must not have sympathy for those who chose to fall under its influence.” 

Uther nods once to the executioner, who lights the pyre. 

“It is why I sentence you,” Uther says, now making direct eye contact with Merlin, “to be burned at the stake tomorrow morning. Let this be done.” 

Merlin hears shouts of agreement, can see nodding heads in his peripheral vision. If anyone still doubts Uther’s position or his judgment, they do not speak up. And why would they? They know first-hand what would await them if they did—they’d end up just like Merlin, end up just like the countless others who dared to challenge Uther’s laws, even if solely by existing, and died because of it.

Fire, smoke, and ash. The smell of burnt flesh. A throat-tearing scream.

The memory makes him shudder, fills his mind with fire. The guard hauls him off of the ground and onto his feet, before dragging him out of the room as the sound of applause echoes throughout the great hall. 

---

Merlin crashes into a rough, dirty cell, the impact only mildly cushioned by the thin scattering of hay covering the floor below him. The cell door closes with a loud click , and the guard from earlier spits across the bars for good measure before leaving. 

Paying him no mind, Merlin sits up, dusts himself off, and does his best to map out his new surroundings. He’s in the dungeons, he presumes, here to await his execution in the morning. 

Standing up, he makes his way over to the window off to the side and finds a view facing the main square, which is where he is likely to die tomorrow. It’s purposeful—the view. It lets the prisoner watch as the guards set up the pyre outside and lets them see all of the Camelot citizens trickle in to watch. It’s a way for them to experience their own death far before it actually happens, a way for them to feel the flames and the agony of the execution all before a single torch is lit, solely through the torment of their own imagination. 

Uther was right, it’s a long, excruciating death. To die while still living. 

Merlin laughs to himself a little, far beyond caring what the guards outside might think of it because he thinks he might know now, at least a little, what it has been like to be Arthur these past few weeks. To be stuck between life and death. 

Merlin scans the room again, his eyes sweeping across brick walls, hay, and iron bars. With his magic, he could probably break out of here fairly easily. He could just use his magic to shoot a hole through the walls and escape through the main square, could bend the metal bars, and incapacitate the guards when they’d try to stop him. 

There’s nothing truly stopping him from just…leaving. Because despite the stance Camelot has taken on magic, Uther and his men don't seem to have any true way to keep a magic user—or, at least, someone as powerful as Merlin—locked up like other kingdoms do. The only thing powerful enough to bind magic would have to be magical in nature, and Uther would never allow something like that into Camelot for fear he’d be “infected” with “evil.” 

So, really, Merlin could go right now. He could go home to his mother, could spend a few more days with her and Will before Kanen would come and Merlin would have to save his village, before Cenred’s men would come too—men who could actually imprison him. He would just be another prisoner, but he would at least be able to see his family again, in his home—the place he’s lived all of his life —and he’d be able to save them. 

So why doesn’t he just do it? Why doesn’t he just…leave?

Because of Arthur. The thought comes to him easily. Always because of Arthur. 

And Merlin knows what he has to do, always has, always will—he has to stay. Even if it means he won’t make it home before Kanen comes, even if he doesn’t make it home at all. Even if he dies on the pyre outside trying. 

He has to stay. He has to save Arthur. 

He just…doesn’t know how. He guesses the first step would be to get out of this cell, but if he does that, every guard in the area will be alerted and he won’t be able to make it to Arthur’s chambers without being arrested or killed. He could maybe figure out some sort of distraction, could try to lead the guards elsewhere, but that’s pretty risky and, not to mention, energy-consuming. 

Another issue will be getting Morgana to meet him there. It was her spell, after all. She’s a part of this, and she’s the only one who can help him reverse it. 

But…how? Even with the best distraction in the world, it’ll be nearly impossible for him to go to her chambers, get her up to speed with everything, then go to Arthur’s chambers to do magic without being detected. No, he needs a way to communicate with her now , needs to figure out how to talk to her all the way from here. There’s no way he could smuggle a message out—who would even take it for him? And he doesn’t think the guards will let a supposed evil sorcerer out on a supervised visit to her chambers before he’s to be executed the next day. 

So, how is he supposed to reach her? How is he supposed to talk to someone halfway across the castle? He can’t just shout.

Or…can he? 

An idea forming, Merlin slides down to the ground, presses himself into the corner of the wall, and closes his eyes. With all the focus he can muster, he tries to send his thoughts outward, tries to force them toward the approximate direction of Morgana’s chambers. If the dragon could do it from all the way underneath the castle, why can’t Merlin do it here? 

Morgana. He thinks. Morgana, can you hear me?

Nothing. Merlin tries a few more times and still gets no response. 

Then, something pops into his head. 

An image of Morgana sitting by a window, looking out wistfully. 

Just another memory, he realizes with a sigh. For a moment there, he thought they were starting to fade, but maybe the use of his magic brought them back. 

The image comes to him again, the same one from a second ago, but now with a feeling of importance . It pulls at him with a strong tug , and just when he thinks it's going to fade like all of the other memories, it doubles down, almost as if to say, “Look! You need to see this!”

See…what?

Merlin feels a little lightheaded then, the room twisting and turning around him. He closes his eyes against it and something inside him lets go , lets the memories take him far, far away. 

<<<>>>

Morgana is having a solid day, all said and done. It isn’t much different from the usual in Camelot—with its noisy citadel, bustling castle staff, anxious council members, and its moronic, yet somehow arrogant princes that seem to infiltrate every moment of peace she’s able to get to herself. 

Speaking of…

“Morgana,” Arthur calls as he strolls into her chambers. He’s wearing his weapons on his hip and his hauberk over casual clothes, as though he thinks it will make people think he’s brave, strong, and actually worthy of his title. 

Morgana thinks he’d be a bit more successful if he didn’t try so hard. Trying to present as though you have certain admirable or desirable qualities is the easiest way to let people know that you don’t. If you had them, you wouldn’t need to say it. Everyone would just simply know. 

“Morgana,” Arthur tries again when she doesn’t immediately answer him, his voice impatient. The prat. 

“Yes, my lord?” Morgana finally replies but turns back to look out her bedroom window. “Pray tell, what brings you to my quarters this evening? Has torturing your new manservant grown tiresome already?”

“Morris, he’s called,” Arthur says, groaning. “I think the royal hounds might be sharper than that twit, and they lick their own rear ends. Seriously, he wouldn’t know an insult if it threw something at him. And trust me, I have.” He sighs deeply, as though having a manservant who doesn’t fight back is somehow burdensome to him. 

“I’m sure he’s doing more than well considering who he has to deal with every day.” 

“By that logic, Gwen will probably be canonized for what you put her through.”

“And yet she’d still be closer to gaining an official title than you,” Morgana shoots back, now looking at Arthur again. At some point during this exchange, his face has gone red with anger, but he doesn’t attempt another report, mostly because he knows how badly it will go for him. Morgana isn’t one to pull her punches, not in any respect. 

Plus, he did come here to tell her something, after all. “Father wants to know if you will be attending the execution tomorrow morning,” he says. 

Morgana’s face drops at this, her smug smile dissolving. Looking back to the window, she attempts to hide her distaste. “I see he’s reached a verdict.” As though Uther is willing to make any other choice. “What’ll it be then?”

“Burning at the stake. Father says it’s…symbolic,” is all Arthur says. His tone is neutral, but she knows him better than anyone, and she knows that he finds the sentence almost as ghastly as she does. He’s just more adept at hiding it. 

Morgana’s eyebrows come together. “I don’t understand why what he did was so wrong,” she blurts. “The sorcerer—he only wanted to provide for himself and his family.” After all, he was only using magic to improve his crops for the season. It’s been hard on those who live out in the farmlands lately. The harvest isn’t looking to be as plentiful as in years past, and many will go hungry as a result. 

Arthur sighs. “Magic is illegal, Morgana. It corrupts the soul. And who knows what else he may have been using it for, or what he might use it for in the future? It’s just best that we caught him before he could do any real damage, before he could turn his magic towards us or the people of Camelot.”

Morgana doesn’t say anything, doesn’t agree or disagree with Arthur’s statement. She still finds it cruel and wrong, Uther’s decision, but who is she to question what will be, as of next week, a twenty-year ban on magic? And even if she were to question it, she still lives under Uther’s rule, as well as his guardianship. Really, without him, she has nothing—she’s an orphan without a home, with barely a title to her name, and no real connections of her own. 

So, like always, she holds her tongue and just says, “Tell him I will watch from my window. The flames disrupt my breathing.” 

Arthur nods, and she knows he understands. Even if he doesn’t agree, even if he does, she knows that he understands her. 

He always does. 

He departs shortly after, leaving her to parse through her confusing thoughts alone. Soon enough, Gwen arrives with Morgana’s new dresses from the tailor, which provides enough distraction for the rest of the evening. 

<<<>>>

Morgana barely gets any sleep that night, even after taking Gaius’ sleeping draught, and she finds herself up in the early hours of the morning before Gwen even arrives for the day. Absently, she watches the men assemble the pyre outside, stacking piles of wood and hay around a centerpiece of wood where a man will die today, and for what? Using a little bit of magic to survive? How can that be a crime worthy of this? 

Just looking at it makes Morgana sick, and she has no idea how she will withstand watching the execution later today, doesn’t know how she will look Uther in the eye later and pretend not to hate him for what he’s done, for what he continues to do, time after time. But still, she must. 

As Morgana sits in front of her window before the execution, she catches her reflection in the glass. Quickly, she averts her gaze, slides the glass pane aside, and lets her eyes sweep the area down below. 

Uther is already at his balcony, presiding over a rumbling crowd of royals and commoners alike, all who have come to the main square to see today’s spectacle. Beside him stands Arthur, face blank and dutiful, ever the devoted son and servant to his country.  

Uther settles the crowd with a raised hand, then signals his guard staff to bring out the man who is to be executed. They tie him to the pyre as Uther rattles off his list of crimes, and then the king gives his speech—the same one he always gives before an execution. He changes the wording very slightly each time, but the vast majority of the message remains the same, his meaning inarguable. Despite this, his words pull everyone in as they always do, including her, and by the time he’s finished, half of the crowd is shouting for the man before them to burn. 

Uther nods once to the executioner, then, who lights the pyre. Morgana turns away as it catches and fire begins to surround the man—Thomas Collins, she knows now from Uther’s speech—but no matter what she does, she can’t ignore the sound of his screams, can’t ignore the smell of his flesh burning. All she can do is sit there and wait until the flames have completely engulfed him, wait until black smoke clogs his throat and the fire has turned him into nothing but ash and charred bone.

Uther gives the second part of his speech, a victorious and triumphant thing that details how necessary what just happened is to the sanctity of the kingdom and the safety of its citizens. He bookends this with the announcement of the festival that is to come early next week, one which is a celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the ban on magic in Camelot. 

The crowd around her cheers, and she knows she’s expected to join in, but all she can do is sit still and think of all the lives lost over all that time. And all of the speeches given, over and over and over again, chanted out like a curse meant to condemn the dead. 

Uther finally finishes up and begins to retreat back into the castle when a wail erupts from the crowd down below. Everyone’s eyes snap to the source of the sound—an older woman, worn and haggard, with tears streaming down her cheeks and a shattered expression on her face. She approaches the still-smoking pyre, leans down to burn her hands on the ashes, then turns to look up at Uther. 

“There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic,” she says. “It is you, with your hatred and your ignorance…you took my son. You burned him up into nothingness, then spat on his grave.” Her voice breaks momentarily, devastation and grief peaking through the cracks before she rebounds on her anger. “I promise you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…a son for a son.”

Morgana’s eyes instinctively search for Arthur, then, who is no longer standing beside Uther. He must’ve gone in once the execution was over. It seems unlikely of him, as usually he wouldn’t dare to leave until Uther did, but maybe it was too much for him after all.  

Uther commands the guards to apprehend the woman, but she pulls a necklace to her lips, whispers an incantation, and fades away in a white gush of wind before they can get to her. 

For half a second, within the whipping current of air, Morgana thinks she and the woman make eye contact, just before she disappears. Morgana feels herself jolt in response, some feeling she cannot describe running through her hot and fast like a bolt of lightning. It covers her in heat, rubbing and dissolving into her skin like one of the lotions or tonics she gets from the stalls in the lower town. 

She sits there numbly for a long time afterward—far past when the crowd disperses, past when the nobles and guard staff leave, and past when the castle servants have cleaned up the sorcerer’s remains—trying, and failing, to understand it. To understand what she’s feeling. 

Later on, she’ll be able to place it, will know it more thoroughly and intimately than she even knows those closest to her, more than she even knows herself. And she’ll realize that in one way or another, it has been there, within her, for her entire life. 

Magic.

---

Merlin comes back to the present at the sound of a high-pitched clanging, like metal on metal. Shaking his head, he tries to process everything he just saw along with the new sound—Morgana, the sorceress, Arthur. 

And he’s just as he was when Merlin first met him—brash, arrogant, proud, funny, self-conscious, and…innocent, in a way. Really, he just looks so young , so free from all that would soon befall him. It makes Merlin want to cry. 

“Merlin,” comes a whisper from just outside the cell— Gaius. The clanging sound must’ve been him bumping his ring up against the metal bars. 

Merlin feels a whole host of conflicting emotions at the sight of the old man—happiness, sadness, relief, fear, betrayal, and shame. He feels shame deep down to his bones for what he tried to do to Morgana, for the life he tried to take from her, especially after what he just saw. He…was her, in a way. He saw what she saw, heard what she heard, felt what she felt.   

But they don’t have time for any of that, to unpack every lie Gaius told to him, everything he kept from Merlin, what Merlin kept from him, what Merlin tried to do and how they proceed with any of this going forward. 

“Gaius!” Merlin is unable to keep himself from rushing to the cell door. 

Gaius shushes him. “The guards think I’m here to scold you, to ask you why and how you used me. I told them that Uther thinks I could get some information from you that way. But I need to know what happened. Why did you go to Morgana’s chambers?”

Merlin hesitates, wondering if there’s any chance that Gaius really is here to get information from him. He did lie to Merlin before, what’s to keep him from doing it again? What’s to keep him from siding with Uther? He’s his king, his friend, someone whose child he’s treated all his life. Why would he choose Merlin over him? 

No, Merlin doesn’t think he would do that. He doesn’t think that poorly of the old man, even despite what he did. What would be the point of it all, then? What would be the point of taking Merlin in, of believing him when he said he saw Arthur, of helping him cast spells and create tonics to bring him back, of helping him even when none of them worked? What would be the point of letting Merlin die after all of that? 

“How long has it been since we were in the great hall?” Merlin asks, suddenly distracted by the light coming from the window. It’s not dark outside, but it is a bit darker than this morning. It makes him wonder how long he was gone. He’s also dodging Gaius’ earlier question, which Gaius seems to be more than aware of. 

“About an hour or so,” he answers, frowning. “I’m sorry, I came as soon as I could—”

“No, no—don’t worry about that. I just—never mind.” He shakes his head again. They don’t have much time. “I know how to save Arthur. Or, I think I do. But I need Morgana to help me do it.” 

Gaius’ expression drops. “Morgana?” he asks. “What were you doing—” 

“Gaius, we don’t have time,” Merlin redirects. “I just—I need you to know that I didn’t attack her.”

“I know,” Gaius says, and then, at Merlin’s obvious bewilderment, “As I said before, I don’t believe Hunith could have a son who could be evil.” 

Now Merlin really feels like crying. His face twists up a little, but he smooths it out with a deep breath. “That’s all I can say for now,” he says, moving on as quickly as his heart will let him. He trusts Gaius, he does, but he doesn’t think anything would be served by telling him every bit of his plan, nor does he want to risk the chance of the guards down the hall overhearing them. “But there’s something I need—”

Morgana strides down the hall, a clear destination in mind. 

The memory asserts itself in his mind, front and center. Merlin does his best to hold onto the present, and his hands clench the bars even tighter, which redirects Gaius’ gaze to them and then Merlin’s in turn. His cuts have reopened, the ones he got from the glass last night. He completely forgot about them until now and hadn't even felt them. It makes him wonder what other wounds he may have sustained throughout all of this. Once this is all done—if it’s ever done—he’ll probably be covered in bandages for weeks. 

The memories pull at him again— upset in a way with him for leaving—and he screws his eyes shut to try to stop them from taking him over. But it’s too late, he’s pulled back into the past.

Chapter Text

Morgana cannot shake the feeling for the rest of the day, no matter how she tries. It’s always there, an ever-present dull hum rushing through her veins. It waxes and wanes, pulling then releasing like a tide under her skin. Overall, she doesn’t find it unpleasant—actually finds it rather soothing in a way—but is scared and confused as to what it may mean. This is what has her traveling to the physician’s quarters later that evening. If anyone is to know what this is all about, and more so, if there’s anyone she can trust with something like this, it’s Gaius. 

When she gets there, she’s surprised to see Arthur. He’s standing outside of the open door, talking to Leon in a hushed tone. His demeanor is stiff, and his arms are crossed, which is Morgana’s first clue that something has gone wrong. 

“Arthur?” she asks, turning her head to try to see past him and into the room. “What’s going on? Is Gaius okay?” 

Arthur’s eyes shoot up and widen, clearly surprised to see her there. “Morgana, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Well, I’m here now,” she argues passively, too worried about Gaius to add any real heat to her words. She strides ahead, pushing past Arthur and Leon, neither of whom try to stop her, and slips into the physician’s quarters. 

There, she’s greeted with a rather unexpected sight—Gaius tucked into one of his medical beds, the vast majority of his skin covered in either bruises or bandages. His eyes are closed and his breathing is strained, laborious. 

“He fell from up there,” Arthur explains, suddenly by her side. He points to the location in question—the second story of Gaius’ vast library—and Morgana can easily see where the fall took place by the scattering of tomes and the sight of blood on the floor beneath it. She shuts her eyes, imagining too easily the pain that he must’ve felt when he landed. “Stubborn old man,” Arthur continues. “He should’ve never been up there, should’ve taken on an apprentice years ago when Father asked him to.”

Morgana doesn’t begrudge Arthur his disrespectful tone. Unfortunately, when Arthur really cares about someone, he tends to insult them. It isn’t one of his best qualities, but once one sees it for what it is, it isn’t one of his worst, either. 

“He’ll be okay, Arthur,” she says, putting a soothing hand on his arm. He doesn’t answer, but also doesn’t try to shake her hand off, just lets her keep it there for a while, longer than she expects, really. 

The tide underneath her skin grows louder. 

---

Gaius puts a hand on Merlin’s arm, which makes him flinch. “My boy,” he says, his eyes full of confusion and pity. “What is going on with you?”

Merlin could break down right there, but he can’t afford to. He’s having enough trouble staying in the present. He can’t afford to lose himself to his emotions, too. Looking up at Gaius, he can see him as Morgana did two months ago—battered and wounded. “You came a long way, didn’t you?” he asks, almost absently, smiling despite…everything. “You’re almost properly healed up now.” 

Gaius’ confusion only grows. “Merlin, we have to figure out how to get you out of here,” he insists, probably thinking Merlin has completely gone off the deep end.

“I’m working on that,” Merlin says. Because he’s not a complete idiot—or, at least not all the time. He knows that these memories, what he’s experiencing, are appearing to him for a reason. “I just need time, and I need Morgana.”

“You just said we don’t have time—”

“No, we don’t.”

“And what does Morgana have to do with any of this?”

“Everything,” Merlin says solidly. “She’s just as much a part of this, as I am.” Gaius studies him for a moment. He still looks impossibly confused and more than a little frustrated, which Merlin understands. “Once she’s awake, I need you to pass a message on to her.” 

To Merlin’s surprise, or maybe not—he really doesn’t know how to feel about him right now—Gaius doesn’t immediately leave. Instead, he searches Merlin’s eyes for a long while. “Okay,” he says once he’s finally seemed to find an answer.

“Tell her to open her mind,” Merlin says. “I’ll do the rest.” 

Gaius only nods once, shoots a nervous look down the hall, reaches past the bars to squeeze Merlin’s shoulder, then leaves. Once he’s gone, Merlin returns to his spot in the corner, closes his eyes, and lets the memories call him back to the past. 

<<<>>>

That night, Morgana dreams. 

Fire, burning bright and hot, her lungs full of smoke and scalding tears running down her face. She needs to get out of here, but she doesn’t know how, doesn’t know how to escape the seemingly endless void of pain and heat. And it’s coming for her. 

She can see it just through the whipping flames—a dark creature standing a few paces away. She can hardly make it out, aside from its crunched figure, its howling screech, and its…eyes. They’re glowing, bright and gold, like the sun. 

Magic. Some part of her knows what it is, knows it deep in her soul. 

She tries to crawl away, tries to escape the flames and fear and burning eyes, but it’s too late. The fire is crushing her, and she’s going to die. 

She’s going to die. And so is—

Morgana jerks forward in her bed, her heart racing and a ragged whimper on her lips. The waves under her skin spike, pushing and pulling as fast as her heart rate—perhaps even faster. It takes a long time for her to come back to reality, for her breathing to return to normal, for her hands to unclench, and for her heart and the feeling under her skin to find a more peaceful rhythm. Still, though, for a long time afterward, she can’t help but run her hands up and down her arms, across her shoulders, and over her neck, some part of her expecting to find flesh burned from the fire, expecting to find blood pooling down to her sheets. 

But after a long time, both her body and her mind finally grasp that what she just saw, what she just experienced, wasn’t real. 

But it felt real, she thinks. How could it feel so real? 

She’s never experienced anything like it before, never had nightmares so vivid that she completely lost herself in them. 

Except, that isn’t true, is it?

Memories hit her over the head then, nearly knocking her down to the bed below. Images and feelings flash in the aftershocks—phantom pains and broken bones, the taste of copper and dirt in her mouth, and falling, falling, falling…

Morgana shakes her head, forcefully ridding herself of the memories. That was a long time ago, too long ago to contribute to some sort of pattern. Too long ago for her to even remember all that well. And after all, back then, it was just a simple nightmare, just her brain manifesting her fears in such lifelike detail so as to scare her. That’s what nightmares are, after all, right? 

This must be the same—just a manifestation of her fear of burning like the man did today, or of being attacked by the sorcerer. It was quite the event today, the execution, and it left no small mark on her heart. It must’ve just gotten the better of her. 

Honestly, it's all rather simple and explainable. It was just a nightmare.

Nodding to herself, Morgana decides to write it off entirely. The less she thinks about it, the less power it has over her, and the less likely she’ll be affected by it. Laying back in her bed, she rolls onto her side, gets comfortable, and does her best to fall back asleep. 

Yet, as she lays in her bed, awake, for the better part of the night, she can’t help but get the feeling that the dream she just had, that the dreams she’s had like it in the past, are less so there as a means to torment her or to remind her of the horrors that are conjured up so casually around her, but are more so there as a warning . 

A warning of what, though? 

---

The dreams don’t go away like she expects them to. 

No, quite the opposite—as each night passes, they only serve to get stronger and more intense, and she loses herself in them every time. It’s the same scene—always the same, with all of the fire and pain and fear and death as the first dream. Only, each time, they grow longer and as a result, reveal something that she hadn’t noticed the night before. 

For instance, on the second night, she realizes that the creature isn’t a creature, after all, but a human, or a humanlike creature, at least. On the third, she realizes that the fire spreads by eating up pieces of furniture, which allows her to realize that she isn’t in some sort of abstract hellscape, but in a simple set of chambers. She can’t tell whose, though, only knows that it isn’t hers. 

Overall, it’s terrifying, how the dreams only seem to get more and more realistic, like they’re something that could actually happen. And more than that, it’s unbearably confusing, and she spends the mass majority of her waking hours just trying to work out what it all means, if it means anything at all. 

Then, about four nights after her first dream, like always, something new is added. Something terrible. 

The humanlike creature—the person, the sorcerer—stands at a distance from her, partially obstructed by the devouring inferno, but suddenly the flames recede and she can see that they’re crouching over something. No, crouching over someone . She squints against the blurring heat and glowing eyes to see…Arthur. He lies slack and lifeless, eyes closed and flesh burning.

At first, that instinct rises in her, the one that tells her to run, but she can’t leave him, not like this. So she tries to drag herself towards him, tries to stop the sorcerer, to save Arthur, but it's too late. His skin grows bright just like the sorcerer's eyes and the light of it illuminates what the fire hadn't already. And Morgana can see the sorcerer’s face, she can see who is really trying to kill Arthur. 

The sorceress from the other day. Her eyes snap to Morgana and the fire closes in on them just a little bit more. And she’s burning, and Arthur is burning with her, and they’re both going to die. 

Arthur is going to die.

She wakes up screaming, feeling so disoriented and distraught that she thinks she might throw up. Morgana feels a jolt under her skin, and suddenly, she gets an overwhelming feeling that something horrible is going to happen and that she has to do something about it. Panic claws its way from her chest up to her throat and she just knows that she needs to…she doesn’t know—she just has to go. She needs to warn someone, just as she, herself, has been warned. 

Moving quickly, she scrambles off of her bed. It’s morning, some absent part of her realizes, so she dons her green cloak to cover her night clothes before setting out. She doesn’t really know where she’s going, just knows that she has to go somewhere, and before she knows it, she’s out on the pitch, nearly tripping over her own feet as she tries to get to him—to Arthur. 

He’s mid-duel with Leon but stops him with a hand when he sees her approach him. “Morgana,” he greets, surprised. “What are you doing here?” 

She decides to skip the pleasantries, her mind still filled with images of blood and fire. “Arthur, you’re in danger,” she warns. “The sorceress—she’s coming for you.” 

Arthur is clearly taken aback by this, by her, but after a moment or two, understanding colors his expression. “Is this because of what she said the other day, after the execution?” His lips quirk into a smug smile. “I’m touched, Morgana, that you would be so worried about me, but I’ll be fine.”

“Arthur, this is serious,” she insists. She knows that she’s attracted the attention of the other knights, as they’ve all stopped training to watch the dramatic scene unfurl before them, but she doesn’t care. “I–I've seen terrible things and I don’t know how to stop them from happening.” It’s then she realizes she’s crying, tears spilling hot and quick down her face. 

Arthur’s smile drops and his eyes widen. He struggles for a few moments, clearly not sure how to respond. “It’s okay,” he finally says, making his voice as calm and sincere as he can manage. And even though it's a rather abysmal attempt, she can’t help but be slightly soothed by it. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Whatever you saw, it was just a nightmare—”

“No.” She shakes her head frantically. It’s not just a nightmare, she knows it isn’t. 

“Maybe,” Arthur carries on, “you should see Gaius—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head once as he remembers the state that the old man is in. “Or, perhaps some other physician in the lower town. Maybe they can brew a sleeping draught to help like Gaius does.” 

He gives her a look that she interprets as, “Maybe that’s why this is happening in the first place—because Gaius hasn’t been well enough to brew them.” 

He knows not to say anything of it out loud, especially not in front of the knights, and normally, she would chastise him for mentioning sleeping draughts at all, but the idea gives her pause. Honestly, she hadn’t considered the absence of Gaius’ draughts as being a contributor to what she’s been experiencing. 

And, in a way, it makes sense—the nightmares started the very night he had his accident, as did the feeling under her skin. Could that be the reason this is happening? Could it really all be the result of some sort of untreated sleeping condition? 

The feeling under her skin intensifies at this, almost as if to tell her that no, that’s not what this is and that Arthur is in very real danger. 

At her lack of response, Arthur shoots a nervous look at the pitch surrounding. “Look, I have work to do here, knights to train. Let Leon take you back to your chambers so you can go back to sleep. Maybe you’ll feel better when you’re properly rested.”

The feeling under her skin grows stronger, angry , and so does she. 

“Arthur, you’re not listening—” she starts, panic starting to bubble up in her throat. Why can’t he just listen to her?

“Leon,” Arthur cuts her off, turning at the man in question, who, without another word, guides Morgana to the side of the pitch and out of the way of the knights as they resume their training. Morgana tries to get back to Arthur, but Leon holds her back, corralling her in the direction of the castle.

“Please, Leon, I think something horrible is going to happen,” she cries. Turning to look him in the eye, she pleads, “Whatever you do, if you believe me or not, I beg you , protect him for me. Please.” 

He doesn’t respond, just looks at her questioningly before turning away and escorting her back to her quarters. She goes along, too physically and emotionally tired to fight him any longer. 

“My Lady,” Gwen says when they arrive, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Despite this, her eyes shine with obvious relief. She must’ve been worried when she arrived this morning and Morgana wasn’t in her bed. “Leon,” she also greets. 

“Gwen,” he greets back.

Gwen closes the door behind him before sending a look to Morgana, who takes a seat at the window, her mind too busy to do anything but look blankly at the empty square before her. She feels Gwen’s eyes on her for a while, can practically hear the internal argument she’s having in her head, of whether she wants to ask Morgana about it, of whether it’s her place to or not, and even so, if she should anyway. 

Over the past few days, Gwen has been the only one to take notice of Morgana's change in demeanor, in her tired eyes and melancholic disposition. She hasn’t said anything about it, though, but they both know it’s there—her ever-growing and unrelenting worry. It makes Morgana feel even worse, really. Even if she, herself, has been worried about what’s going on with her, she never wanted to make Gwen worry. She never wanted Gwen to feel bad about anything regarding Morgana, or even at all, for that matter.

“My Lady,” Gwen approaches softly. She seems to have made up her mind. “Is…perhaps—is everything okay?” It comes out in one big nervous bundle, and if not for Morgana’s dejected mood or the circumstances of this morning, she would probably have to quell the urge to smile. She rather likes it when Gwen gets a little flustered and rambly. She finds it to be one of her most endearing qualities. 

But now, she doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know how to pretend like everything is alright like she has for the past few days. And Gwen saw through that anyway, so there’s no use. 

She’s about to tell Gwen about what happened this morning, about her nightmares over the past few days, when she spots Leon crossing the square as he makes his way back to the pitch. 

About halfway through, though, he stops. After a pause and what looks like some deliberation, he looks up at her and nods once. Morgana immediately relaxes at this, and the tides underneath her skin return to that gentle, soothing stream she felt a few days ago. 

“Morgana?” Gwen approaches again, interrupting her thoughts. Morgana automatically turns to meet her gaze at the sound of her actual name. It’s then that she realizes that she never responded to Gwen’s question, but now, after Leon’s answer, she feels like she finally can. 

Smiling, even though she’s not ready to, she says, “Yes, everything is okay.”

Everything is okay now. 

Because if there’s anyone she can trust to keep Arthur safe, it’s Leon. He’d go to hell and back for Arthur, just as Morgana would, herself. 

In a way, she already has. 

Gwen nods. “Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t look relieved. No, rather, she looks even more worried but takes the answer for what it is and doesn’t push further. They resume the rest of the early morning as they always do, with Gwen preparing Morgana for the day—braiding her hair, applying her makeup, and helping her dress. 

During this, Morgana tries to hold onto the relief from Leon’s answer, tries to forget about nightmares and sorceresses and warnings as best as she can, and tries to focus only on what’s ahead of her. The celebration is in two days, so she must figure out what she’s going to wear, who she’s going with, and how she’ll survive an event that honors the murder of hundreds upon hundreds of innocent lives. 

Apparently, though, the singer, Lady Helen, will be coming. It’s been some time since she’s graced Camelot with her voice, and she’s set to arrive later tonight. So, at least, Morgana has that to look forward to. She gets the feeling that if nothing else, it’ll most certainly be a performance to remember.

---

When Merlin comes to, he’s still in the corner of his cell, but instead of sitting upright as he was before, now he’s lying on the floor, doused in sweat and shaking so badly that he can barely move. 

It takes him a while to calm down, to peel his arms from his chest, to untangle his legs, and to pull himself up into something resembling a sitting position. It takes even longer for his mind to claw its way back to the present, and for a while, all he lets his mind think of is the feeling of the thin cot beneath him, the cold press of stone along his back, and a chill slipping in from the barred window to his left. 

Finally, he feels himself settle in his own body, an oddly jarring thing, and involuntarily lets out a shaky breath, the heat of which stutters in the air before him, nearly the only combatant against the pitch black of the night. He must’ve been gone longer this time. 

A part of him feels like he’s been gone a century or two. 

Running a hand down his face, he tries to shake off the remaining vestiges of the past, but they stay with him almost like an aura, one filled with memories and dreams, and memories of dreams, and all of the emotions that came with them. And he knows that he’s not supposed to rid himself of them, that he’s probably supposed to be learning something from all of this. 

It’s just…he’s never experienced anything like that before. He’s never experienced fear like that—an all encompassing, isolating, immobilizing fear, straight from the center of his heart and spreading outward, a pain so intense that it felt like he was being lit on fire and frozen solid all at once. A fear that burned him alive. 

And moreso, he’s never experienced magic like that either. Magic that allows that pain, that contributes to it. Because, to Merlin, his magic has always been nothing but a protective force, a benevolent extension of himself that surrounds him in his time of need, a guiding hand to lift him when he’s at his lowest. He’s never had any reason to feel differently. His magic has always been there, and has always been there for him . 

But Morgana’s magic is different. Perhaps it could be seen as another kind of protective force—it showed her what would soon come to pass, warned her of what would happen if she didn’t act quickly enough — but that guiding hand was nowhere to be found in her magic. More like a kick to the stomach when you’re already on the ground, then another and another. A neverending assault that doesn’t stop until you either give up or learn to stand and fight for yourself. 

And Morgana clearly feels so deeply. Even before her magic started to reveal itself, she was quick to intuit the emotions and needs of others, felt them as deeply as they perhaps felt them themselves. She felt Mary Collin’s despair when she lost her son, felt Gaius' agony as he crashed to the ground, and Arthur—well, she probably understood him, who he really was, more than anyone ever has. Even his own father. 

Arthur. Merlin’s heart clenches tightly, squeezing out everything he’s been trying to keep away during all of this—all of the feelings of grief and loss and torment and gratitude and love. And that same fear. The fear enacted on Morgana by her own magic, a gift and a curse all wrapped up into one. 

And quite suddenly, Merlin needs to know what she chose—did she fight or did she just give up like he thought she did? Did she fight until she couldn’t anymore? Will she be willing to fight again?

Morgana. Merlin reaches out with his mind, but this time, instead of looking for her or her thoughts, he looks for her magic—looks for the torrent wave, the whipping frenzy, the uncontrollable destruction—and after a few moments, he feels something. 

It’s small and hesitant. A flicker not a flame, and it rises just a little at his prodding. 

But the past is not done with him yet, and he finds himself falling, falling, falling, back into the abyss, and a part of him knows that when he climbs his way back out, he’ll understand. 

For Arthur’s sake, perhaps for all of theirs, he’ll have to. 

Chapter Text

For the rest of the day following the incident, as Morgana likes to call it, at the pitch—which, the more she removes herself from the situation, only serves to become more and more mortifying by the second—she quickly decides her best course of action going forward is to pretend it never happened, hold her head up high, and do her best to try to regain any sense of normalcy she had before the start of her nightmares. She primarily attempts this by the simplest means she can think of— act normal, and you will be normal. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that despite her decision to ignore everything that’s happened over the past week—this morning especially—word of the incident has already spread throughout the castle, even though it only happened just this morning.  

Nearly everywhere she goes and nearly everyone she encounters seems to know of it. None of them outright approach her about it, of course, but she knows that they know. She sees it in the darting eyes of the serving staff, can hear it in the hushed whispers of the noblewomen as she passes them in the markets, and can see it in the clearly amused faces of some of the knights who witnessed the event. 

But she can take all of that— easily. It’s not the first time she’s found herself on the wrong side of the rumor mill. For a long time, half of the castle was convinced that she and Arthur were an item, which— gross . Surely this cannot be worse than that. 

She passes a cluster of murmuring guards as she makes her way to the great hall, who suddenly go silent as they see her approaching. She tries not to outwardly scowl at them as she passes, and a part of her wonders that if she did, would they even dare to say anything about it? 

She wishes that they would. Honestly, it might give her a bit more agency in the situation. After all, rumors and gossip are only so damaging because they are out of one’s control. And she knows, as do the whispering guards no doubt, that saying anything about it, about her scowl or the incident, would give her that control back. All it would take would be a few cutting words, a few chastised men, and an example made of their mistake. Three birds, one carefully-worded stone. Which is ultimately why they don’t say anything to her. 

No, the only one who does is perhaps the only person whom she cannot argue against. 

“Lady Morgana,” Uther greets all the way across from the main hall, his booming voice cutting through throngs of chattering nobles, high-ranking politicians, and senior council members, who all go silent when they see her, much like the guards from earlier. 

She only stills for a moment, then paints on a smile, curtseys lightly, and greets, “My Lord.” 

She’s been dreading seeing him all day, ever since earlier when Gwen mentioned Lady Helen’s arrival this evening. Immediately, she knew that Uther would want her there to properly greet the singer, along with anyone else who might serve to bolster his status to such a well-known and well-traveled individual as The Lady Helen, singer to kings and queens. Hence, the gathering of such status so late in the evening. 

Still, though, she isn’t entirely sure what to expect as he makes his way over, doesn’t know what he’s going to do even when he’s right in front of her. 

“Morgana,” he says softly, shrugging formality. He places a hand on her shoulder and gives her a reassuring smile. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” 

And despite the anger and disgust she holds for him and his actions earlier this week, despite the heaviness of his hand on her shoulder and the way he looks down on her, his eyes full of pity not unlike how they looked when she first arrived here in Camelot ages ago, an orphaned little girl with no home and no family. Despite all of it, she can’t help but feel comforted by the gesture, can’t help but relax at his words and bask in the calming aura she knows he’s forcefully exuding. Because some part of her is still that little girl, the one who lost everything, who needed a home and was given one. 

So she thanks him for his concern, smiles when he nods at her, follows him across the room to her place at the left hand of his throne, and thinks, dreadfully, that she’ll always want his approval in one way or another. 

She supposes she’s a lot like Arthur in that way. 

Arthur. Her body stills. He’s supposed to be here, too right? 

Her eyes dart around the room, first to the empty throne at Uther’s right hand, then to the crowd scattered about the hall, but he is nowhere to be seen. A surge of panic swells in her chest, not unlike what she felt this morning, but far less intense. 

“Where is Arthur?” she asks Uther, doing her best to keep her voice steady and tone light. She forces a smirk. “Finally sleeping off all of the hard work he makes his knights do?” 

Uther chuckles to himself. “Something like that,” he says cryptically. 

Morgana only raises a cheeky eyebrow.

Amused, he humors her. “He’s off near the outer wall seeing to the import of a few of the decorations to be placed in the hall.”

Morgana swallows a frustrated sigh—she has no doubt that “seeing to the imports near the outer wall” is truly code for “getting drunk at the tavern in the lower town.” Even if Arthur was facilitating some sort of exchange of goods, once negotiations and payment have already been made and the order put in—which is usually done via letter or royal messenger months in advance—it wouldn’t take him all evening to do it. 

Still, despite her annoyance, she still finds herself worrying about his safety. 

Morgana nods to Uther’s answer, and her eyes gently search the hall, but this time for Leon, remembering his promise from earlier. She doesn’t see him either, which makes her relax, figuring that wherever Arthur is, Leon is close by. He is not one to go back on his word, no matter how hesitantly he promises it. 

Her fears mostly assuaged, she sits back in her seat, looking ahead and focussing on waiting for Lady Helen’s arrival. She spends some time like that, her mind going strangely quiet, which she finds herself welcoming. The past few days have been so hectic for her, and the inside of her head has felt more like a warzone than not. 

She almost forgot what it’s like to just be…still. It’s peaceful, in a way. 

Then, an unsettling feeling creeps up on her. It starts with a bad taste in her mouth, metallic and acrid like blood, then spreads down to her throat, down into her lungs, squeezes, and very suddenly, she can’t breathe. 

Looking around, she tries to find the source of this discomfort, as though some unseen force is attacking her by some means she cannot comprehend. But nothing seems to be amiss—everyone is carrying on as they were before, excitedly chatting to each other about Lady Helen or whatever drama unrelated to Morgana has befallen the castle lately. 

Then…what is this feeling and why is she feeling it now, of all times, just when things were starting to look like they were getting better?  

Another squeeze has her gripping her chair tightly. And with a strength she didn’t know she had, she screws her eyes shut, clenches her jaw, and forces her chest to rise and fall as deep as she can. Bit by bit, her head clears and the vice around her lungs loosens slightly. It takes her a few more moments to get her bearings, but once she does, opening her eyes to the movements of the great hall once again, she is greeted by the sight of Uther watching her, his eyes full of concern. In the state she’s in, she honestly cannot tell if it is genuine. Still, either for show or not, in worry for herself or his appearance, she knows that he will not want her here like this, not with so many eyes to witness it. 

“I’m sorry.” She forces her tone to be light once again. “I must not be feeling as well as I thought.” She stands up from her chair awkwardly, her knees wobbling underneath the weight of her body. Uther reaches out to steady her, but she stops him with a hand. “I’m okay. I think I just need a little rest.”

Uther looks more concerned but nods thoughtfully. “Of course, take all the time you need.”

She nods, gives her best approximation of a curtsey despite her unsteadiness, and quickly makes her way out of the hall, leaving through the doors to the kitchens so as not to draw any more attention to herself than necessary. 

Surprisingly, or maybe not—she doesn’t know how any of this is supposed to work, whatever this is—the further she gets from the great hall, the better she feels. Her legs regain their strength, her lungs fill with fresh air, and her mind grows peaceful once again. Once she makes it back to her chambers, she collapses on her bed, exhausted by everything , really. And without even undressing, she quickly falls asleep on top of her blankets, thereby missing the horses riding into the main square, and Lady Helen’s carriage following quickly behind. 

---

The fire burns around her, inching closer and closer with every new, painful breath. Morgana looks up, and squints through the fiery haze to see the sorceress again, hovering over Arthur, her eyes glowing and a litany of words, melodic and in a language Morgana cannot recognize, falling from her lips. 

Suddenly, she freezes, her eyes losing their golden hue and her mouth twisting into a hideous grimace. Then, she turns to Morgana. “What have you done?” she growls. 

In response, Morgana lets out a scream, animalistic and guttural. Her arm reaches out toward the sorceress, whose face grows fearful before the fire engulfs them all. 

Morgana sits up, rising slowly and shaking. She shoves her eyes into her palms, unable to stifle the hot run of tears leaking through her fingers. “No,” she whimpers. “ No.” 

She thought it would be over. She thought, with Leon’s promise, that everything would be alright and the dreams would go away. She felt so assured earlier, like the weight of all of this was lifted off of her shoulders. But now it only feels heavier, as does her confusion. 

What have you done? The sorceress’ words ring clearly in Morgana’s head, over and over again. What have you done?

The tears flow even stronger now, and a part of her thinks she might drown in them. Another sob escapes her, then another and another, until she’s breathless with it. 

“My Lady?” a voice comes from the side, its tone faint, but laced with a sort of frantic worry. Morgana recognizes it immediately as one belonging to Gwen. “My Lady, what’s wrong?” she asks. 

Morgana rubs her eyes softly, looking up to see the other woman, who is standing over by the entryway, a basket held in her hands. It’s morning, Morgana realizes absently. Gwen must’ve gotten the linen from the laundress before heading to her chambers for the day.

“Gwen,” Morgana croaks before she’s truly processed any of this, and suddenly, all of Gwen’s usual apprehension—her somewhat strained effort to not try to rise above her station, to treat Morgana with all of the deference and respect her title commands—all but vanishes. Between one second and the next, she drops the basket, racing across the room to envelop Morgana in a warm, tight hug. 

“Gwen,” Morgana says again, but with a bit more clarity now. “Gwen, I don’t know what I did.” 

Why did the sorceress say that? What did she mean? What did I do? What did I do to deserve this? 

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” she continues. “I just need someone to tell me what I did wrong.” 

Gwen only holds her tighter, stroking her hair and whispering calming assurances of, “It’s okay,” and, “I’m here,” and, “You’re safe,” and, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

They stay like that for a while—Morgana doesn’t know how long, nor does she care. She cannot find it within herself to care about anything but Gwen’s arms around her, her hands in her hair, and her words in her ears. Eventually, Gwen releases her, pulling back but still sitting on the bed pressed up against her. Softly, she brushes the tears and stray wisps of hair from Morgana’s face and waits patiently for her to tell her what’s going on. 

“I–I think there’s something wrong with me,” Morgana says. “I’ve been seeing things—feeling things that I cannot make sense of.”

“What kinds of things?” Gwen asks in a whisper, her expression growing more and more worried. When Morgana doesn’t answer, she says, “You can trust me.”

And Morgana knows that she can. In one way or another, Gwen has been the only person in the castle who she could trust with a secret like this. She’s been the only person who’s seen Morgana exactly for who she is, has seen the groggy early mornings, the late occasional crying fits, and the bursts of anger that often follow them when she’s miserable and confused and stuck wading in all of the grief she still has left over from when she lost everything. Gwen has seen it all, and yet she still stays here, still comforts Morgana despite the wide chasm built between them by family and status and all of the things they can’t control about themselves. 

So Morgana tells her everything. She tells her about her dreams, about the tide that she still feels under her skin, pushing and pulling with each given breath, and about the fear. “I just don’t know what to do,” she says. “I just…I keep getting the feeling that something terrible is going to happen and that somehow, it’s going to be all my fault.” 

“No,” Gwen says, “it isn’t.” She says it so emphatically that Morgana almost believes her, but she can’t bring herself to. Seeming to sense this, Gwen’s mouth sets into a determined line. “Morgana,” she says, calling her by her first name like she did yesterday morning. Only, something about this feels so much more…personal— intimate, in a way. “None of this is your fault. It can’t be.”

“Then why is this happening to me? Why do I feel this way?” 

Gwen’s determined expression turns to confusion. “I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “But whatever the reason, whatever…is happening —this isn’t something you deserve, okay?” 

Morgana nods, wanting to believe it almost solely because Gwen is the one saying it. But still, she just…can’t. 

Gwen seems to be able to read this in her. “I–I think we need to see Gaius,” she says. “Surely he’ll know what’s going on.”

“No,” Morgana jumps to argue, and that tide under her skin jumps, too, a spike of fear and panic surging through her veins. And suddenly, much like in her dreams, she gets the overwhelming urge to run, to hold her secrets close to her chest and hide them so far away that even she couldn’t find them if she wanted to. 

“No,” Morgana repeats. “No, please , Gwen, you cannot tell anyone.”

Gwen looks even more confused. “But it’s not anyone,” she says. “It’s Gaius—”

“Even Gaius,” Morgana says. “Please, Gwen, you're the only one I’ve told about this. I-I don’t want anyone else to know.” 

Gwen looks down thoughtfully, her eyebrows pulling together. “But surely if you are to get better, you need to tell someone.”

“Please, Gwen.” Morgana takes Gwen’s hands in hers, which makes Gwen look back up at her. “I’m…scared.”

And she is scared—she’s terrified. And it’s not just because of the dread she carries around with her all day, or the fire, or even the nightmares. No, she’s scared of what it all could mean. 

Dirt, blood, broken bones. Her horse whinnying above her. A scream stuck in her throat.

Morgana visibly flinches at the memory, and Gwen’s expression somehow grows even more worried.

“Okay,” Gwen finally says, pulling Morgana back into another embrace. “Okay, I won’t tell,” she whispers in Morgana’s ear. “I promise.”

Morgana lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Thank you,” she whispers back. “Thank you.” 

Gwen just rubs her back softly. “But, you need to promise me that if the things you’re feeling—well, if they get worse , you have to tell me about it.”

“Of course,” Morgana agrees without hesitation. 

“And you have to go see Gaius,” Gwen adds. 

Morgana pulls back, her mouth open to argue before she sees the look on Gwen’s face—her eyes full of worry and sadness… and love. A love so deep that Morgana knows that from now on, whatever happens to her will also affect Gwen, too. She’s a part of this now.

“Okay,” she finally relents. “I promise.”

Gwen nods, then stands up, going over to retrieve the dropped basket still lying on the floor, probably in an attempt to give Morgana a moment to compose herself once more, which she does. In silence, they each begin their usual morning routine, and Morgana is thankful for how ordinary it all feels. It makes her feel just that much more normal. 

---

Gwen spends the rest of the day attached to Morgana’s side, and that night, she offers to stay with her. Neither of them says anything about it, but neither of them has to. Any possible implications of what they’re doing are tabled, set aside in favor of a basic need for comfort and connection. 

And for the first time in nearly a week, with Gwen’s arms tight around her waist throughout the night, Morgana doesn’t have nightmares. There are no sorceresses, there is no fire, no death. Only the inky blackness of her inner eyelids, which becomes rather soothing in its monotony. 

This will be the last night of peaceful sleep for a very long time. 

---

The next day, Gwen is ordered down to the kitchens to help prepare for the celebration that evening. Feeling better after finally getting a restful night’s sleep, Morgana devotes herself to catching up on her own preparations. After everything that’s been going over the past few days, she’s had no choice but to leave everything to the last minute—what she wants to wear, how she plans to do her makeup, and who she might ask to escort her to the event. 

By midday, though, Morgana has settled on a red silk dress with a high neckline, a gold belt with matching earrings to accent the piece, and much more subtle makeup than she usually wears, aside from a bold red lip and a single ruby gemstone she’ll place just beneath her eye. 

As for her escort, though, she decides that she doesn’t really need one, feeling satisfied with the fact that during the actual celebration, Gwen will likely be by her side, or at least close by, for most, if not, the entire evening. 

But, as it turns out, like most things in her life, she doesn’t really have much choice in the matter. 

“I’m escorting you to the celebration this evening,” says Arthur, walking into her room without pretense. 

“I truly hope this isn’t becoming a pattern,” she says from where she’s sitting at her vanity, brushing through her hair in preparation for braiding it later, “you strolling into my room, unannounced, spouting utter nonsense.” 

“I announced myself by speaking,” he returns. “And the door was already open.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“It was,” Arthur argues. “Leon opened it.”

Morgana looks over to the doorway, and as she expected, there stands Leon, who doesn’t look even a little bit bothered being Arthur’s scapegoat. He shrugs minimally, as though to say, You’re the one who told me to watch him.

She sends him a look that she hopes says, Watching can be done from a distance. But in all honesty, she can’t really complain. She should’ve known that whatever trouble Arthur got himself into, he would find a way to drag Leon into it with him. 

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the situation, Morgana turns to watch Arthur in the mirror in front of her. He’s currently roaming around her chambers, lightly perusing the objects, nicknacks, and decorations that she knows he’s seen a thousand times. 

He’s bored, she decides. Just like Gwen, his manservant—Morris, she thinks he’s called—has been loaned somewhere else in preparation for tonight’s event, therefore leaving Arthur all alone and with no one to torture. Except for her, apparently. 

“And what exactly makes you think I’m going to let you escort me tonight?” Morgana asks incredulously. “You couldn’t get a date of your own?”

“Trust me, that’s not the issue,” he says, plopping onto her bed. She wants to strangle him. If Leon weren’t here to stop her, she thinks she might try. “Father ordered me to.” 

Morgana stills. Of course, Uther would want someone to keep an eye on her, especially after last night.  

“He just wants me to look after you,” Arthur says, voice strangely sincere. To offset this, though, he looks down, absently playing with the frayed ends of her bedspread. 

More like he wants you to watch me. She thinks to herself. 

Meeting her eyes in the mirror again, he seems to be able to hear it anyway, or some approximation of it. “He’s worried about you, Morgana,” he says. And so am I. His words go unspoken, but she can hear them too. 

And she realizes then that this is the first time he’s seen her since the incident on the pitch. He’s had over two days to think about what happened then, two days to wonder and worry and beat himself up for not being able to do anything about whatever’s happening to her, because he is worried about her, probably far more than Uther could ever be. 

Honestly, it explains how he’s acting now—overbearingly annoying to the point of overcompensation. 

“Although, I’ve always known you were mad,” he says, proving her point better than she ever could. “Better to keep an eye on you than not.” 

“Fine,” Morgana relents stubbornly, and his eyebrows lift. She doesn’t know why he looks so surprised—even if she didn’t want him to escort her, even if she didn’t think he was doing it for the right reasons, and even if she didn’t secretly want to keep an eye on him, herself, there’s no point in going against Uther’s orders. If the king, himself, wants her to be watched, for one reason or another, she will be watched. “But this is a strictly platonic endeavor—“

Arthur makes a gagging sound. “I’d rather go down to the stables and roll around in pig shit otherwise.” 

She feels largely the same, glad they could reach a consensus on the matter, albeit one that depicts a rather disgusting scenario. “And if you’re late, I’m leaving without you,” she adds on.

“You won’t,” he says, already walking out, brushing past Leon in the process, who still hangs in the doorway. For a moment after he’s gone, Leon lingers behind, sending her a knowing look, one that says that he understands the real exchange that just took place, despite how harsh their words may have appeared, before following Arthur down the hall. As he closes the door behind him, she catches a ghost of a smirk on his face. She’s glad he’s amused. She’s glad she can be amusing to both him and Arthur. 

Morgana internally curses the both of them, but instead takes out her frustration on her tangled hair. 

---

The minute she finishes getting ready, there’s a knock on her door, the presence of which tells her that both she and Arthur expected the other not to be ready in time. Otherwise, he would’ve just barged in. 

“You’re late,” she lies, opening the door. 

“I’m early,” Arthur says, also lying. 

“You’re early to being late,” she says, pushing past him to make her way into the hallway. 

“So I’m on time?” he asks, following behind her. As they near the corner, Leon joins them. “Leon, I think she just gave me a compliment, in a strange roundabout way.”

“It’s not a compliment to state a simple fact,” she says, striding ahead of him. 

He catches up easily. “So, you’re basically saying I’m the spirit of punctuality incarnate?” 

“I’m saying you might have somewhat standard time-management skills,” she says. “To offset the idiocy.” 

She picks up her speed then, her heels clacking loudly beneath her feet. Arthur and Leon follow behind easily, but neither says anything more for the rest of the trip.

Once they arrive at the great hall, they give themselves a moment to take everything in—the decorations, the large swaths of people who have already arrived, the performers scattered about the place, and the seemingly endless offerings of food and drink placed on nearly every surface available. Then, almost instinctively, they split up. Arthur goes over to spend time with some of his more annoying knights, with Leon following closely behind, and Morgana seeks out Gwen, who is setting Morgana’s place at the large table at the center-back of the room. 

“Did I see you and Arthur arrive together just now?” Gwen asks when Morgana approaches her. 

Morgana leans a little close, perhaps too close for this type of setting, but most of the guests are either too drunk to notice or too busy stuffing their faces to pay them any mind. And even if they were, there’s nothing strange about a Lady and her maidservant speaking closely during a party, especially one that is already so noisy before it’s even begun. 

“Uther’s orders,” Morgana whispers in her ear. “Trust me, it was not my first choice.” She doesn’t know where the flirty edge to her voice comes from, knows that it’s far from proper, but she can’t find it within her to stop, to retract her words or their underlying sentiment. The blush that rises to Gwen’s face, noticeable even in the sparsely lit hall, doesn’t make it easier. 

After Gwen’s cheeks have returned to their normal color, and after she has finished setting Morgana’s place, Morgana takes a seat to wait until the celebration officially begins. She sits there for a while, idly chatting with Gwen and mentally perusing the extravagant decorations adorning the great hall before her—all new furniture, uniform in its perfection, perhaps some of the finest imported paintings and sculptures in the land, and fabrics lining windows and tables, all embroidered with golden floss that glows under the flickering candlelight, highlighting such intricate and detailed designs the likes of which Morgana has never seen before. It’s all truly breathtaking and she cannot fathom the amount of time and energy put into creating them. 

Suddenly, a hush falls over the room, startling Morgana from her revere. She turns to find the source of this silence and her eyes immediately find Uther, who stands at the entrance to the great hall, quieting the room with just his presence. Without pause, without greeting a single person or even acknowledging the crowd whose attention he commandeered so easily, he begins one of his famous speeches. 

It’s nearly identical to the one he gave at the execution a week ago, the only change being the tone he delivers it in—triumphant and victorious rather than coarse and dominant. It sends a message of appreciation, in a way, rather than a warning to those who might consider challenging him. After all, everyone here is here to celebrate the purge, right? 

Everyone except her, she supposes. 

As he continues on, each line as predictable as the last, Morgana realizes that, amongst the thrill of deciding what to where and who she might ask to attend her during tonight’s event, the excitement of finally being able to enjoy a night filled with good food, plentiful drink, and a beautiful voice, and amongst the comfort and sense of security that Gwen was able to provide her with last night—well, she somehow forgot what this night was really supposed to be about. 

Uther’s words leave no qualms about it, though, leaving no room for argument about what they’re all really here for. Even the decorations look different during it. All of that skill, hard work, and love she knows was put into making them, she now realizes came at the price of other people’s lives. Ultimate beauty paid for with utmost darkness. 

Her beauty, too—her expensive jewelry and fine silk, her rouge and perfectly wavy hair—has come at the cost of other people’s. Just so she can adorn the castle like any other decorative fixture or ornament that Uther commissions to inflate his reputation, to reassert his power. 

Suddenly, that taste of blood fills her mouth. A part of her welcomes it, welcomes the acrid, metallic taste to hold onto as a reminder, a promise not to forget those who died before her, to not forget their suffering, and how utterly avoidable it all could’ve been. To honor the dead rather than celebrate their eradication. 

Eventually, Uther finishes his speech with a flourish, leveraging the momentum of the applause following it to introduce their first and only stage performance of the night, Lady Helen, who steps out onto the stage to a rumble of excitement and anticipation coming from the crowd below her. And…she’s beautiful, of course. Which Morgana already knew she would be. Singers and entertainers as popular as Lady Helen often must be as much of a feast for the eyes as they are for the ears to be considered with such renown. But that doesn’t prepare Morgana for the sound of her voice. 

She doesn’t start immediately, letting the applause properly die down first before she nods to the musicians on her left to start the song. After a few moments, she opens her mouth to sing. 

And…it’s more beautiful than Morgana could’ve imagined, a clear tone shooting across the room like a bolt of lightning, fast and hot and painful. The words are in another language, one that Morgana doesn’t understand, but can’t help but find familiar, although she doesn’t know why. 

Suddenly, Morgana’s lungs squeeze again, much like the other night. For a moment, she panics, thinking that whatever unseen force she thought was attacking her then has come back to do her in. She searches the room, but nothing seems out of place, all eyes on the singer before them. 

And Lady Helen’s eyes are on her. 

Morgana’s pulse spikes, her heart beating loudly in her chest. But for some reason, she can’t bring herself to look away, holding Lady Helen’s gaze head-on. To her surprise, the other woman shrivels at this, tears catching in the corners of her eyes and the divot between her brows growing deeper and deeper by the second, suddenly burdened with what looks like confusion and sorrow. And it’s then that the feeling in Morgana’s chest, that which pulls air from her lungs and blood from her heart, gives itself a name. It’s grief, pure and simple. 

Morgana closes her eyes against it, tears falling down her cheeks with the action. A part of her, foreign and deep, but still intrinsically her, thinks, I understand. I feel what you’re feeling. I know you. 

Lady Helen’s voice, that refined, clear tone, rattles in the air, warbling in her throat before trailing off entirely. Morgana opens her eyes again, only to see that the other woman’s gaze has not left hers, a line of thick tears running down from her lower lashes to the underside of her jaw. 

The hall is silent once again, the accompanying instrumentation having faded out moments ago. Once she seems to realize this, Lady Helen’s eyes leave Morgana, shooting around the room, slightly panicked. 

“I—” she starts, but chokes on whatever it is she was going to say. Quietly, she clears it from her throat and collects herself, wiping the tears from her face. “I offer my sincerest apologies.” She curtsies respectively to Uther from where he now sits next to Morgana. “I think that song was bringing up too many…sad memories. Please allow me to sing another.” 

Uther’s eyes are full of pity. “Of course,” he says. “Please continue.”

She nods, her face blanks, then signals the musicians to start again. Soon, everything returns to as it was just moments ago, and while the singer’s voice is still beautiful, it doesn’t fill Morgana with that pain and sadness like it did before. At least, not as acutely. The feeling dulls, slowly fading amidst the glow of the fire and the warmth of the melody, almost as though it’s obscuring itself. Almost as though it’s hiding. 

Lady Helen avoids Morgana’s gaze for the rest of her performance.

---

Once the last song is finished, Morgana finds herself fading into the background, too. Mindlessly, she eats her meal, drinks the wine provided to her, and chatters amiably with whoever approaches her. She thinks she may dance at some point, feels her body move to a steady beat, muscle memory taking over to get her through many of the intricate formations they always seem to find themselves performing at events like this. 

Hardly before she knows it, several hours have passed, and she can’t help but be thankful for it—getting through these events has always been difficult, even before everything that’s been going on with her lately. Looking around, she tries her best to judge how much longer they’ll be here based on the number of people still in the hall, hoping for it to be far less packed than it still is. Sighing, she regales herself to another hour or so here before she can reasonably retire for the evening without objection. 

She surveys the room again, this time looking for something, anything to offset her boredom, but she finds nothing. Gwen has already gone to help clean the kitchen and Arthur went off to god-knows-where with all the other drunk knights about an hour ago. Her only other options are talking with the other noblewomen, chatting with a servant, or allowing herself to be pulled into whatever conversation Uther is manhandling over in the corner. But the noblewomen are collectively duller than a block of wood, the servants seem to be physically incapable of forgetting her status for long enough to have a genuine conversation with her, and Uther seems too busy holding Lady Helen captive along with a few of his most obsequious advisors to pay her any mind. 

Morgana can’t help but roll her eyes, taking in Uther’s soft demeanor, his dedicated gaze, and the way he keeps touching the edge of Lady Helen’s sleeve, and wonders how long it’ll take before he makes an offer for her hand. Probably soon, Morgana guesses. Uther is nothing if not proactive, and there’s no doubt in her mind that he’d want them to be wed before Lady Helen is due to perform elsewhere. That is, of course, if she says yes. Although Morgana isn’t sure why she wouldn’t. Why settle for being just a singer when you can become a queen? But still, it’s possible. 

Morgana looks closer at the interaction to gauge this. For all intents and purposes, the singer seems just as interested in Uther as he is in her, regarding him with just as much attention and deference as she is receiving. Her body is turned completely towards him, like he’s the sun, like he’s the only source of warmth left in the world. 

Despite this, Morgana cannot help but notice a strange look in her eye. It’s small, nearly, or maybe completely, invisible to the naked eye. But it’s there, far larger than it may appear. It might even be bigger than the room they’re in, bigger than the whole castle—at least, that’s what it feels like. And Morgana can feel it, almost as though it sprouted from her own heart. 

Hatred. 

Gone is that grief from earlier—or maybe it has just taken a new form. Morgana doesn’t know. Sometimes anger and sadness are but two sides of the same coin, made from the same stuff and fashioned by the same hands. But still, in all of her sadness and grief and fear, Morgana isn’t sure she’s ever felt anything like this. She doesn’t know if she’s felt a revulsion so strong that it could destroy her and everything around her. And she has no clue how Lady Helen can hide it so easily and how no one but Morgana can see— feel it as clearly as she does. 

Morgana has to look away, has to close her eyes and take a deep breath to keep that feeling under her skin from bursting out of her, from ripping through bone and sinew and the rest of what makes her, her. 

She’s able to quell it after a few moments, and perhaps for the hundredth time over the past few weeks, she’s scared. She’s scared of the things her body, her mind, is doing to her. And she’s scared of Lady Helen. 

She’s terrified of the woman. 

“My lady,” comes a deep voice from her side, and she feels a steadying hand on her arm. She opens her eyes, only to see Leon, his eyes full of worry. “Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Leon,” she says uselessly and his concern seems to grow deeper. “Where’s Arthur?” she asks instinctively. She scans the room several times over, but she cannot find him. He’s not here.  

In the moments between her question and Leon’s answer, Morgana has already imagined the worst, her mind frantically generating images of Arthur wounded or dead or burned alive. 

“He went back to his chambers for the night,” Leon answers, and with a bit of humor in his tone, “We had to practically carry him there with all that he’d drunk.”

Her eyes snap back to his. “Is he safe?” She must look wild right now. 

“Yes, of course,” Leon says, eyebrows coming together slightly. “I made sure of it.”

And she trusts Leon, she trusts his word and his dedication to Arthur, and for all intents and purposes, his response should soothe her. But she can’t get her heart to stop beating, can’t get her breathing to slow down. Her eyes sweep the room again, almost of their own volition, and catch on Lady Helen once again, who is steadily making her way out of the hall. 

Something grows in Morgana, then, that same feeling she felt before she met Arthur out on the pitch—that warning. And she has to go . She needs to follow. She doesn’t know if she has any choice in the matter, anymore. 

“My lady,” Leon says, his tone indicating that he’s been trying to get her attention for a bit. “Is everything okay?” he asks when her gaze flicks to his. 

And no, everything is not okay. Nothing has been okay for the past week or so. Maybe even longer than that. But she can’t tell him that, doesn’t have time to explain all of it, and who knows if he’d believe her anyway? No, she needs to get out of here as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. 

“Yes,” she says, doing her best to paint on a bashful smile. Although, it probably comes out more like a grimace, instead. “I think the wine is just making me a bit lightheaded. I suppose I must retire for the night.”

Leon nods, accepting the lie easily. “I will escort you then.”

“No,” Morgana rushes a little to say, then forces her body to relax. “I’ll be fine. I just need some rest. Please don’t let me ruin your evening.” He looks like he might protest further, but she doesn’t give him the chance to, curtseying before pushing her way through the crowd, a clear destination in mind. 

She misses his look of suspicion as she leaves. 

---

Once Morgana is outside of the great hall, she significantly picks up her pace, that energy still buzzing inside of her expending itself as pure exertion rather than anxiety. 

The section of the castle where they keep their most prestigious and high-ranking guests is easy to find—there was a period of time when she first arrived in Camelot that she resided there as well, before her own chambers were properly set up—and Morgana makes it there with barely a thought toward it. 

Most of the rooms are empty and many others are guarded with locked doors. But something tells her that what she’s looking for isn’t in them, anyway. The last door she checks has a rim of light shining beneath the wood—the candles inside still not having burned down yet—and she can’t help but hesitate in front of it, realizing how perfectly crazy what she’s doing is. But still, she knows that she has to. 

To her surprise, the knob turns in her hands and the door opens with barely any effort, revealing a girl lying on the floor. 

Dead. 

Approaching her in a haze, Morgana takes in her ash-colored hair and her skin, paler than anything she’s ever seen on a human being—almost white. 

She’s dead. Morgana’s mind repeats over and over again. She’s dead.

Morgana doesn’t know why, but she reaches out a hand to touch the woman. When the very edge of her finger makes contact with the skin, laughter rings out around her. She sees a brilliant smile, rosy cheeks, and eyes lit up with excitement and happiness. 

Then, horror. 

A woman in the mirror in Lady Helen’s clothes, her face wrinkled and worn. She tries to escape, but sharp fingers grip her arm and she’s falling, falling, falling. The last thing she sees is the other woman’s blank, unaffected stare. Her final thought is of her betrothed. 

Morgana is off before she can fully process it all, before she can process that the sorceress from last week, she who has been tormenting Morgana nearly every night since, has been here the whole time. She’s been pretending to be Lady Helen this whole time. And she’s going to kill Arthur.  

Arthur, is the only thought her mind can supply. Arthur is going to die. 

Ditching her heels, she lets the thought propel her forward, pushing herself to run as fast as she possibly can, then even faster. The world fades into a blur around her, warping and distorting until all that she can see is the door to Arthur’s chambers when she approaches it, which she bursts open. 

Then, very suddenly, everything stops as she takes in the scene before her. Somewhere near his bed lies Arthur on the ground, his body limp and his skin pale, much like the girl she just saw. And above him, a dark creature— the sorceress. 

“Morgana!” Arthur yells once he notices her. It looks like it’s difficult for him to say, every movement colored by pure exhaustion. “Run. Tell father—”

He chokes on his own words as he’s hit with a ray of gold. His skin grows paler. 

The sorceress hunches over him, all signs of the beauty of Lady Helen gone now. “No,” she growls in his face, then sticks out a hand towards the door, which slams shut behind Morgana. Despite this, Morgana doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move or run or even blink , her body frozen in place by fear because this is her dream. This is her worst nightmare. This is everything she’s been afraid of, right here in this room—the sorceress and Arthur and pain and death. Because they’re going to die here. This was what she was warned against. 

Heart still pounding—she doesn’t know if it ever stopped—the tide under her skin crescendos, a chorus of voices screaming at her, finally, finally, finally, then bursts out of her chest. She only has a moment to see herself in the window’s reflection, her eyes glowing gold like the sun, before the glass shatters, spilling across the floor around her bare feet. 

Then the fire starts. 

Despite initially starting off small, it soon catches the curtains, erupting into a large blooming flame that quickly spreads to the corners of the room. 

They all go silent. 

The sorceress’ gaze snaps to hers, her eyes growing bright with increasing wonder. “Magic,” she says simply. “You have magic.” 

Morgana’s objection catches in her throat. “I—” She doesn’t—she can’t. “I don’t.”

“I had my suspicions, of course,” the sorceress continues, ignoring her. “When I first saw you up in that window, watching over as Uther—“ her voice breaks, then she shoots a glare at Arthur, her gaze filled with anger. “As they killed my son.”

Another wave of grief and anger settles over Morgana, just like before, and almost absently, she realizes that it was never her own to begin with. It belonged—still belongs to the woman before her. To Mary Collins. 

The sorceress turns back to Morgana, slowly inching closer to her. “But then, at the festival, my suspicions grew. You see, I had other, more public plans then. But when I saw you sitting there, I just knew. I knew you were one of us. So I decided to change course.” She gestures toward Arthur, who still lies on the ground, weak and unable to move. 

His eyes are wide and pleading, and his mouth opens and closes but no sound can escape. And she wants more than anything to move, to run, to save herself, and then save him. 

The sorceress intercepts her gaze. “You could do that,” she says, almost as though she’s reading her mind. Maybe she is. “You could go, get Uther, and he can come here and chop my head off. But, what do you think will happen after that?” Morgana’s eyes snap back to hers. “Do you think this boy will save you? Even if he doesn’t believe my words, even if he doesn’t believe the glow of your eyes or the fire you started—do you really think he’ll ever stop wondering? Do you ever think he’ll stop wondering if you need to be put down?” 

Morgana shakes her head. “He wouldn’t—”

“He killed my son,” she rages, “for nothing more than trying to feed his family.” 

But that wasn’t Arthur. Morgana thinks. That was Uther. 

“My darling,” the sorceress says, voice full of pity. “Who do you think made the arrest?” 

“No,” Morgana argues. “No, he wouldn’t do that.” But when she looks at Arthur again, she sees no denial in his eyes, no rejection of the sorceress’ words. 

Magic is illegal, Morgana. It corrupts the soul. She remembers him saying. It’s just best that we caught him before he could do any real damage, before he could turn his magic towards us or the people of Camelot.

At the time, she just thought he was saying what he thought should be said in a situation like that, saying what his father would want him to say. But now she understands it for what it is—he was trying to convince himself that it was the right thing to do. Just as Uther convinced himself twenty years ago that the purge was justified, that it was what had to be done to protect the kingdom. 

Protect them from people like her. Because the sorceress is right—she has magic. She’s had it for as long as she can remember, coming to her as dreams of the future, of blood and fire and broken bones. Of death before dying. 

“Young one,” the sorceress says. A tear falls down Morgana’s cheek, scalding under the heat surrounding her, and the sorceress’ hand comes up to chase it away. “He will never be your family and he will never understand. It’s impossible for someone like him. But, I do—more than you could ever know. And if you let me do this, for me and for my son, then we can make a new family. Together.”

Closing her eyes, she finds herself leaning into the sorceress’ hand. She missed the comforting touch of a mother, the soft embrace of someone who knows how to hold someone who is small and fragile. The feeling of being held like a child again. 

“I can teach you all I know about magic and how to wield it,” the sorceress continues. “I can give you power, more than you have ever had before. And you will never have to hide yourself away, or live at the whims of someone else to survive.” 

And that’s it, isn’t it? Morgana is so sick of hiding, of hiding who she really is, who she has been, and who she was always meant to be—a sorceress —just to survive under Uther’s reign. Just to have a home to call her own. But no matter how hard she’s willing to try, the sorceress is right. This will never be her home and Arthur will never be her family, no matter how much she wishes otherwise. Because he hates her kind, has made efforts to kill others like her. Who knows how much blood is on his hands? Who knows what he’ll do if she saves him? Who knows how he’ll repay her? With a sword in her stomach or a knife in her back? 

She feels that hatred and fear grow in her, filling her to the brim, and she’s not sure who it belongs to this time. Maybe it’s shared. Maybe it’s what everyone with magic feels at one point or another in a land that hunts them for sport. Maybe she’s been hiding this feeling too, from herself as much as everyone else. Maybe this is her birthright. 

Her eyes open slowly and she knows that the anger she sees in the sorceress’ face is merely a reflection of her own this time. Very subtly, Morgana nods her consent, her face twisting up in pain as she does. Because as much as she wants to protect herself, wants the family and comfort that the sorceress promises. As much as she wants to finally be free. 

She and Arthur grew up together. 

Nearly as soon as Morgana gives her an answer, the sorceress’ hand leaves her face. In its absence, she feels cold, colder than she should be with the fire raging on. A part of her wants to chase it, to reach out for that feeling of warmth and protection again, but the sorceress is already across the room, hovering over Arthur and speaking—no, singing, in that language from her dreams. In the language she sang at the celebration earlier tonight. It’s an incantation, Morgana realizes—a killing curse. 

Morgana locks eyes with Arthur, who is fading quickly. And…he doesn’t look betrayed like she thought he would, doesn’t look angry at all, just…sad and calm, like he’s already accepted his fate. It’s okay. She thinks she can hear him say, even though his lips aren’t moving. Really, it looks like he’s having trouble just keeping his eyes open now. I understand. 

But…how could he? How could he possibly understand? After everything she just did, after everything she just felt. She hated him for a second. She agreed to let the sorceress kill him. She’s letting her do it right now. How can he possibly understand?

She can’t ask him this, not with the sorceress’ incantation pulling the life from him with every passing second. Not with his eyes closing and his skin paling. But she needs to know. How can he give up his life for her? Just like that? 

Something rises in Morgana’s blood, a mix of everything —the grief and sadness and shame—that she’s felt over the past week. Maybe everything she’s felt in her entire life.

And then… love. 

And a part of her absently wonders why it was so much easier to hold onto the bad—the hate, the fear, the violence—when the good was right in front of her all along. When she had Leon’s promise and Gwen’s comfort and Arthur’s protection to hold onto. She just wishes she held on a little tighter. 

Maybe she can. 

Morgana stands tall, lifting her hands straight out before her. The fire stands at attention, its flames pointing upward to lick at the ceiling. She pulls in the energy crashing around her—her magic and the sorceress’ magic and anything else that might help her. And she funnels it, funnels all of her power into Arthur, her family, her brother. Her eyes glow gold and magic rips through her veins, that tide under her skin no longer a tide, but a storm. A hurricane. 

And all she can think is. Safe. Please keep him safe. Keep him safe for me. 

All at once, the feeling leaves her. She crashes to the floor, glass crunching underneath her dress and her face smacking against the hardwood floor. Spitting up blood, she looks towards Arthur, but it’s too late. His eyes are closed, and he’s already gone. She failed. She killed him. 

“What did you do?” the sorceress screams at her, just like in her dream. 

What did I do? What did I do? What did I do?

A scream rips from her throat, raw and ragged, and she sticks out her hand, calling to the flames once again. The last thing she hears before passing out is the sorceress’ agonized cries as she burns to death. The last thing she wishes for is to follow her. She deserves it, after what she’s done. 

She awakes moments later, Leon holding her in his arms, the fire dying around her. 

---

Some period of time later that she cannot quantify in her head, she has a new recurring dream, one just as terrifying as the last one. She dreams of a boy, beautiful and powerful, with dark hair and gorgeous glowing eyes, coming to kill her.

She knows better than to ignore it this time, the way her magic is warning her. She just can’t bring herself to try to prevent it this time. 

---

Merlin. A soft voice calls in his head, over and over again, getting more and more insistent with each repetition. Merlin!  

Morgana, Merlin calls back instinctively, eyes shooting open. Morgana.

Finally, Morgana says. 

“Finally,” Merlin repeats. I understand. “We’re going to save Arthur.”

Chapter Text

How? Morgana’s voice in Merlin’s head is hesitant, quiet, like she isn’t quite sure how to interact with him just yet. It makes sense; she doesn’t really know him, not like he knows her. He just spent the last day—days, almost a week—in her mind, in her memories. 

And Merlin doesn’t really have the time to process all of that. Not now, when every minute he wastes thinking about it could be another minute closer to Arthur’s death, and if he’s not successful, closer to his own, too.

Instinctively, he peers out of the window, wondering how long he was gone this time. The sun has just partially risen beyond the horizon line, painting bits of the sky in color and light. In the courtyard, his pyre is nearly complete, all that’s missing being a few more pieces of wood, a spark of a flame, and himself. 

Merlin does his best to quell the chill that runs down his spine at the thought, trying to stave off his fear and panic before they can gain any true power over him. It won’t serve him right now, to be afraid. It won’t serve anyone , especially those who need him most. 

Merlin? Morgana approaches, still hesitant. 

I’m here, Merlin says. Just thinking. I’m going to need to find a way out of here, preferably without all of Camelot’s guard staff descending on me. Or finding me once I’ve escaped. 

He’ll need to create some sort of distraction, then—a big one. Still looking through the window, he scans the parts of the castle opposite the dungeons as clearly as he can see them. 

Eventually, he settles on a space directly across the courtyard, what looks to be an old, abandoned wing. The window is bolted shut, boarded up with old, rotting wood. Most importantly, there are no signs of life, not that Merlin can see or feel with his magic—no people, no movement, no lit candles, no warmth. And it’s far enough from his destination while still being within the line of sight of the courtyard to lure as many guards as possible away from where he needs to travel.

It’s nearly perfect. The only problem that remains is figuring out how he’s going to get to Arthur’s chambers without being discovered. 

I think I found a distraction, but I don’t know if it’ll be enough, Merlin thinks. Only to no response. Morgana? he questions, still nothing. Afraid that he lost her, he shouts, Morgana!

Finally, her presence fills his head once again. S-sorry, she thinks back. This is kind of hard—keep up, she responds, her thoughts weak and interspersed with random silences. I’m sending—to come get you out—take you to Arthur’s chambers. 

Okay. Merlin nods to himself, to her. That takes care of that then. If she sends someone—Gaius or Gwen, he’s assuming—all that leaves him with is the distraction. 

I’ll see you there soon, he says, but to his surprise, his words are met with immediate confusion. 

What—you mean? she asks. 

It’s then that Merlin realizes that she doesn’t know what she did that night, doesn’t know the spell that she cast in those last moments with Arthur and the sorceress. 

Morgana, he broaches softly, You’re a part of this, too. You always have been. And you—you’re the only one who can help bring him back to us. 

She doesn’t respond again, but unlike before, Merlin can still feel her presence in his mind. He can feel her apprehension, her disbelief, and then, trust. Trust in him, in his words, and in his magic. 

Okay, she says. It sounds much more solid than her previous responses. Okay. 

And despite everything , Merlin can’t help but smile, something like hope rising in his chest. “Okay,” he breathes. “Let’s do it.” 

---

All in all, creating the distraction is easy. 

Scanning the abandoned building one last time, Merlin summons magic from deep within himself. Quickly, it rises, traveling down his arms and collecting in his palms. It flows and flows and flows, wrapping around itself several hundred times over, until the density, the size, and the mass of it become painful to hold on to. And just when he can barely stand it anymore, his muscles tense and body hot, he points it towards his target, mentally willing his magic to release . 

It rips through the air and almost instantaneously, the abandoned wing explodes with a crack, as if struck by lightning. Its windows shatter outwards, cascading down the side of the castle like rain made of glass. 

Everything stills for a second. 

Then, chaos. 

Servants still setting up his pyre and early spectators to his execution take cover under the falling glass, screaming even after they’ve physically recovered from the shock of the attack. Prisoners in the cells around Merlin shout, rumbling and rattling against their metal cages. Merlin hears shouts down the hall—guards calling for others to grab their weapons and head out towards the source of the explosion—and a warning bell sounds out across the courtyard, signaling the entire citadel to take cover. They probably think that the castle is under attack, that maybe Camelot is under attack, too. And they’re not too far off. 

Merlin would burn the castle to the ground for Arthur if he had to. If it meant saving him. 

He garners a look down the hall, not sure who Morgana sent after him, but after a few minutes of waiting, they don’t come. Unable to waste any more time, he channels his magic again, this time funneling it all the way down to his fingertips. He grips the metal bars and they heat under his fingers, allowing him to bend and pull them to the side to make room for his escape. 

The other prisoners grow louder around him as he sneaks away from the dungeons, begging him to release them as well. He silences them with a look, his eyes glowing a fierce golden yellow. 

His next move, one that he hasn’t gotten to plan out as well, hoping to be already under the cover of whoever Morgana sent by this point, is to get to Arthur’s chambers without being seen. 

Weighing his options, he figures he could try slinking around the halls like he did the other night. But even with his recent distraction and the mayhem it’s resulted in, there’s no way the guard staff will devote all of their resources to the site of the explosion, especially if they do think that the castle is under attack. No, there’s no way they haven’t planned for something like this to happen and there’s no way they haven’t organized their men accordingly in case it did.  

So, how is Merlin supposed to get there in one piece without being detected? 

Stifling a frustrated groan, he shoves his head against the nearest wall and orders his mind to think, think, think. 

How is he supposed to do this? He’s all alone now, without Arthur or Gaius— anyone who knows the castle well enough to get him through it undetected—to help him. Even Morgana has left him, her magic not strong enough to give him anything beyond distorted, one-word answers, much less give him specific instructions on where to go and how to get there, quickly, and without getting caught. Without being seen.  

Then, very suddenly, he has an idea. 

Extracting himself from the wall, he racks his brain, trying his best to remember the spell—something he read in one of Gaius’ books on protection spells back when he was trying to find ways to tie Arthur back to the plane of the living. He remembers being surprised when he first stumbled upon it, initially wondering how a spell so blatant, for lack of a better word, could be categorized as “protective.” But the more he thought about it, the more it started to make sense. 

After all, you can’t hurt someone if you can’t see them. 

“Swîcan me bæc dôð holh,” Merlin whispers, his eyes closed. Slowly he opens them, cautiously looking down at his own body. He’s half expecting to see nothing but the floor below him, but instead, all he sees is…a blur. 

He squints his eyes against it, but no matter how hard he tries, it never really pulls into focus. Honestly, the more he looks at it, the more it starts to make him feel sick. Looking up quickly, he tries to steady himself, breathing deeply to find some sort of stability beneath his feet. All the while, his mind reels. 

Did he get the spell wrong? According to what he read, it should allow him to blend in with his surroundings. Merlin turns the incantation over and over again in his head, trying to translate it as best he can with his limited knowledge of the language of the old religion. 

Obscure me from sight. Is the best he can come up with. But if he’s truly obscured, he should be…invisible, right? 

His thoughts are quickly interrupted by a noise to his left—harsh footsteps and the sound of shuffling metal. A guard, Merlin immediately recognizes, one who is quickly approaching the hall that leads to the dungeons.

Merlin’s head swivels in its direction. Stepping away from the wall, he mentally steels himself for a fight. If the guard sees him, he’ll be fast, faster than Merlin can try to run or hide or even recast his spell. And even if he does manage to do that, if the guard sees even a hint of him, he’ll alert the others and Merlin will be back at square one all over again. 

No, he has to fight. He has no other choice.

Just as predicted, the guard bolts down the hallway, heading directly for Merlin. 

Merlin lifts his arm slowly, feeling the magic rise in them, his breathing so heavy he thinks he can hear it echo off of the walls. 

The guard stops abruptly in front of him, his expression wary. His hand goes to the hilt of his weapon and his eyes scan the area around him, but they never truly land on Merlin’s form. Every time they seem to get close, they just…glaze over. Shaking his head, he turns back towards the dungeon, heading in without another word. 

Shocked, Merlin garners a brief look down at his hands again, thinking that maybe the spell was…delayed somehow. But instead, he’s greeted with the same sight as before—his hands are there, just impossible to focus on. 

Merlin tries to think back to the page with the spell on it, tries to picture in his mind the overall shape and structure of it, then the words on the page—written in a thinly looped cursive, small enough to fit all of the information onto one singular page, despite the large diagram in the middle of it. 

Merlin remembers it now, remembers thinking how abstract it was—the image of a man set in between another man’s eyes, away from his view.

Place me beyond the eye. The true translation of the spell fills in his head. 

So, the spell did work, he realizes, just not in the way he expected it to. Instead of making him obscured from sight, he’s become obscured from the eye , itself. It can’t see him. 

Merlin lets out a brief sigh of relief before taking off without much more thought toward it. As he’s moving, he works hard to keep as quiet as possible, because while the spell hides him from sight, he’s not so sure about the other senses. Just to be safe, he gives the knights and guards—whoever he stumbles across, really—a wide berth, and for the most part, he’s able to tread along rather easily. 

That is, until he stumbles upon the vestibule of the castle’s main entrance. 

Despite its large size, it’s packed to the brim with people—knights, guards, other, less official fighters, and people still taking cover from what happened outside. Merlin only narrowly sidesteps a squire who, despite the heavy armor and large weapons he’s struggling to carry, rushes into the room without hesitation.

Panicking slightly, Merlin looks around, trying to figure out an alternative route. Clearly, he can’t continue this way, not without being caught. Pivoting into an adjacent hallway, he sets across it, relying on his instincts and the little memory of the castle’s layout he has from making deliveries for Gaius to hopefully guide him in what he hopes is the right direction. 

Just as soon as he sees what looks to be a more familiar hallway—where Merlin knows Lord Eagon lives, a stout man who never thanked Merlin for bringing him tonics for his old battle wounds, no matter how easier he seemed to walk afterward—he finds Leon at the end of it. 

Just like the others, he doesn’t see Merlin. Still, though, Merlin freezes at the sight of him, his mind automatically conjuring up what happened during their last encounter, back when he had Merlin arrested in Morgana’s chambers. 

Get away from her, Leon yelled while he shielded her unconscious body. The memory comes to Merlin all too easily, as well as the fear attached to it. Leon moves closer and Merlin’s heart rate picks up, his magic automatically rising up in defense, and for a few seconds, the panic takes him over completely. 

He could kill me, Merlin thinks. And if he catches me, he will. He’ll probably set me on the pyre himself, will spark the flame that burns me into nothingness. 

Then, he remembers the last time he actually saw Leon. It was when he was still living in Morgana’s memories. He was in her body, fire and death surrounding her barely conscious form, and Leon held her. He did nothing but hold her.

Nothing.

Anger and disgust rise in Merlin to replace the fear, and it takes everything in him not to snap at the man as he approaches him. 

You were supposed to keep him safe. Merlin’s mind screams. And you did nothing. You just let him die. He clenches his teeth against it, the sound almost imperceptible. 

Almost. 

Leon freezes at the sound, his hand instinctively going to unsheathe his sword. He looks around warily, eyes darting to survey the hall for hidden threats. They sweep over Merlin again a few more times, back and forth and back and forth, but Leon doesn’t look relieved when he doesn’t find anything, only more and more tense. His face scrunches up and Merlin’s heart rate picks up again, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. 

He needs to go, he needs to move, but he knows that as soon as he does, Leon will hear him. Merlin holds his breath, trapping it with a hand to his face, hyper-aware of every sound, every movement—anything that might set Leon off. 

Leon looks around a few more times, then visibly relaxes. He sheaths his sword and sets his gaze forward, no part of his face indicating that he still suspects anything. Merlin, too, relaxes a little, still wary enough to keep his hand on his mouth and control his breathing, but not feeling as panicked as he did before. 

Then, in a movement so fast Merlin can barely keep track of it, Leon jerks sideways, crashing into him and slamming them both into the wall, hard. Merlin sputters in shock, a sharp pain radiating in his upper back where his shoulder blade makes contact with the stone behind him. 

Now, Leon is looking at him directly. Merlin chances a quick look down to his own body, partially obscured from where Leon has him pinned, his forearm bracketing Merlin’s chest and the other holding a dagger below his ribs, only to find that it is no longer blurry. The spell must’ve dropped when he hit the wall. Or maybe it was when Leon grabbed him. Maybe it breaks when its target is detected.

“What are you doing out of your cell?” Leon yells. Merlin just looks at him, still too shocked to speak or move. At his lack of an answer, Leon retracts momentarily, only to slam them both into the wall again. “Answer me.”

“I’m keeping my promise,” Merlin rushes to say, the words coming out in a pained wheeze. He doesn’t know where they come from, but nonetheless, he continues, “I’m keeping my promise to you,” he tries again, his voice a little more clear. “When I said I’d save him.” 

They both know who they’re talking about and Merlin hopes beyond hope that Leon remembers the last time they were in Arthur’s chambers, after his last round of seizures and before he appeared to Merlin in the physician’s quarters. Before he decided to give up and asked Merlin to stop trying to save him. 

But Merlin isn’t giving up—it isn’t possible for him right now. So, he has to find a way out of here, preferably without getting disemboweled. 

“So that’s what all this is, then?” Leon scoffs, gesturing to the room—perhaps the castle at large—with his head. The warning bell still rings in the background. “This is supposed to be you keeping your promise?”

“Like you did any better,” Merlin bites, growing angry once again. Good, finally something he can use. 

Leon actually looks taken aback at this. “What?” he asks, backing off of Merlin a little. The dagger at Merlin’s stomach lets up a bit, and the pressure on his chest doesn’t feel so crushing. 

“Your promise to Morgana,” Merlin says, physically pressing forward into the new space between them, hoping to get Leon to back away further, which he does. “You promised her that you’d protect him, no matter what. But you didn’t.”

For a moment, Leon’s face is full of shock and he drops the dagger. Then, the anger is back. “You have no clue what you’re talking about,” he says through gritted teeth. “You have no idea—“

“You promised to watch over him,” Merlin interrupts, pressing forward once again. He just has enough space to make his escape. “Why didn’t you do it? He almost died because of you. He still might.” 

“I didn’t know,” Leon rages in his face. His face scrunches up into an odd expression, almost like he’s tasted something sour, and it takes Merlin a few seconds to realize that this is what misery looks like on the man. “I didn’t know,” Leon repeats in all but a whisper. “And I tried to save him—I tried to save both of them. Morgana and Arthur.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Merlin says but feels his resolve weaken a little. 

Leon’s face scrunches further and he looks to the ground. “I know,” he admits, after a few minutes. “I know.” He sounds so defeated. 

And something in Merlin loosens at this , keeps him from taking the window of opportunity for what it is, recasting his spell, and running away. And he isn’t quite sure what it is. 

Perhaps it’s the bundle of anger and resentment he’s been feeling for Leon all this time, for making Merlin’s life difficult from day one, for watching him so intently, for never trusting him, even though Merlin never did anything to give him a reason not to. But it’s taken until this very moment for him to realize why. To understand why Leon was so intense, why he dedicated his whole life to standing outside of Arthur’s chambers from sun up to sun down even though it was below his station, why he arrested Merlin in Morgana’s chambers, and even why he’s threatening Merlin right now, still holding him up against the wall despite admitting that Merlin’s words are true. 

He’s just trying to make up for it all. He’s trying to make up for breaking his promise to Morgana, for letting Arthur out of his sight, for not being there in time to save him from the sorceress’ attack, and for not being able to do anything to bring him back afterward. 

He was just doing all he could do, just like Merlin was when he couldn’t find a cure. Just like Gaius was before Merlin came along. Just like Morgana was when she killed the sorceress. And just like Arthur, who was willing to pay the ultimate price for the part he played in Thomas Collins’ execution, who was willing to sacrifice his life, just so Morgana could live. 

They’re all just trying to make up for their failures, for what they did or didn’t do when their decisions mattered the most. 

“We still can,” Merlin says. “Save them.” Leon finally looks back up at him, but he still seems hesitant. “Look, I know you don’t trust me, and I don’t really trust you either, but I know that you know that if I really wanted to kill him, I would’ve done it a long time ago. And if I couldn’t, I sure as hell wouldn’t still be here. But I am because I think—no, I know that we still have a chance to save him. It isn’t too late, but if we wait any longer, it will be.”

“Why?” Leon finally asks. “Why do you want to save him?”

Merlin shrugs, finding that he now has the space to, with Leon backing off of him almost completely. “Why do you? Because he’s Arthur.”

A series of emotions cross Leon’s face then, indistinguishable in their variety and complexity, but whatever they are, whatever they’re supposed to represent, it doesn’t really matter. Not as much as the look of determination that settles in his expression, the way he stands proud and tall, every bit the fearless knight he’s supposed to be, and the way he nods his head once, the movement solid and meaningful, before releasing his hold on Merlin entirely. 

Merlin nods back and feels something form between them—a new promise. One that he knows they both intend to keep this time.

Almost in sync, they turn their heads toward their destination. 

“Swîcan me bæc dôð holh,” Merlin incants and quickly feels the magic cover his body again, obscuring once more. Leon doesn’t even blink at this, only takes on another defensive stance and walks ahead to lead the way. Merlin follows, preparing himself for what he’ll find at the end of their journey. 

---

The warning bell continues to ring around them, signaling that the citadel is still on high alert. Despite this, getting through the rest of the castle is far easier now that Merlin has Leon to assist him. Leon, who is technically head knight with Arthur still incapacitated, breezes by his compatriots with barely a look sent his way. In fact, some even avoid his gaze altogether, perhaps afraid that if they don’t, he’ll chastise them for their inactivity and order them to the site of the explosion. In a way, it works better than Merlin’s magic ever could, invisibility spell or not. 

Soon, when they’re almost there, just a few corridors away, Merlin feels it. He feels the magic, just as powerful as he remembers it being, and he recognizes it. 

It’s Morgana’s magic—it’s Morgana, herself. It’s her essence, her life and her soul drawn up out of her body and concentrated into that chaotic storm, that mighty wave, that rush of energy, pushing and pulling at the magic within himself. And just like before, just like every time he’s interacted with her magic, it overcomes him. It overcomes his body and his movements, and he finds himself stumbling forward, then walking, then running. 

Somehow, Leon catches on to this and he picks up his pace to match Merlin’s, only surpassing him as they approach the door to Arthur’s chambers. “Get out of here and go help the others,” he yells to the guards outside. “I’ve got this.” They leave without argument, and Leon takes their place while Merlin squeezes into the room. 

The intensity of the magic only increases once he’s inside, pressing against him on all sides to the point of crushing pain, and his invisibility spell crumbles around him. Immediately, his eyes search for Morgana, but he can barely focus enough on keeping his body upright, much less trying to find her through the thick haze of magic clouding his vision. Instinctively, his own magic rushes to aid him, makes his eyes glow and channels power through his veins.

Suddenly, the pressure starts to retract in an almost…bashful way, almost like Morgana’s magic wasn’t able to recognize him until it felt his magic. Maybe that’s all it knows him by. 

The haze recedes, revealing Morgana, who stands in the eye of the storm, her head tilted up toward her magic, beholden to its power. To her own power. 

“Morgana,” Merlin says and she startles at the sound of his voice. 

“Merlin,” she cries, throwing her arms around him. “Merlin, I can’t do this.” The words are nothing but a whisper in his ear but ring as clearly as if she had shouted them. 

Merlin pets her hair. “You can,” he whispers back. His hand lowers to hold hers, which she grips tightly. “We’ll do it together. We have to do this together.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, pulling back to reveal thick tears running down her face. “I—my magic, it only makes things worse. I can’t control it.” 

Merlin studies her face and in it, tries to remember what it felt like to be her. What it feels like to be so full of fear that it immobilizes you. What it feels like to grow up into the very thing you were taught to hate. What it feels like to be very and truly alone in this world. And in his heart, compassion blooms, in the same way it did when he lived in her memories. In the way it should’ve when he found out about her magic, when he found out that she was there the night of the celebration. 

Smiling, he pulls her close to him again. “I want to show you something. Do you trust me?” 

“Of course,” she mumbles against his shoulder. He gives her hand a squeeze before leading them to Arthur’s body. The haze recedes further, making room for both of them to approach the right side of the bed, a mirror image of the first time Merlin stood here and the magic rejected him. Of all the times he stood here trying to bring Arthur back. 

But this time, it’s going to work. He just knows it. 

Merlin places the hand not holding Morgana’s on the body below, right in the middle of Arthur’s chest. Just like before, when his hand makes contact with the skin, magic funnels into it, pulsing gold under his palm. A little heartbeat. A spark of life. 

Morgana’s eyes widen, watery with unshed tears once again, but now for a different reason. “It’s…beautiful,” she says. 

Merlin smiles. “It’s magic,” he says, simply. “It’s your magic.”

“I don’t understand.” Morgana shakes her head, causing more tears to fall down her face. “How— How can my magic look like this? After everything I’ve done? I almost killed him, Merlin.”

“No, your magic is what saved him,” Merlin says, and at her still disbelieving look, “Do you remember what happened that night? What you thought right before you killed the sorceress?”

Safe. Please keep him safe. Keep him safe for me. He lets her words from that night trickle in the air around them and they watch them float by, swirling around their heads before mixing in with the other magic in the room, gold and white and pure. 

“It was a protection spell,” Merlin says, looking at her in awe. “One far more powerful than even I could cast.” So powerful that it nullified his own, left it broken in the air and shattered like glass. So powerful that there was nothing Merlin could do, no spell he could cast, or tonic he could apply, or draught he could administer, to break it. All he could do was try to keep Arthur alive, to give his body and his spirit fewer reasons to leave the land of the living. 

“But,” Morgana starts, shaking her head again. She seems unable to process what Merlin is trying to tell her. “I’ve never learned any spells before. How could I have cast something like that?” 

“Because you meant it,” Merlin says. “Our magic is just an extension of ourselves, of what we’re feeling. When you were afraid, your magic was afraid. It’s why it gave you nightmares to warn you and set fires to protect you. But on the other side, when you wanted to save Arthur, it wanted to save him, too. So it did.” 

“It’s what sent me to him,” comes a voice from the side. The sound of it rattles Merlin to his core, and with desperate hope, he looks up to find Arthur beside them. “I was almost gone, and it knew who I’d be safest with. It knew he’d find a way to bring me back.”

And Merlin wants to do a million things, like hit him or yell at him for leaving or wrap him up in his arms or kiss him senselessly or make him promise never to leave him again. But he doesn’t do any of that, just says, “You came back.” 

Arthur shrugs, smirking in a way that is very Arthur . “Wherever you go, I go too,” he says simply. 

Something like a sob leaves Merlin’s throat, but he’s smiling, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. “And I, with you,” he says. 

Arthur smiles back for only a moment before turning to his body and placing his hand next to Merlin’s. The magic funnels once again, collecting under both of their palms. They both look at Morgana expectantly, waiting for her to join them, but she stalls where she stands.

“A-Arthur,” she stutters out. “I—” she shakes her head. “I’m so—”

“I know, me too,” Arthur interrupts, not unkindly. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

Morgana doesn’t look like she believes him, instead looks as tormented as Merlin knows she feels. But still, she takes a step forward. 

Merlin gives her a gentle smile. “All of this magic,” he says. “It came from you. It came from your love, from your innate desire to protect the people closest to you. It’s yours, to do with as you wish . ”   

“For great destruction or great good,” Arthur adds, giving Merlin a meaningful look. It’s what Merlin said to him back when they first arrived in Camelot, when Arthur asked him about his magic and why he wasn’t using it to whittle. 

Merlin returns the look before turning back to Morgana. “You’re the last piece in this,” he says, urging her on. “We can’t do this without you.”

Because it’s supposed to be the three of them—was always supposed to be the three of them, in some way, shape, or form. It’s why the magic rejected Merlin, why it rejected Morgana when she came to visit Arthur alone, why it broke his protection spell. It’s why Arthur came to him two months ago, why Morgana dreamed of Merlin coming to visit her before he even set foot in Camelot. 

It was always meant to be the three of them, together—the sorceress, the warlock, and the prince. Arthur, and the people who love him most, who will protect him at all costs, even when they barely know him. 

Morgana screws her eyes shut, a war of emotions flashing on her face. The magic around them shifts with it, flickering from hues of blue, to red, to orange . But when Morgana’s eyes open again, they glow gold.

She places her hand in between Merlin and Arthur’s, the edges of her fingers touching both of theirs. The magic collects under her palm, drawing inward from where Arthur’s and Merlin’s hands lie. It pulses between her fingers before condensing into a small, compact ball of light and energy and power. 

She takes a deep breath. And with a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder, the magic shoots back into her palm, the spell physically draining from Arthur’s form. The ground rumbles around them, and Merlin briefly loses his footing.

Once he’s able to get his two feet planted under him, he reaches out a hand to steady Morgana, whose body sways dangerously before planting itself into Merlin’s arms. 

“Did we do it?” she asks, her voice faint as he props her up against the bedpost. “Is he okay?” 

Merlin, having been so focussed on keeping both himself and Morgana from falling, looks toward where Arthur was standing, only to find empty air. His eyes snap to Arthur's body, looking for any signs of a change, good or bad, but he finds none. There’s nothing he can do except wait. Wait for Arthur to come back to them. 

Seconds pass by, maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe days. Maybe his whole lifetime. But none of that matters, not Merlin, not his life, not even time itself matters more to him than Arthur does in this instant. In this eternity. 

So he waits . With bated breath, with a dry mouth and an empty stomach, with cuts and bruises and bloody fingers and an exhaustion so deep set in his bones that his body screams at him to shut down, to rest and find somewhere else to exist for the time being. With all of that, and most importantly, with love and devotion, he waits. 

Then, like the sun peeking above the horizon. Like a flicker of candlelight in darkness. Like a caress to the face and the ghost of a kiss, Arthur’s eyes flicker open. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says. He means for it to come out like a question, but it comes out more like a prayer, reverent and pleading. “Arthur.”

Arthur opens his mouth slowly, but all that comes out is a rough, uncoordinated wheeze. He makes a self-deprecating expression that tells Merlin that talking is off the table for the time being. Really, most things will be off the table until his body can finally heal from being inactive for so long. Still though, with a pain-filled wince, he slowly moves his fingers to grip Merlin’s where his hand is still placed on the bed. 

And Merlin breaks, the tears coming faster than he can even register them, an agonized wail falling from his lips. Taking Arthur’s hand in his, Merlin brings his palm up to rest against the side of Merlin’s face and nuzzles into it, relishing in the feeling and warmth of Arthur’s skin on his. Arthur moves his thumb as much as he can across Merlin’s cheek, wiping the tears away as they fall, his own eyes looking watery as he looks at Merlin. 

Then, he turns his head down toward Morgana, who is still standing by the bedpost, her form almost hiding behind it. With just the right amount of humor and no small amount of empathy, he smiles at her, brilliant and radiant as he is, himself. 

“Thank you,” he mouths to her, then to Merlin. “Both of you. Thank you.” 

Merlin only nods, placing Arthur’s hand back on the bed before stepping away. Morgana takes the opportunity to envelop Arthur into a clinging hug that doesn’t look unpainful, but Arthur doesn’t complain, only returns it as best as he can in his weakened state. 

“You’re safe,” Morgana cries, shaking. “You’re safe.” 

It’s what she’s wanted all along. It’s what her magic wanted, too. It’s what completed the spell—Arthur is here, safe and alive . Seeming to recognize this on some level, Morgana reaches a free hand back to hold Merlin’s, to pull him close to her and Arthur. And for a moment, everything is peaceful and still. 

Then, the door opens. Morgana and Merlin rush to a standing position, and he can feel their magic, far stronger now that it’s not being used to keep Arthur alive, rise to protect them. But it’s only Gaius and Gwen at the door, with Leon trailing in behind them. 

“Gwen!” Morgana yells, running over to pull her into a bruising hug, which Gwen returns with just as much vigor. Leon hangs by the door, while Gaius strides further into the room, his medicine bag heavy in his arms. 

Merlin rushes to take it from him, then places it on a nearby end table. “What are you doing carrying this without your cane?” he scolds. 

“What am I doing? What are you doing here?” Gaius asks, outraged. “I was told that you were going to wait for me to come get you. But no, instead, you’ve decided to send the whole castle into chaos and—”

“Gaius, I didn’t have time,” Merlin interrupts before Gaius starts on one of his infamous lectures. Otherwise, they’d be here all night. “I had to save—”

“Arthur,” Gwen says with a gasp, drawing all eyes back to where Arthur lies on the bed.

Gaius stills in his spot, his face going completely blank. “Arthur?” he asks after a moment, his voice breaking. 

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but again, can only manage a strained wheeze. This doesn’t seem to matter to Gaius, though, who makes his way over to the bed as quickly as he can without his cane to steady him.

“My lord,” he says, tears of joy springing in his eyes. He reaches out to touch the corner of Arthur’s arm, as if to test if he’s real or not. Once his fingers make contact with Arthur’s skin, proving that Arthur is very much real and awake and alive, he springs into action, checking nearly every inch of him for signs of illness or infection. Seeming to find none, aside from the obvious weakness of being in bed for a couple of months, he turns his gaze back to Merlin, and says, “You did it, my boy. You brought him back to us.” 

And something about the pride in his voice, something about the way his face lights up with it, unearths a few more tears from Merlin’s eyes. Soon, he feels a hand take his—Gwen’s, he realizes—and Morgana’s arms come around to hug him from behind, hooking her chin over his shoulder to watch the sight before them. Leon still hangs by the door, ever the faithful guard, but he looks more content than Merlin thinks he’s ever seen him. 

And all Merlin can think about is how lucky Arthur is, to have all of these people who love him, and how lucky Merlin is to get to be one of them. To get to be amongst them. 

Closing his eyes, he lets himself live in the moment, lets himself live in the warmth and power of people who will fight tooth and nail to protect the people they care about. Then, he tries to, in his own way, make peace with having to leave them, with the possibility of never seeing them again. Because he was never going to be able to stay here, even before Uther sentenced him to be executed. He was always supposed to go back home to Ealdor, to be with his mother, to save his village.

As if on cue, the warning bells stop ringing, signaling to the entire city that the immediate threat is over and no one is coming to attack the castle. Soon, non-essential guards will return to their usual rotations, servants will return to their regular assignments, and the citadel will fill once again with Camelot’s citizens, almost like nothing happened this morning. The council will convene in the great hall about what happened and decide what their next move is, and Uther will be notified of the status of an empty cell with bent metal bars. If Merlin has any chance of escaping with his life intact, he has to leave now. They’ll be looking for him soon. 

"It’s time, isn’t it?” Morgana asks from behind him, but she already knows the answer. She squeezes his middle one last time before letting him go. 

Still, though, Merlin nods and says, “Yeah, it’s time. It’s time to go.” 

Gwen is the first to say goodbye. Gwen, who Merlin has spent the least amount of time with out of everyone. But still, Merlin is sad to leave her. He was rather hoping they could be friends. He can only hope that one day, they will be. 

“It’s been lovely knowing you, Merlin,” she says, letting go of his hand to pull him into a hug. “Thank you.” She pulls back, her gaze flicking to Morgana and then back again. “Thank you for understanding her,” she says. 

Merlin only nods, smiles sadly, and says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it earlier.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t, either,” Gwen says, sending another look towards Morgana, one that lingers this time. “But that’s changed now, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, also looking. “It has.” And very suddenly, he has an arm full of Morgana, who clings to him like a lifeline.

“You were right, Merlin,” she says. “My magic is beautiful.”

“You are, too,” Merlin says. “Remember…”

“Reflections, I know,” she finishes, reading his mind. 

Some part of him thinks they’ll always be connected this way. That something about this experience, about the magic and memories they’ve shared, will keep them tied together, in one way or another, for a long time. Even now, he can feel the magic between them, merging and bubbling up like giddy laughter, like the excitement of seeing an old friend who has known you your whole life. It’s comfort, it’s familiarity, it’s understanding. It’s how he knows it’s safe to leave, how he knows that Arthur will be okay without him. 

“I’ll take care of him for you,” Morgana says, reading his mind again. “Till you get back.” She says it like it’s an inevitability, and perhaps it is. Maybe she’s seen it. 

“Thank you,” Merlin says, his throat closing up. She only pets his hair in response, allowing him time to collect himself before pulling away to wrap her arms around Gwen again. 

Gaius is the next to approach him. “My boy,” he starts. He puts a firm hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “It’s been an honor to have you as my apprentice.”

“An honor, huh?” Merlin says, giving him a cheeky smile. 

“Well, it’s been interesting, to say the least,” he says, one eyebrow cocked. After a moment, his face grows serious. “Your mother will be proud of you,” he finally says, with a trembling voice. “I know I am.” 

Without really thinking, Merlin pulls him into a tight hug. It’s something he’d never allowed himself to do, no matter how lonely or upset he was, for fear that Gaius was still too injured for it, or that he might reject it. That he might reject Merlin. But the old man has come a long way in the month Merlin has been here, and so has Merlin, in ways he never could’ve imagined for himself back when he was still in Ealdor. 

“Protect them, for me,” Merlin whispers. “Help her like you helped me.” He pulls back to give Gaius a meaningful look, one that says, Don’t make the same mistakes as before . Don’t try to hide her from herself again. 

Gaius’ expression is serious, pensive, and…ashamed, which tells Merlin that he understands Merlin’s words for what they really are. Nonetheless, he nods solemnly before pulling Merlin into another tight embrace. It doesn’t last long, though—it can’t because Merlin is still running out of time. And he still has one more person to see before he leaves. 

It’s something he’s feared from day one, having to say goodbye to Arthur. A part of him doesn’t even want to look at him, doesn’t want to even acknowledge that he's in the room with them right now because then it’ll be real.

It’ll really be the end. 

But it has to be. The longer Merlin stays here, the more he puts himself in danger—the more he puts everyone in danger just by being around them, by being in this room with the whole castle after him, with the whole kingdom after him. 

So, with great pain, he turns his gaze to Arthur. Reflexively, he scans him much as he has for the past few weeks, much like he did a few moments ago, his eyes searching for signs of infection or weakness, but aside from his long, messy hair, his fatigued body, and the burn scars that have already healed, he is okay. 

He’s alive. It’s a thought that Merlin’s mind can’t help but repeat over and over. He’s alive. 

Tracking up his body, Merlin’s gaze finally lands on Arthur’s, who is already looking at him by the time their eyes meet. 

And just like that, the rest of the world melts away in fire and heat, and like gravity, like magic , Merlin is pulled to Arthur’s side, where he belongs. He wraps himself around his frail form, pressing his forehead against Arthur’s, and for a moment, he just breathes. Just lets himself feel Arthur beneath him, warm and solid in a way he hasn’t been able to experience in all the time that he’s known him. 

“Not so bad, huh? For a simple peasant,” Merlin finally says when he knows he can’t linger any longer. 

Arthur lets out a wet-sounding snort and Merlin can feel him roll his eyes, but he nonetheless nods. Merlin imagines him thinking, It could have been worse. And Merlin supposes it could have been. He could have failed. Arthur could be dead. The thought makes Merlin’s eyes burn, forcing a few more tears to fall down his cheeks. 

Arthur’s hand comes up to cup his face again, redirecting his attention back to the here and now; it’s all they have left. He pushes at Merlin’s jaw weakly in a silent question. Understanding, Merlin answers by leaning in, pressing his lips to Arthur’s lightly. 

It’s not the best kiss. Arthur’s lips are still very dry, Merlin hasn’t been able to wash in over a week now, and they’re both covered in blood and sweat and grime. But it’s everything Merlin thinks he’s ever wanted in life. It’s the love and connection they’ve shared for the past month culminating into a single moment. And a part of Merlin thinks—no, decides that the next time they do this, it’ll be on their terms. That they won’t have to waste all of their most tender moments on goodbyes. 

“We’ll find each other again one day,” Merlin says against Arthur’s cheek. “I promise.” And he means it. They’re each other’s destinies. 

Arthur grips his jaw just a little bit tighter at this, and with one last tight press of his lips against Arthur’s, Merlin screws his eyes shut and lifts himself from the bed, knowing that if he doesn’t do it suddenly, he never will. 

He doesn’t say goodbye, he doesn’t tell Arthur he loves him—not with his words, at least. He just heads towards the door, leaving behind the person who means most to him. 

Gaius is the one to meet him there, with Leon waiting off to the side. Behind them, Merlin hears Gwen and Morgana settle by Arthur, pulling up chairs to sit at his side. Merlin breathes a sigh of relief, happy that Arthur will have people to take care of him when Merlin isn’t there, to help him manage the difficult times that are to come, now that he’s back in his body. 

“Here,” Gaius says, holding up his medicine bag—he must have grabbed it while Merlin was with Arthur. From it he pulls the small duffel Merlin first arrived with. “I packed enough supplies for your trip back, and added something that might interest you.”

Merlin’s eyebrows come together in confusion, but he suppresses his curiosity and slings the bag over his shoulder rather than rummaging through it. “Thank you, Gaius,” he says. “For everything.” 

“You, as well, my boy,” Gaius says, squeezing his shoulder. “You, as well.” 

Merlin can only offer a tight, closed-mouth smile to this, worried that if he says anything more, if he stays here even a minute longer, he’ll never be able to leave. He looks to Leon, silently asking if he’ll escort him out of the castle, which Leon nods to. Merlin doesn’t know where they’ve found this weird sort of mutual understanding, wonders if it’s just how Leon operates, and Merlin has only just recently learned his “language,” so to speak. 

Merlin nods anyway in confirmation. Hesitating, he pauses and looks down to the ground to keep himself from looking back at the others, before casting his invisibility spell again. Leon holds the door open for him, and they both head out. 

As they go, a part of Merlin feels like he’s leaving a piece of his heart behind. 

---

Leon sneaks him past a hidden door off of the side of the castle’s kitchens, which are filled to the brim with people, namely servants coming to fetch a delayed breakfast for their lords and ladies and beleaguered kitchen staff trying to manage catching up on orders for the day with what remains of the food that didn’t spoil during the lockdown. It’s loud enough for Merlin to sneak by rather easily, the clattering noise covering any sound he might make beyond his invisibility spell that could give him away. 

The hidden door closes behind them, its heavy stone insulating sound from the outside, thereby insulating the outside from them. This allows them to speak freely, which Leon takes as an opportunity to give Merlin instructions on where to go. 

“What do you mean? You’re not coming?” Merlin asks. 

Leon shakes his head. “Even though the prince is back, I still have duties to attend to.”

He probably has to meet with Uther and the other council members and organize his men to plan for what comes next. And he probably has to answer for Merlin’s escape and why no one was able to catch him. Not to mention, who knows how Camelot will react with Arthur awake now? Who knows what enemies may come for him now that he’s back, now that he’s the heir to the throne again?

“Okay,” Merlin says, hesitating briefly before adding, “Thank you, Leon. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Leon stalls for a moment, before sending Merlin what he can only describe as a gracious nod. Merlin does his best to return this as he sees it, which must not go well if the slight smirk on Leon’s face is anything to go on. It’s as good of a goodbye as any—probably the best interaction they’ve ever had—and feeling content with where the two of them stand after all of this, Merlin leaves first. He passes through another door, down a flight of stairs, and out a door that leads him outside, just like Leon said. 

Standing among the trees and grass that line the outer wall ahead, Merlin takes a deep breath, recognizing that it’s been far too long since he’s been outside, since he’s felt the warmth of the sun on his skin that wasn’t blocked by a pane of glass. And he realizes that somewhere along the way, amongst danger and secrets and princes and dragons, he forgot that it's still summertime. That it’s only been a month since he left his home. 

It’s strange how so much life can fit into so little time. How one can experience more in a month than in all of their days beforehand. Really, all it takes is one little change—a stone in a stream, a leaf in the wind, a spark of fire where there was none before—to bend time just a little. And Merlin is happy for the time he had with Arthur, Morgana, Gaius, Gwen, and even Leon. However brief it was, it was no less meaningful to him. 

Smiling, he continues on, past the small gap in the outer wall and into the trees, circling the castle from a wide angle, and heads home.

Chapter Text

The trip home isn’t easy for Merlin. Despite the fact that his magic feels stronger than ever now that it’s not being used to keep Arthur alive, his body is still recovering from the injuries he sustained over the past few days. His arms are still cut from the glass of the broken jar, parts of his skin are burned from the fire Morgana set in her room, and his chest and ribs are bruised from when Leon caught him earlier and slammed him against the wall. He does his best to address his more severe-looking wounds with the minimal supplies Gaius could afford to give him and what herbs he can find on the way, but he can’t make camp for long enough to treat them properly, not while he’s still in Camelot. 

It’s only once he crosses the border into Essetir that he allows himself to stop and rest for more than a few hours at a time. It’s the first night’s sleep he’s had in days, aside from when he was experiencing Morgana’s memories. He wouldn’t exactly call that restful, though, just like he wouldn’t call Arthur’s comatose state restful, either, not after what he told Merlin about how it was making him feel. 

“I feel like my body is on fire.” 

The memory comes to Merlin easily, as does much of what he’s experienced over the past few days. It’s perhaps the hardest part about finally being able to rest. He doesn’t have much to do besides think—think of Arthur, think of the time they spent together, the good and the bad, the happy and the painful. 

And more than anything, Merlin wonders what happened to him after he left. He wonders how soon Arthur’s father was alerted to his waking, wonders about their reunion, and wonders if the castle is already making preparations to celebrate his return, to celebrate yet another victory in the war on magic. He wonders if he’s already been told about what happened in his absence, about the evil sorcerer who was found trying to kill the king’s ward, who unleashed an attack on the castle before ultimately disappearing. He wonders how Arthur will feel about it, wonders if he’ll know the lengths Merlin went to to try and save him. 

But most of all, he wonders if Arthur misses him just as much as he misses Arthur. This is the longest and farthest they’ve been apart from each other in months. Before, even during the times Arthur disappeared, Merlin knew, somehow, that he was still there. At least, his body was. But now, all Merlin can feel is the empty space between them, the wide chasm of time and distance keeping them apart from each other. 

As Merlin continues his journey into Essetir, he tries to remind himself that it’s for the best, for both of them. It’s easier said than done. 

Soon, the area around him begins to look familiar, full of the dense boulders he and Will used to play on when they were kids, the trees he’s watched grow over his lifetime, and the sprawling hills he and his mother used to slide down in the colder months, when the ground was lined with hard-packed snow. It was the only time she let him use his magic freely, it was far enough from the village where no one would see and she could watch over him the entire time, make sure he didn’t melt the snow or float off into the air. 

And very suddenly, although it’s just a dot on the horizon, he sees it—Ealdor, home. He picks up his pace. 

Mother, he thinks and with tears in his eyes, he rushes ahead. When he finally arrives at the outer edge of the village, he finds her immediately. “Mother!” he shouts as he nears her. 

Her head whips up at the sound, expression confused, even when she locks eyes on him. “Merlin?” she asks, but her question is already answered. Dropping the bundle of clothing in her hands, she races over to him, meeting him halfway before pulling him into a crushing hug. 

“Mother,” Merlin whimpers into her neck. Screwing his eyes shut, he takes in the smell of her hair and the warmth of her arms around him, and basks in the comfort it brings him. 

“My child,” she says, stroking his back, straightening out the little creases in his jacket with her fingers. “What are you doing back here so soon?” She gasps. “Did something happen in Camelot? Were you discovered?”

He pulls back and lets out a wet laugh. Of course that would be her first question. “A lot happened,” he says, vaguely, which his mother clearly doesn’t like. “I–I’ll tell you everything, I just—” he chokes on his words. He shakes his head, trying to push past a lump in his throat. “I just—” 

He just wants to stay in this moment with her a little while longer, doesn’t want to have to talk about what just happened or who he lost, nor does he want to talk about what’s to come in the future. He just wants to stay right here, to enjoy and, for once, appreciate the time he gets to spend with his mother. 

“My sweet, why are you crying?” she asks, wiping the tears from his face. She even wipes the snot from his nose with her sleeve, which startles another laugh out of him. 

He’s crying for a number of reasons, most of which he can’t elaborate on quite yet, so he just settles on one of them. “I’m just—I’m so happy to see you,” he says, pulling her into another hug. 

“Me too,” his mother says, holding him even tighter. He’s shaking a little, so she pats his back, rhythmic and soothing, to calm him, much like she used to when he was a child. “I’ve rarely thought of anything else since you’ve been gone. I wanted to send another letter, but didn’t want to give you any more reason to come back.” 

“I didn’t need any.” 

“Oh, my boy,” she says, a smile in her voice. “How I have missed you.” 

“Me too,” he says, then adds, “Just a little bit.”

“Here and there, then?” She laughs when he nods against her shoulder. “Well, I’m glad for that.” Pulling back, she takes a moment to study his face. He wonders what she sees, if she can tell all that he’s been through in the past month just by looking at him. She probably can, but even so, she doesn’t pry further, only brushes the dirty hair from his face and says, “You look a bit like a wild animal. How about you go get cleaned up and I’ll make you something good to eat?”

Some of the tension releases from Merlin’s shoulders then. He knows it’s only a small victory, knows that her questions will eventually come and he’ll finally have to address everything he’s been planning on doing and everything he’s already done. But it’s one he’ll take. He’s too tired for anything else. 

“Yeah,” he says, choking up again. “I’d love that.” 

---

As he’s on his way back from bathing in the stream, dressed in fresh clothing and feeling more like himself than he has in weeks, Will is there to greet him. 

“Finally,” Will says, casually sitting on a rock nearby. “You’ve finally decided to wash up.”

It should startle Merlin, but oddly, at this point, he’s rather used to having people appear to him out of nowhere. He’s had three different people in his head by now, none of whom seemed to favor the use of a standard greeting before approaching him. 

Plus, Merlin knew Will would show up sometime soon. News spreads fast in a small village like Ealdor; it’s basically their only form of entertainment. Well, other than skipping stones across the river, but that gets old pretty quickly. 

“Matthew and I had a bet on how long it would take you to come around to it,” Will says. 

Merlin hops up to sit beside him. “Well, I hope you didn’t lose too much,” he says, nudging him with his elbow.

Will rolls his eyes. “On you? Never.” But he’s smiling. He nudges Merlin back forcefully in the shoulder, no doubt leaving a bruise along with all the others he’s accrued over the past week or so. “It’s good to have you back, though. We didn’t think we’d see you for a while, thought you’d be too busy with your new aristocratic friends.”

Merlin shrugs. “Eh, it wasn't fancy enough for me, so I figured I’d come back here, instead. To live amongst people of true culture such as yourself.” He bows deeply, or, as deeply as he can while still remaining seated and despite the pain. 

Will snorts. “Sure, yeah,” he says. “Speaking of which, how’s your knight doing?” He knocks his knuckles against Merlin’s head, who squirms away. “Is he still in there, somewhere?”

“He’s a prince,” Merlin immediately argues, hating how petulant it comes out. Maybe Arthur has been more of an influence on him than he thought. “And no, he’s back in Camelot now.” His voice sounds miserable when he says it—-they both hear it, but neither comment on it. 

“Why aren’t you?” Will asks quietly after a few moments. “In Camelot, I mean.” Merlin sends him an odd look, so he continues. “I don’t know, I kinda thought you’d end up staying there with him, since you left for him in the first place.” 

Merlin realizes that he doesn’t always give Will enough credit for his observation skills. Somehow, he was able to intuit Merlin’s true motive for leaving before even Merlin could, and Will never actually got to meet Arthur. Still, it isn’t something Merlin is ready to talk about quite yet. 

“You know why I came back,” he deflects. “Have you heard anything yet?” They both know what he’s talking about— who he’s talking about. 

Kanen. 

Will looks down at his hands. He’s disappointed, Merlin can tell, like he was hoping that somehow Merlin had forgetten about the threat that still hangs over Ealdor, or that if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t bring it up. He knows Merlin better, though. 

“He sent one of his men our way last week,” Will starts with a sigh. “He killed a few animals, took the meat and some other supplies with him and threatened to kill more and more each time they come back and we don’t give up our harvest. He said they’d burn down the village to find it if they had to.” He shakes his head, his expression morose. “Food is already scarce as it is, nevermind the little we have stored for the winter. And without the food and milk the animals provide, the whole village is doomed to starve. We don’t know what we’re supposed to do.” 

But they both know what has to be done. It’s why Merlin came back. “When will they come next?” he asks, trying to figure out how long he has to prepare, how long he has left with his family. 

“The man who was here said a week. That was about four days ago,” Will says. 

Merlin nods, thinking. It’s tight, but it just might give him enough time to evacuate the village. He doesn’t want anyone getting hurt when Kanen’s men come back, nor does he want them to see what he’ll have to do to them when they get here. The village will have to find a place to hole up in the meantime, preferably a nearby town that’d be willing to take them in. There’s a small village a few days west called Engerd. Merlin knows that Alys, the older woman who lives in the home next to his mother, has family there. Perhaps they could house some of the women and children while the rest set up camp nearby, then they can return when Merlin sends for them after the fight. 

“I kinda hoped you wouldn’t come back, honestly,” Will says, abruptly. Despite his words, Merlin knows that he isn’t being unkind. “I knew what it’d mean if you did, so I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Merlin sighs. “I just can’t see you, or my mother, or anyone else getting hurt. Not when I have the chance to stop it.”

Because even if Merlin does save his village, even if he defeats Kanen’s men, if word gets out about his powers, Cenred will send men to come after him— sorcerers . Merlin will have to make himself scarce before they do. Cenred’s men won’t hesitate to burn down his village, and everyone in it, to fulfill their orders. And it would be easy, all it would take would be a flash of gold and nearly everything and everyone Merlin’s ever known and loved would be gone in an instant. 

Honestly, it would probably be best if he just went straight to Cenred after the fight. Even if Merlin were able to hide himself, who knows what Cenred would do to the people of Ealdor to find him, to use his powers for his own benefit?

Merlin suddenly remembers his mother’s letter, the one she sent him with when he left for Camelot, the one he read with Arthur less than a week ago. 

If Merlin were to stay, I fear for what would become of him, where they might take him, what they might use him for with his abilities, and that he, like many others, may never return from it. 

Merlin doesn’t know if he’ll return from it, just like he didn’t know if he’d be able to return home after trying to save Arthur. But for the same reasons he did what he did in Camelot, he’ll do this, too. He’ll do anything to protect the people he loves. 

Will nods. “He had quite the effect on you, huh? Your prince.” Merlin looks at him questioningly. “It’s just, you’re different, now.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Merlin’s eyebrows knit together. “A bad kind of different?”

“No.” Will shakes his head. “Just…different. Stronger, more assured of yourself. It’s just different, I don’t know how else to put it.”

Merlin looks up then, trying to process what Will is saying, and his gaze lands on the stars. He remembers, just a few short months ago, looking up at them and wondering what might lie beyond what he couldn’t see, what life there could be outside of Ealdor. It scared him, honestly, the idea that the world was as big and complex as the night sky, and that he’d never get to experience any of it. But now he knows what lies beyond, and he is forever changed by it. But it doesn’t scare him anymore. 

How can it, when he is the same? Just a vast entity full of contradictions and complexities, full of good and bad and everything in between. Full of power and weakness. Full of magic, life, and death. Full of light and darkness. So, no, it doesn’t scare him anymore, and it shouldn’t. 

No one should have to fear their own reflection. 

“I guess I am different,” Merlin finally settles on. 

“Still an idiot, though,” Will adds with a smile. 

“Well, that was never a question,” Merlin says, also smiling. “But it takes one to know one.” He nudges Will with his shoulder again. 

Will scoffs and pushes him off the rock. Merlin grabs his arm and pulls him down with him. And suddenly, they're wrestling on the ground like little kids and Merlin dirties his fresh set of clothing. But he doesn’t care because, as always, being with Will never fails to make him feel lighter than air, and after tonight, he thinks it might be the last time he’ll be able to feel that way. 

---

Will walks Merlin the rest of the way home. “I’ll call a meeting in the morning, in the barn. We’ll figure out our gameplan from there,” he says once they’re outside the door. “Then you can tell them…whatever you want.” His voice is quiet for the last bit, wary of anyone, especially Merlin’s mother, overhearing them. 

Merlin doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s no use. His mother’s hearing has been known within their household to be near-supernatural in its accuracy. Even more frightening is her ability to intuit when Merlin is getting himself into trouble. A part of him has questioned whether or not she has some sort of latent magical ability and has only been hiding it from him so he can’t find a way around it. Either way, there is no doubt in Merlin’s mind that his mother is more than aware of what he’s planning, and has correctly taken Will’s presence outside of the house as confirmation of it. 

Still, though, Merlin nods and whispers, “Thanks, Will. I’ll see you in the morning.” A very difficult conversation waits for him on the other side of that door, and he’d rather get it over with as soon as possible than delay it any longer. 

Will only nods solemnly, taking his leave without another word. Merlin watches him find his way to his home a few houses down before he turns to enter his own. 

Just as expected, his mother is hovering around the door, clearly having been eavesdropping on his and Will’s conversation. She at least has the self-awareness to look a little guilty about it, but quickly, her expression morphs into disappointment, that little dent between her eyebrows deepening. 

“Merlin,” she says, her voice so, so quiet, “I truly hope you’re not thinking of doing what I think you are.” 

And Merlin never intended to lie to his mother about his plans to save the village. Aside from the fact that it would only be a waste of time, after everything he’s been through recently, he’s just so sick of lying, of hiding parts of himself that he’s never been ashamed of. So he doesn’t lie, doesn’t really say anything, which is a confirmation in itself. 

His mother’s reaction is instantaneous, betrayal and anger the likes of which Merlin hasn’t seen before flashing across her face. The dent between her eyebrows grows cavernous, and after a second of pause, she turns to head further back into the house, grabbing Merlin’s duffel from where it hangs on a chair nearby. She bounces all around the room, collecting dried food, his leftover clothes, flint stones, waterskins, and anything else she can think of as she goes. 

“What are you doing?” Merlin asks, even though the answer is fairly obvious. 

“I’m packing for you to go back to Camelot,” she says. “To go anywhere from here.”

“Mother,” he sighs, “it’s the only way to save the village.” Approaching her, he snatches the bag from her hands and roughly shakes out its contents. “It’s the only way to save you.”

“No,” she snaps, dipping down to pick up the fallen items. “They will take you away, Merlin. Just like they took—” She shakes her head, her mouth forming into a thin line. “I’d rather die at Kanen’s hands than let them take you from me.”

“How do you think I’d feel?” Merlin snaps back. Immediately, he regrets his tone, but he’s not backing down, not this time. He’s been through too much just to give up like this. 

Shocked, Merlin’s mother stands up, dropping the items she’s collected. “Merlin—”

“Do you really think I’m going to go off and live in another kingdom knowing that you might be killed? Knowing that Will and all of the other innocent people living here could die too?”

“The village will pull through,” she says. Her tone is softer, yet still insistent. “We’ll find another way—”

“What other way is there? There’s no hiding, there’s no going to Cenred for aid, there’s nothing we can do, but fight.” Merlin’s voice breaks, his frustration bubbling up and boiling over into what sounds like desperation to his own ears. He takes her hands in his, tears streaming down his face. “Please, mother, I can’t do this any more. Don’t make me lose anyone else.”

His mother stalls at this, looks at him, her eyes already tearing up in sympathy. She doesn’t know who he’s talking about. Honestly, he doesn’t quite know either because Arthur is still very much alive, as is everyone else Merlin left behind. But that’s the thing about grief, it doesn’t make concessions for who is alive and who is dead, who is lost and who is found, it only knows emptiness and pain and loss. And Merlin did lose Arthur, in a way. Really, he never actually had him in the first place, just a vague promise and an uncertain future. Sometimes that’s all it takes. 

His mother opens her mouth, then closes it, seemingly unsure how to respond. Her expression is thoughtful for a bit and in the interim, a near-deafening silence looms between them. Finally, she asks, “What happened in Camelot, Merlin?”

And he breaks, falling to the ground in a heap of despair. Quickly, his mother bends down to catch him, her innate instinct to love and protect him overriding her anger. 

“Merlin, please,” she pleads, her arms around him. “Tell me what happened.” 

Shaking his head, he tries to rid himself of the lump in his throat, tries to make the tears stop flowing so quickly. His mother waits patiently, holding him like she always does when he’s hurt. 

Then, once he feels like he can speak without breaking again, he tells her everything, starting from the very beginning. 

He tells her about a prince who appeared to him out of nowhere, who convinced him to travel to a far off kingdom, one which would have him executed for his magic. One that almost did. He tells her about meeting someone like him, someone who has had to hide who they were in ways he never had to. He tells her about the dragon, about his supposed destiny, about helping Gaius, about knights and kings and life and death. 

And more than anything, he tells her about Arthur. Not just a prince from another kingdom, but the man, himself. He tells her about how all he did was make fun of Merlin, call him names and make jokes about his clumsiness, but no matter what, he only appreciated it when Merlin gave back as good as he got. He tells her about how honorable he was, how he always said one thing and did another, how he always pretended other people were below him but did everything he could in his power to save them, even when he didn’t have any power to begin with.  

The only thing Merlin doesn’t tell his mother is that he loves him, that he’ll always love him, because he doesn’t have to. He’s sure she already knows, just like she knows everything in his life that he tries to hide from her. 

“My Merlin,” she whispers soothingly, over and over again like a mantra. “My Merlin, my child, my sweet, I am so sorry.” She kisses his forehead. “I am so, so sorry.” 

“Me too,” Merlin says. “I should’ve told you from the beginning about everything. But I just…I needed to help him.” He supposes he was always meant to help Arthur; it’s his destiny. But what happens when one’s destiny is complete, once a prophecy has been fulfilled and everything that needed to be changed already has been? Where is someone like Merlin supposed to go from here? 

His mother pauses for a few moments and he can feel her thinking. “Was it worth it?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation. “If I had to do it all over again, I would. A hundred times over.”

“Then…I’m glad you did.”

Shocked, Merlin lifts his head to look her in the eyes. They look…pained, yet determined. Still, though, he doesn’t understand. 

Sensing this, she continues, “My boy, all I’ve ever wanted to do is protect you, to keep you safe, here, by my side, if possible. And I think, somewhere, in the process, in trying to hide the horrors of the world away from you, I only ended up hiding you away from the world.” 

“It’s a scary place,” Merlin offers in sympathy. He doesn’t want his mother to feel bad for wanting to protect him.

“It’s a wonderful place, too,” she counters. “It has you in it, my little sorcerer.” She strokes a hand through his hair, taking a deep shaky breath. “And I can’t hide you from the world any more than I can hide you from yourself. So, I’m glad that someone else, that this Arthur person, got to see you for just how amazing you are.” 

She tucks him back into her arms and he lays there, trying to process everything she’s saying to him and what it means for their future. “So, you’re not mad, then?” 

“I’m furious,” she says in a laugh. “But I understand why you did what you did, and…I understand why you’re planning to do what you’re planning to do. I just—” she hesitates. “I just ask that you try to think of another way to solve this. That you find a way to save yourself for once, instead of always trying to everyone else. That's all I ask. Just…think about it.”

He nods against her shoulder. “Okay.” But they both know that he’s made up his mind. It’s the only way.

Seeing it for the lie it is, his mother excuses herself, laying a kiss on his forehead before heading to the kitchen. She needs some time to think, he knows. To grieve. 

Still sitting on the floor, Merlin puts his head in his hands, a sharp pain poking behind his eye. Looking to the discarded items from his duffel still strewn about the floor, Merlin absently searches for the feverfew Gaius packed for him. Back when they were still using the herb to heal Arthur’s wounds, Merlin spent the better part of an afternoon gathering as much as he could find, which resulted in oversupply.

And even though he used quite a bit of it to address his wounds while traveling here, he remembers specifically setting some aside in case Kanen’s men had already attacked his village and he had to treat others in the aftermath. Really, a headache should be the least of his concerns right now, but it’s at least a problem he can solve rather easily, unlike everything else he’s soon to face. And he’s sure he’ll have more to spare afterwards. 

Only, for the life of him, he just can’t seem to find the jar.

Rummaging through the duffel instead, he thinks that maybe it didn’t fall out like everything else did when he shook it earlier. Sure enough, there are a few items still inside, including the feverfew. But as Merlin’s hand rises to pull it out, his fingers catch on an odd tear in the fabric—long and relatively straight, as though torn on purpose. 

Confused, he places the jar aside to inspect it, only to discover a sort of make-shift pocket in between the inner and outer lining. Reaching in, he feels something near the bottom, sharp and angular. Trapping it between his fingers, he pulls it out gently. It’s a thin book with a small note attached to the outside. 

“Merlin,

Morgana asked me to send this. I have no idea how this is of any use to you, but when she woke up, she insisted on me giving it to you before you go. She said it would help you, that she saw it happen in her dream. I hope whatever she saw will come true. 

Gaius”

Quickly, he’s reminded of Gaius’ last words to him, something about adding something that may interest Merlin, who only thought the old man was talking about the medical supplies he sent him off with. He figured that was special enough, seeing as how aside from the feverfew, Gaius didn’t have much to spare to begin with. 

Even more confused, Merlin opens the book and scans it. A shocked guffaw, almost like a yelp, jumps from his mouth at its contents, and then a series of hysterical giggles trickle out to follow it. 

It’s so simple. Why didn’t he think of this before? 

“Merlin,” his mother says, coming out from the kitchen, probably worried that the stress has finally gotten to him and is causing him to lose his mind. “What’s going on?” 

Standing up, he envelops her in a tight hug. His mother returns it with an air of apprehension. 

“Merlin, you’re scaring me. What happened?”

“Morgana happened,” he says in another giggle. “Everything is going to be okay.” 

Everything is going to be okay, he thinks. A part of him wonders if this was the moment Morgana saw in her dream, if she knows the extent to which she just saved him—saved them all. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, just in case she can hear him on the other side. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Arthur doesn’t remember much of his and Merlin’s original journey from Ealdor to Camelot. Back then, he was fading in and out so much that by the time he’d developed any sort of familiarity with their surroundings, he’d disappeared. When he’d finally resurfaced, hours had already passed and they’d be in a different location entirely. 

So, to say the least, finding his way back to Ealdor isn’t the easiest task, for a number of reasons. 

Aside from not knowing where to go, the only real map they have of Essetir is ancient, having been drawn decades ago when Camelot and Essetir were still on relatively good terms, enough so that each kingdom’s royal cartographers could explore and document the area without consequence. So, not only is the map grossly out of date, but it’s practically falling apart at the seams. 

And usually, Arthur wouldn’t need it, he could just follow the stars—Merlin’s star—in the direction of his destination. But traveling at night is less than optimal, especially with the high influx of bandits settled within the gray areas surrounding the border. After all, it’s far easier to intercept a potential ambush when you can actually see who is attacking you, and Arthur is more than aware that his party’s presence here, alone, is enough to pique the interest of any would-be attackers making their home in this area. Moving at night would only increase their chances of that happening. So, they travel during the day and rest at night, rotating watches every few hours just in case something goes wrong. 

And it’s still doable—normally, Arthur wouldn't have a problem with it at all. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he had to find his way through the woods with little-to-no tangible direction. Traveling, even at the best of times, when the weather was good and the hunt plentiful, rarely, if ever, went to plan. So, again, it’s less than ideal, but it’s still doable . 

What makes it much less doable, though, are the seemingly never-ending jabs on his navigation abilities coming from his fellow traveling partners. The main contributor being Morgana, unsurprisingly. 

“You know,” she says in that snotty voice she used to use when they were kids, the one she still uses whenever she wants to annoy or embarass him. Usually both. “I really thought that with all of the hunting trips you’ve gone on, that you’d be much better at this.” 

Actually, Morgana may be the sole contributor, but Leon and Gwen’s steady silence on the matter feels more like agreement by omission rather than a dedicated commitment to impartiality. Arthur sends a quick look back to the two of them from where they follow behind on their own horses a few paces away. They’re keeping their distance under the guise of protecting their small party from the rear, but really, it’s more likely they just want to spare themselves from Arthur and Morgana’s bickering. 

Arthur can’t find it within himself to blame them. If he were in their positions, he would do the same. He wishes he could do the same now. 

Morgana steers her horse to ride up alongside his, exhibiting remarkable control over the creature despite not having ridden in years. “No wonder you’ve always been so keen on taking half of your knights with you whenever you went,” she continues. “Poor thing, you must’ve been scared you’d get lost if you’d gone all by yourself.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says, trying to keep his tone from sounding too defensive, knowing it would only encourage her comments further. “I hardly think you’re the foremost expert on long-distance traveling, or traveling at all, really. You’ve barely left the castle within the last ten years.” 

“Exactly my point. I’ve hardly left the castle, yet I reckon I still have more of a chance of finding this place than you do.” She pretends to ponder something. “You know, I hear Mercia is beautiful this time of year, and under different circumstances, I would have loved for you to take us there. Only, it’s in an entirely different direction from where we’re supposed to be going.” 

“I was only trying to find another way into the country without alerting Cenred’s scouts at the border,” Arthur huffs. It’s a lie, and they both know it, but even so, the only thing he thinks might be worse than being wrong is admitting so, especially when it comes to arguing with Morgana. 

“Hmm,” she hums, “and that is best done by entering from another kingdom that Essetir holds hostile sentiments towards?”

“Less hostile than the sentiments they hold toward Camelot,” Arthur says. “Plus, it gives them fewer reasons to expect us.” 

It might not be the most salient of arguments, but it isn’t totally unfounded. Riding in plain clothes and traveling in a small party with just the four of them can only do so much to keep them undetected. Crossing the border from Camelot with anything more than the clothes on their backs is sure to raise some attention. Going through Mercia decreases the likelihood of that, as well as the likelihood that should word get back to Cenred of their presence here, that he’d view it as an act of war. 

“It’s called strategy, Morgana,” he continues. “I wouldn’t assume you’d know anything about it.” 

“It’s called stupidity , Arthur, which I would assume you’d know something about,” she counters, grinning widely, clearly pleased with her own wit. “It is your most defining feature, after all.”

Arthur wants to do nothing more than speed up ahead and leave her behind, to see how well she finds her way across the border without him. “Either way, it won’t be long now until we reach Ealdor,” he says instead, changing the subject. 

Morgana’s smile only grows wider. She probably thinks she’s won, which she has. But again, he’ll never admit it. “Finally,” she says, instead of pursuing it further, her tone shifting slightly to something more serious. 

Arthur can’t help but nod in agreement. Finally, he thinks. 

It’s been a few months since everything happened—since Merlin saved his life, barely able to escape with his own still intact. Since Arthur woke from his comatose state to celebrations and heartfelt statements from people he barely knew. Since the kingdom had to rebuild in the aftermath of Merlin’s damage to the castle. Since Arthur had to learn to rebuild himself after his memories returned from the night of the sorceress’ attack. Since he had to start coming to terms with what he’d done to Thomas Collins and countless others. Since he had to begin figuring out how to proceed forward, knowing what he knows now about Morgana and her magic. 

It’s only been a few months, but it’s felt like centuries. 

And Arthur wanted to leave earlier than now—of course he did. He wanted to help Merlin fight for his village, wanted to pay him back for everything he’d done for him. But he couldn’t, not with how weak his body was after first he woke up, nor with how long he was confined to his quarters afterwards, under strict orders from both Gaius and his father to rest and give himself time to heal. 

“He will be okay,” Gaius told him. “Morgana and I have made sure of it.”

Although, neither were very forthcoming on how they accomplished this—a part of Arthur thinks they didn’t really know how, themselves. He only knows that they sent Merlin a book of protection spells, but neither seem to know what he’d want to use from it, only that he seemed happy to have it when Morgana saw him in her dreams. 

Either way, Arthur had no choice but to take their word for it and stay put for the time being. Leaving so soon after the attack, as his father liked to call it, would be suspicious anyway. More than likely, it would only attract more attention to Merlin, potentially jeopardizing his ability to stay hidden afterward. 

Really, the only way Arthur could get away from the castle, even months later, had to be under very specific circumstances. Yet he still can’t seem to keep himself from worrying.

“Are you sure you didn’t see anything?” Arthur asks, lowering his voice, not wanting Leon and Gwen to hear him, even though he knows that they know everything anyway, having learned about Morgana’s magic nearly as soon as he did. He raises his eyebrow in a strange attempt to indicate what he’s talking about. 

Morgana rolls her eyes, reading him easily. “Yes, I would’ve told you if I had seen our own men attack us. Or an impromptu execution in the forest.” 

Because that would be the primary fear—his father sending men to watch over him, despite their agreement that he wouldn’t, that Arthur is fine and isn’t going to fall over and die the minute he gets into any type of skirmish. It’s a degree of protectiveness on Uther’s part that was seemingly absent while Arthur was unconscious. A part of him wonders if his father is more afraid of the political repercussions of something happening to the heir of Camelot twice within the span of a few months rather than Arthur’s actual wellbeing. 

“Morgana, I’m being serious,” Arthur says, lowering his voice further. 

Morgana heaves a heavy sigh, finally dropping her faux-blasé demeanor. “I know.” She sets her gaze forward, looking ill at ease. 

They’ve come a long way in terms of how comfortable they are having these types of conversations with each other, to not couch everything in an insult or witty remark to protect themselves from one another, but it still isn’t easy for either of them. 

“The last thing I saw was us traveling near the border,” she says. 

Arthur hesitates, but pushes past his own discomfort to ask, “And when’s the last time you saw him?”

Morgana sighs again. It isn’t the first time he’s asked her this question during their journey—it isn't even the first time he’s asked it even over the past few months, far from it. Every time, the answer is the same. 

“I haven’t seen him since the night we brought you back. The last I saw, he was home with his mother. He was holding the book we sent him, and he looked happy.” The response is rote, nearly identical in rhythm and cadence to how she always says it, including the special emphasis she places on the word happy.  

He was happy. Arthur thinks, as always. It’s the real reason he keeps asking the same question over and over again. Not necessarily because he expects Morgana to give him a different answer, but because a part of him just wants to hear that somewhere out there, somehow, after everything , Merlin got to be happy. And he got to see his mother. 

Mother. A chill runs down Arthur’s spine even at the thought of the word, causing him to jolt in place. 

Morgana’s eyes land on him, an alarmed, yet knowing look on her face. “Arthur,” she starts. “Did it happen again?”

Arthur shakes his head. It’s not something he wants to discuss, so he won’t. “We should find somewhere to make camp,” he says. “The sun will set soon.” He raises his voice so Leon and Gwen can hear him. Really, he doesn’t care if they can, only wants a way out of this conversation. 

Unperturbed by his attempts, Morgana tries again, “Arthur.”  

Anxiety rises in his chest. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he snaps. “It wasn’t even real.”

Morgana looks forward again, keeping silent, but he can hear her thoughts, either way. You don’t know that for sure, they say. 

Done with the conversation entirely, Arthur snaps his reins, signaling his horse to speed up ahead, which she does, breaking into a canter. He can still feel Morgana’s eyes on him from behind, can practically feel her worry burning through him. And he knows that it’s not her fault, knows that she’s only pressing the matter because she cares about him and his well being. But, what he saw, real or not, is his burden to bear, and his alone. Continuing ahead, he resolves to leave it behind him, along with everything else he can’t bear to think of right now.  

He has other things to focus on, now. He has to find Merlin. 

But still, he can’t quite rid himself of the image of long, blond hair, bright, blue eyes, and a smile so wide it’s practically blinding.  

---

That night, Arthur volunteers to take the first watch. It takes a bit of convincing to do so—Leon hasn’t quite given up on the whole “royal guard” act since Arthur woke up from his coma—but eventually, he’s able to get him to take the next watch, and about an hour later, Arthur finds himself sitting before the fire in silence. 

He wouldn't be able to sleep anyways, his mind far too busy to allow it. At least this way, he doesn’t have to suffer the added pressure of trying to sleep and being unable to. 

As it turns out, though, he’s in good company. 

“Arthur,” comes a small, inquiring voice to his left. 

Instincts kicking in, his hand grips the hilt of his sword, but relaxes once he sees who it is. “Gwen,” he greets, but it comes out more like a question. “What are you doing up? You should be resting.” Nonetheless, he makes room for her to sit next to him.

“Thank you, my lord,” she says, sitting stiffly on the far edge of the space he’s allotted. “I can never really sleep at this time of night. I’m usually still working at this point, anyway, so…” She trails off, biting her lip.

“Well, you’re not working now,” Arthur says. “So, please, call me Arthur.” 

Sending him a look, she studies his face, as though she thinks he’s trying to trick her, but he isn’t, which she must realize. “Okay…Arthur.” She holds her breath for a moment, as though she’s waiting for him to scold her. When he doesn’t, her stilted posture relaxes, but not entirely. Her shoulders remain curved inward, her back hunched in a sort of protective stance, and she’s biting her lip again. It’s clear she has something she wants to say, but for some reason, is still too afraid to say it. 

“What’s on your mind, Guinevere?” he asks, cutting to the chase. He tries to keep his tone as gentle and non-threatening as he can manage, not wanting to pressure her into talking if it’ll make her uncomfortable. 

Gwen startles at his bluntness, or maybe it’s because he addressed her by her full name. Eventually, though, her shoulders drop, and after a moment or so of hesitation, she asks, “Did you really go to, you know…the other side?”

Anger rises in his chest. “Did Morgana—”

“No, no,” Gwen says, dramatically waving her hands to placate him. “I promise she didn’t say anything.”

Arthur relaxes, disappointed in himself for how quick he was to assume that Morgana had betrayed him, that she told Gwen what he told her about what’s been happening to him, about what he’s been seeing.

“I just figured,” Gwen continues, “with everything Gaius told me. Well, at least what I understand—which isn’t very much, I’ll admit. Magic is confusing enough already, but once you start adding ghosts into it, it becomes even harder to get a grasp on, especially with how little literature there is on it. Which I suppose was the predicament in the first place with bringing you back—”

“Gwen,” Arthur interrupts, amusedly. “You’re rambling.”

“Ah well,” she says with a bashful sort of smile. “I…tend to do that.” She looks down to collect herself. “I just, I know that you spent some time here, with Merlin.”

He tries his best to pretend like the sound of Merlin’s name doesn’t feel like a knife to the chest, bleeding raw and aching, but still, a pained wince betrays him. 

If Gwen notices his reaction, she doesn’t comment on it. “But I know that you also disappeared quite a bit. The prevailing hypothesis is that because your spirit was between life and death, when it wasn’t alive, or more, in the land of the living, it was…elsewhere.”

“Dead, you mean,” Arthur states. It’s not a question, but Gwen nods anyway. 

He looks away quickly, guarding himself. 

Gwen picks up on this. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” she says, and when he looks back at her, he knows that she means it. 

And he still doesn’t want to talk about what he saw, but something about the way Gwen approaches him about it, something about the way she’s pushing past her own discomfort to even broach the subject, when not two minutes ago, she was afraid to call him by his name instead of his title, motivates him to push past his own. 

“I was there, in the land of the dead,” he says. “I didn’t remember it after—didn’t remember much of anything, really. But when I woke up, I kept getting these images in my head . I’d see them in my dreams every night, or sometimes even randomly throughout the day. ”

“What kind of images?” Gwen asks, thoughtful. “What did you see?”

“Mostly…faces. Faces of people I never should’ve known. Faces of the dead.”

It’s the first time he’s spoken about it like this, he realizes. Like what he saw back then when he was down, what he’s been seeing on and off for the past few months since, could be anything but hallucinations brought upon by fever and trauma. Like it could be real. 

It was real, he knows, even though he doesn’t want it to be, because that would mean…

Arthur shakes his head, forcibly ridding himself of that line of thinking. 

Gwen’s eyes go wide, but her body is tense again, no doubt a million questions running through her head to accompany her original one. Still, though, she only settles for a few. “What was it like, over on the other side? Was it…nice?” Her voice breaks a little on the last word, and it’s suddenly very apparent to Arthur why she’s decided to ask him about this. 

She wants to know about someone she’s lost. She wants to know about where they might be in the afterlife. 

Arthur stalls, not knowing what to say. He’s never been good at this kind of thing—comforting people. He couldn’t even do a good enough job comforting Merlin after they read his mother’s letter, and he had been with him, nonstop, for nearly two months at that point. What is he supposed to do with Gwen, who he’s known for years, but has never really known? He isn’t even sure who she might be speaking about; he knows that she still lives with her father, Tom, who runs a small smithy in the lower town, but knows nothing of her other family, dead or living. 

Looking down again, Gwen lets out an odd little chuckle. “Morgana was right, you aren’t very good at these kinds of conversations.”

“Well, neither is she,” Arthur argues. 

Instead of saying it aloud, Gwen only smirks in agreement. Her expression turns serious again. “I was only really asking because…my mother passed away a few years ago, and my brother—well, we never really found out what happened to him after he left. So, I just thought…” She shakes her head, tears falling from her eyes at the action. “I just wanted to know that if they were there, even if you didn’t see them, that they were…happy, or something. I don’t know.”

Arthur gives himself a moment to think, not wanting to speak lightly on the matter, but not wanting to just tell Gwen what she wants to hear. She deserves more than that. 

“I think,” he says after a few minutes, “that wherever they are, it’s quiet.” She sends him a questioning look. “When I was over there, from what I remember, it was just…quiet— calm, in a way.” 

“What do you mean?” she asks. “Quiet how?” 

“Not in a bad way, just…” Arthur isn’t quite sure how to explain it. Looking to the fire in front of them, an idea forms in his head. “Well, for instance, the land of the living is unpredictable—like this fire, for instance. It moves in all directions, constantly flickering and changing, in ways we can never truly understand.” Grabbing a cut piece of wood, he feeds it to the flames and watches them grow in response. “But that’s what it takes for it to exist. It’s what it takes for us to exist. It needs to move, it needs to change, it needs to adapt, because that’s all it can do. It’s all we can do, too.

“The land of the dead, though, is… different. It’s more like…the ocean. Sure it’s large, and sure it moves, but it’s consistent. And once you get past the rocky waves on the shore, once you die and the sea pulls you in, it’s…calm, quiet— peaceful , even. You just…float.”

It’s why Arthur tried to get Merlin to stop trying to save him back a few months ago. He was on those shores, fending off wave after wave to try to stay on dry land, to keep his fire from snuffing out. It was hard and painful and exhausting, and it didn’t help that the world was already moving on without him so quickly. In the end, all he wanted to do was let the ocean take him home, to swim in the sea and float with all the people he’s had to say goodbye to over the years. With the people he never even got to properly meet in the first place. 

With his mother . 

He had waited long enough to meet her and once he did, he just wanted to stay there with her, to float with her. But it wasn’t his time, and they both knew it. It’s why she told him what she did. 

“Why didn’t you stay?” Gwen asks. “If it was peaceful, why did you come back here?”

“Because I saw them on the other side, Merlin and Morgana,” Arthur says, still looking at the fire. “They were calling me back.”

And something about it, something about Merlin and Morgana and how they fought for him, even after everything he’d done to people of their kind, after he’d taken their lives, taken their family, Merlin and Morgana still wanted him back. They still risked their lives—risked everything to save him. How could he turn his back on them after all of that?

“And I thought that, maybe, I could do something right for once, instead of everything my father wanted me to do,” Arthur says. “Like I could make a change for the better, instead of just continuing to make things worse.”

The problem is, he just isn’t sure how. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do or who he’s supposed to be. He isn’t sure what destiny awaits him, or if he’ll even deserve it when it comes. 

Gwen places a gentle hand on his back, and he realizes that at some point during their conversation, she had inched closer to him, enough so to be able to wrap an arm around his shoulders. She rests her head there, but doesn’t attempt to offer any placations, doesn't try to diminish his role in the executions and witch hunts he took part in, only offers him silent comfort, which he wraps around himself like a warm blanket. 

They stay like that for a while, only pulling apart when Gwen’s yawns are too apparent to ignore. Standing up, she looks him in the eye and says, “I’m glad you came back.” She sends a quick look toward Morgana, who remains sound asleep. “She needs you, you know. We all do.” And without another word, she returns to her bedroll, tucking it against Morgana’s before falling asleep. 

Arthur only pokes at the fire, feeling a mixture of emotions he can’t quite parse through. It’s only another half hour or so before Leon wakes to take on the next watch, and despite the memories, the confusion, the fear that still rumbles in Arthur’s head, his mind is at least settled enough to allow him some sleep. 

---

“My son,” his mother whispers, her breath warm against his cheek. 

A gust of air brushes past them, light and breezy. A burning light flashes behind his eyes, and soft hands wipe the tears from his cheeks. A rushing sound, like a crashing wave, fills his ears. 

“Arthur,” his mother says, her voice more insistent now. “Arthur!”

“Arthur!” comes a voice, frantic and pleading, just above him. Distant hands shake his shoulders until he wakes. 

“Morgana?” he asks wearily, blinking his eyes open. “What’s going on?”

Morgana’s eyes are wide and filled with tears . “It’s Merlin—I saw—” she starts, but seemingly cannot finish her sentence. 

“What did you see?” Arthur asks, quickly getting to his feet. “Is he okay?”

Morgana’s eyes are still wide, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound comes out. She screws her eyes shut and shakes her head. When they open, they flash gold and the since-dead fire nearby roars to life. “We have to go. Now.” Her voice is doubled, so terrifying and powerful that it forces him to move , pure instinct setting his body into action, his limbs into motion.

From there, everything happens in a blur. 

Later, Arthur won’t remember much of it. He won’t remember waking the others, won’t remember packing up their small camp, or readying their horses. He won’t remember their trip through the forest, won’t remember how long it took for them to get to Ealdor, or even how they found their way there so quickly and still in one piece. Later, Gwen will tell him that it was because of Morgana, that she found the village with her magic, that she protected them with it along the way. But still, he won’t remember it, he’ll only be able to remember the sight that greeted them when they finally arrived. 

The charred ruins of Ealdor stand before them, a large spot of black amongst the green hills surrounding. 

“No,” Morgana says, voice breaking sharply. Her eyes are filled with horror. “I don’t understand. How— how did this happen?”

Arthur slowly dismounts, keeping his eyes forward, trying to process what he’s seeing, trying to understand how Ealdor, the place he spent the better part of a month in, could be reduced to this. Half of the huts have been practically incinerated, the few still standing partially collapsed in a smoldering heap on the ground, which lies barren and dusted with soot and ash. There is no smoke, no signs of a recent fire. 

This happened a while ago, Arthur realizes absently, probably months back. 

Probably right after Merlin returned. 

Arthur’s eyes dart to search the area, looking for any possible signs of life, of Merlin or his mother, but he finds none. There’s just…nothing, just an empty shell and the remnants of a place where life used to exist. Where people used to live. 

Where Merlin is supposed to live. 

He doesn’t hear it when Morgana dismounts her horse, but he isn’t surprised to feel her hand on his shoulder. “Arthur—”

“Can you feel him?” Arthur whips around to ask. “Can you feel his magic like you did before?” 

Morgana’s expression tells him all he needs to know, but still she closes her eyes and tries to feel for it. Her face twists up in pain, tears running hot and fast down her cheeks. “I can’t—” She takes a deep breath. “I can’t feel anything.” More tears fall. “There’s just…nothing.” 

Nothing. 

Before Arthur knows it, he’s on his knees, his legs having gone weak and given out from under him. Bending forward, his hands make contact with the blackened earth beneath him, grasping at dead leaves which crumble under his palms. 

It’s gone. It’s all gone. Merlin is—

He can’t even finish the thought, agonized sobs halting his brain and stifling any words he could even attempt to conjure up, even within his own head. His tears fall to the ground below him, damping the ash between his fingertips. 

It hurts, more than anything Arthur has ever felt before, more than when he was attacked by the sorceress, more than when he was dying, when his body felt like he was on fire.  

It’s all my fault , he thinks— knows . If he had just figured out a way to get here earlier, if he had just ignored his father’s orders, if he had just done something , anything, maybe he would’ve been able to save Merlin, to save everyone. 

More than that, Merlin would’ve never stepped foot in Camelot if it weren’t for Arthur. He was the one to ask Merlin to save him, to leave his village when they needed him most for a vague promise of aid from his father that neither of them were truly assured would be given. Then, he kept him there for weeks trying to find a cure, and after all of that, after countless spells and hours of research, Arthur asked him to stop. He asked him to give up.  

He was so selfish, he wasted so much time, and because he barely had any left to begin with, he wasted Merlin’s instead. 

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am.

Arthur looks to the destroyed village again, he doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s some sort of a punishment. After all, it’s only fitting that the only person he ever felt safe around, the only person who made him feel like he was his own man and not just some sick extension of his father, has been lost to flame and burning wood. Much like the numerous souls Arthur delivered to the pyre. 

So Arthur looks . He forces himself to look and to never forget, for as long as he lives. 

At some point, Morgana leaves his side to handle it in her own way. The others build camp around him, silent in their grief. They didn’t know Merlin like he and Morgana did, but he knows that they feel this loss, too, if nothing but for the way it’s affecting Arthur and Morgana. 

Still, though, no one approaches him with kind words of comfort—they know better than to try. They know that he needs to do this for himself, for Merlin. He needs to sit here, alone, and stare into the ruins of a place once called Ealdor, knowing that had he never gotten involved, it would probably still be here. 

Merlin would still be here. 

---

Early the next morning, as if coming out of a daze, Arthur finally comes to, still sitting in the same spot he was in last night, staring out into the remnants of Ealdor. He doesn’t think he fell asleep—he’d be on the ground, otherwise—only figures that his mind had been spiraling for so long, wrapping around itself in circles of shame and guilt, that eventually, his body couldn’t take it any more and shut down in protest. 

Registering his surroundings, Arthur feels something solid on his shoulders, a thick wool blanket. Someone must’ve wrapped around him during the night—Leon, probably. Looking to the side, he also finds a cold bowl of pottage, a wooden spoon, and a half-filled water skin. Running a hand down his face, he hadn’t even registered that someone had even approached him. 

Gathering the untouched items, he heads back toward the camp, settled a little closer to the treeline. Immediately, he finds Morgana, but not Leon or Gwen, who are likely off searching for firewood, or perhaps something to supplement their since-dwindling meals for the journey back. More likely, though, they’re just trying to give Morgana some space to process…all of this, just like they did Arthur yesterday. 

Part of him thinks he should do the same, but ultimately decides not to. There’s something about the way she looks sitting there, upright on her closed bedroll, hugging her knees, her puffy, tear-stained eyes staring off absently, that tells him he should stay. 

Silently, he sits beside her, and it’s only belatedly that she recognizes his presence. “Arthur,” she says, startled, as though she hadn’t thought he’d approach her so soon. “Arthur,” she repeats—chokes, more like. “I’m so–” A steady stream of tears fall from her eyes. “I promise I didn’t see anything before—a-and now…” She closes her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur’s eyebrows knit together, a spark of confusion shocking his system and momentarily offsetting the weight of the grief, the loss, the guilt he’s felt since they arrived yesterday, enough for him to try to parse through her words. Still, it takes him a moment or two to get there, to understand what Morgana is really trying to say, and he’s only able to do it because he’s seen her look like this before.

It was when he first woke up, when he saw her hiding behind his bedpost, her eyes full of regret and fearful anticipation, like a part of her was convinced that he would blame her for everything, that he would try to condemn her just like the sorceress said he would. 

“Morgana, this isn’t your fault,” he says. He turns, unable to look at her in his shame. “It’s mine. I never should’ve asked Merlin to leave here in the first place. Maybe if I hadn’t, then none of this would’ve happened.”

Morgana is silent for a few moments, contemplative. “This isn’t your fault, either,” she says, finally. “Merlin wanted to save you.” Her use of the past tense makes it hurt all that much more.

Wanted, Arthur thinks. Merlin wanted to save me. 

Morgana pauses, seeming to recognize this. She shakes her head. “He knew the risks and he continued to take them. He wouldn’t have stayed otherwise. He wanted to save you, Arthur, more than anything. I know—I felt it.”

At her words, Arthur is taken aback once again. Morgana has a way of doing that, sometimes, has a way of subverting all of his expectations of what she’s going to say or do in any given moment. It’s probably why he is never able to truly keep up with her, why he never will. “What do you mean? How?” he asks. 

It’s a stupid question, it’s clear whatever she felt from Merlin was through her magic. She and Arthur haven’t spoken much about it in the time since Merlin left the castle. Aside from the reluctance he assumes comes from several years of having to hide that part of her, Morgana has yet to truly explain to him how it works. Perhaps she doesn’t truly know, herself, or if she did, wouldn’t know how to put it to someone like him, who doesn’t have magic and has no real frame of reference for it. 

Perhaps this is why she doesn’t answer his question directly. “The first time I ever saw Merlin was in a dream,” she starts and he turns back to look at her with his full attention. “It was the night after the sorceress’ attack. I saw this great, powerful creature. A man with glowing eyes and more power than I had ever felt before. He was terrifying. ” She looks frightened just at the memory. 

Despite the fact that Arthur is more than aware of how powerful Merlin’s magic is— was, some distant part of his brain balks at the image she depicts. Merlin? Terrifying? Arthur struggles to imagine it. 

Morgana continues, “Then, about a month or so later, I saw him in person at a council meeting. That terror came back all too quickly and even Gaius’ words couldn’t fully placate me. For weeks, I spent my nights waiting for him to come kill me.”

A chill runs up Arthur’s spine, yet his mind still rebels against the idea that Merlin could’ve been anything but…well, Merlin , even though he knows better. Merlin was Merlin because of his power, because of how sparingly he used it. 

“Then I met him,” she says, an odd sort of humor coloring her features. “And he was so… young, in a way—innocent, maybe. He was just a boy, a silly, awkward, kind boy, and his magic, when I felt it, didn’t scare me. Gone was that terrifying sorcerer I had spent so much time worrying about, and I was beginning to wonder if for once, one of my dreams wouldn’t come true. Then, about a day or so later, he came to my chambers.”

Arthur nods in understanding. His father told him about the sorcerer’s attempt on Morgana’s life. Morgana’s added context, that Merlin thought she was behind everything that happened to Arthur, that they both did, didn’t make matters any less confusing. But he can’t claim to know what Merlin was feeling in that moment, only knows that he didn’t do what he set out to, and clearly Morgana holds no grudge toward him. Arthur knows that he, himself, has done far worse in far less dire circumstances.

“But even then,” Morgana continues, “his magic wasn’t like how it was in my dreams. From the outside, it looked the same. Just like with the sorceress, all of the details were the same, but the context was different, because with Merlin, I could feel where his anger was coming from. It came from love. He loved you, Arthur.”

Merlin’s words from the morning after Arthur’s last round of seizures, when he came back for the last time, weak and tired, and ready to give up, appear in his head.  

“But I love you, Arthur,” he’d said. 

At the time, Arthur had wanted more than anything to say it back because he did love Merlin. He loved Merlin in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever loved anyone before. But he didn’t see the point in saying it if he was already going to leave. He had already made up his mind at the time, and saying it would only make him want to stay all the more. He should’ve said it; he should’ve stayed, too. Now all he can do is add it to the pile, along with all of his other regrets. 

Morgana draws his attention back to her. “He wanted you to live, Arthur, and he wanted you to be happy. I could feel that even when he left. He wouldn’t blame you for this.”

Arthur’s gaze returns back to what remains of Ealdor. “No, he wouldn’t,” he admits, for Merlin’s sake, if nothing else. He’d never let Arthur live it down if he tried to argue otherwise, would tell Arthur that he’s an idiot for thinking that he’d have any say over Merlin’s thoughts or actions. 

It still doesn’t keep Arthur from blaming himself, doesn’t stall the guilt and shame and resentment he feels for letting all of this happen. It never will. 

“I just…” His voice breaks a little, the corners of his eyes burning with fresh tears, his throat closing. He forces all of it down. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do without him.” 

I just don’t know who I’m supposed to be without him. 

Because, after everything, Merlin changed him. He changed everything Arthur knew about the world, about people with magic. He changed his relationship with Morgana, let him see her, see who she really is, in a way he probably never would’ve otherwise. 

And he knows it’s selfish, but a part of him always thought that he’d have Merlin to guide him through it all, to stand by him, hand in hand, while they figure out what to do with all of the destruction they wrought. To change the world, to make themselves anew in their own image. But now that he’s gone, Arthur doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with all of it. 

“I don’t want to end up like my father,” he thinks aloud. His father, who has murdered hundreds, maybe thousands, of innocent people, has torn apart just as many families with his insatiable greed, his lust for power, and his blatant disregard for anything or anyone that might get in the way of him achieving it, even those who he claims to love the most. “I can’t, not after everything he’s done. Not after what he did to—” 

He shakes his head forcefully, unable to even get the words out. 

Not after what he did to my mother. 

Still, Morgana seems to be able to hear them anyway. Anger flashes across her expression, then dulls to something more…thoughtful. 

She didn’t take it very well, when he finally told her about what he learned in the afterlife, what he learned of the circumstances of his birth. It took nearly everything, from both him and Gwen, to talk her out of trying to assassinate Uther, herself, for what he did. Eventually, she settled, unable to justify the ultimate harm it would have done to herself, her loved ones, and Camelot at large should something suddenly happen to the king. 

Ever since, she’s been pressuring him to talk about it, for his own sake, if nothing else, but he always rebuffs her attempts, sometimes even denies that what he saw even really happened, even though they both know better. 

But now, perhaps for the first time, she doesn’t push him for more information, doesn’t poke him until he turns angry, trying her best to get him to talk about it, to say how he feels about all of it. She just nods her head at his words, waits for him to continue with a soft, patient expression. 

“But at the same time,” Arthur says. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to go from here. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be, if not the son of a king, a soldier and warrior in the neverending war on magic, the prince who is meant to inherit my father’s legacy.”

Despite this, he knows he can’t go back to being that person. That person almost killed him, almost killed Morgana, too. That person killed countless others. That person, if given the chance, would’ve put Merlin on the pyre, himself, had they met under the wrong circumstances. That person was already becoming like his father. 

“I don’t want to be like him, either,” Arthur says. “I don’t want to be who I used to be, who I was supposed to become.” 

After a moment, Morgana hesitates, but eventually, she reaches out to his hand in hers, entwining their fingers. “You won’t be,” she says. “You’ll be Arthur. Brave, noble, idiotic, thick-headed Arthur.” She squeezes his hand. “You’re already better than them, both Uther and who you used to be. Merlin knew that. It’s why he did all he did.” 

Arthur nods. He wants to accept her words, wants so badly to believe them, but he can’t. Not yet, at least, maybe never. Instead of voicing this, though, he only squeezes her hand in thanks. 

But she understands him, nonetheless, just like she always does. She probably feels much the same, unable to take his placations as fact. She’s come a long way, he knows, in terms of how she views her own magic, but a part of her seems to still feel…guilty about having it. He’s sure this situation, that her magic didn’t seem to want to warn her about what happened to Merlin and the village, doesn’t help. 

So in lieu of trying to console him further, Morgana only smiles sadly and squeezes his hand again. Out of respect, for her and for the gesture, he doesn’t try to tell her the same kinds of things, either. Only holds her hand in turn, which she seems to appreciate. 

They’re like broken pieces, the two of them, marred by loss and pain, molded by chaos and fire into something misshapen and rough at the edges. But at least they can recognize it in each other, can understand how the other thinks, feels, and operates. They’re broken pieces, but they’re part of a set. 

The air between them is still thick with sadness, but they’ve both reached their limit on talking about it. Anymore and Arthur thinks he might properly break down. So, they just sit with it. Morgana starts crying again, and maybe Arthur does too. They just hold hands through it until Gwen and Leon return. Then, most of their time is spent completing tasks to keep their little camp running.

Somewhere along the way, a unanimous decision is made, but never actually spoken aloud, to put off returning home until the next day. None of them are quite ready to say goodbye yet. 

---

That night, Arthur dreams of the ocean again. 

“My son,” his mother whispers in his ear. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than the painting of her that hangs in the great hall. And more than that, she’s real, and she’s holding him in her arms. “My son, you have to go back.”

He clutches onto her like a lifeline. “I can’t,” he argues. How could she ask him to go back, after everything she just told him? After he decided to brave the rocky shores just to get to her. 

“You have to,” she repeats, a whisper in his ear. “You have to make things right again.” She turns him around, angles him towards a break in the waves surrounding them, and through it, he can see Merlin and Morgana. “For them, for you, for everyone.”

“But what if I can’t do it?” Arthur asks. “What if I can’t face—” He lowers his head, unable to even say the words out loud. “What if I can’t face him?”

What if he can’t face his father, after knowing all he knows now. 

With her fingers, his mother lifts his head to look at the break again. “My darling, you have help. You have Merlin,” she says and he can hear a smile in her voice. “He was sent to help you in your time of need. He is your destiny.”

He looks through the break at Merlin again. Merlin—beautiful, endearing, hopeless Merlin. His sorcerer. His home. 

“It’s time to go,” his mother says, pushing him forward. “Don’t look back.”

Arthur walks ahead. 

A shouting voice pulls him from the memory, and he jolts back into reality, only to find himself standing at the border between Ealdor and the rest of the world, his heels on green grass and toes on black soot. The voice shouts once again, boisterous in its joy, exuberant in its elation, and so, so full of life. It takes Arthur a moment to realize that it’s shouting his name. 

Absently Arthur’s eyes search for the source of the sound amongst the destruction of the burned village, but his eyes blur the deeper he tries to look into it. Then, suddenly he sees it—sees him. Just like he did before, when he was with his mother. 

Merlin.

Chapter Text

Merlin is sitting on the floor in his mother’s hovel, absentmindedly whittling to pass the time, when he feels it. His body jolts, as though struck with lightning, and his carving knife and wooden dragon fall to the floor in a clatter. Skin tingling, he immediately recognizes the disturbance for what it is—a warning signal, one of his own making.  

Quickly, his magic rushes to protect him before he can even plan his next course of action, and he has to take a deep breath to keep it from lashing out on his behalf. Once he’s feeling a bit more in control, he calmly rises from his place on the floor, just in time for his mother to make her way into the room. 

“Merlin?” she asks, a dirty rag, half-soaked and dripping, in her hand. She must’ve heard the commotion from the kitchen while washing the dishes. Scanning his face, her expression drops. “What’s going on?”

“Everything is alright,” he says steadily, not wanting to worry her. It’s happened before, this internal alarm system of his warning him whenever someone or something edges a little too close to their village’s border. In the past, the threat has been more or less innocuous, usually just a rabbit or squirrel stumbling past Merlin’s wards and into town looking for shelter or something to eat. 

But one can never be too careful when in the circumstances in which they’ve found themselves, because for every couple of harmless animals encroaching on their territory, there have been one or two less-than benign encounters with scavengers or bandits looking to salvage what remains of their village. 

Merlin’s mother knows that, which is why his attempts at placation are largely ineffective. Sends a wary look towards the door, she looks as though she’s expecting someone to break it down, come in, and kill them both where they stand. And the thing is, it could happen, which is why Merlin needs to leave as soon as possible, to keep it from getting to that point. 

“Please, Mother, just stay here,” he says, slowly edging toward the door. “I’ve got this.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, she nods slightly, it being clear that staying put is the very last thing she wants to do. Because despite the fact that Merlin has proven several times over that he is more than capable of taking care of himself, as well as everyone else in the village, she’s still his mother, and it’s still hard for her to understand that sometimes it’s safer for everyone, himself included, if he handles these sorts of things on his own. 

But even in the stress of this moment, he appreciates her trying. He sends her a quick, meaningful look, which she returns, expression softening a little, before he cautions his way out the door. 

Will is not far when he’s on the other side, his expression laced with worry. The sight of it fills Merlin with dread, a deep, sinking feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. 

He shakes it off; it won’t serve him right now, won’t serve anyone. “What’s going on?” he asks, his voice and posture taking on the authoritative quality he’s seemed to develop over the past few months now that he’s taken on a bit more of a leadership role within the community. He’s not quite sure what to make of it yet, thinks it makes him sound a bit more like someone pretending to have a handle on things rather than someone with any natural authority, but it tends to come out in these sorts of situations, whether he wants it to or not. 

“The new guy spotted them just this morning.” Will says. “We haven’t seen anything like this since—”

“I know,” Merlin finishes. He takes a deep breath. “Gather the villagers and move them to the barn. Try not to startle anyone, especially —” Merlin shakes his head, but from the look on his face, Will seems to understand anyway. “—just tell them I’m taking care of it. And make sure they keep quiet. I haven’t had the chance to reinforce the spell yet this week. We don’t know how much sound is getting past the barrier.” 

“Consider it done,” Will says, an odd look on his face. He probably finds Merlin’s new demeanor as strange as Merlin does. 

“Where’s he right now? The new guy.” Merlin doesn’t know why they still call him that—the man has been here for a little over a month at this point—but now doesn’t seem like the time to try to change it. 

Will shrugs, the corners of his mouth quirking up slightly. “Where is he always?” 

Despite the situation, Merlin can’t help but share his amusement. “Thanks,” he says. 

Will nods, then stops short, his face momentarily…conflicted. Before Merlin can even think to ask about it, he’s already left, quickly dipping into the house to grab Merlin’s mother before leaving to gather the others.

Frowning, Merlin decides to write it off as the usual sort of stress that comes with something like this happening, and sets quickly toward his destination. 

---

“Lancelot,” Merlin whispers as he approaches, crouching next to the man. Just as Will said, he is settled in his usual spot near the edge of Merlin’s protection spell, overlooking the border between Ealdor and the hills surrounding. 

“Merlin,” Lancelot’s head whips to look at him. “Is he—”

“Yes, he’s okay,” Merlin interrupts. They don’t have much time for this and they both know it. “He’s with everyone else. Will is taking care of it, I made sure.” Lancelot nods, looking relieved.  He turns back to watch the treeline. “What do we know?” Merlin asks.  

“Looks to be four travelers, two women and two men. I didn’t notice them until a little bit ago, but I don’t think they’ve been here long.”

“Bandits?” Merlin asks, squinting. He’s only able to make out three vaguely-shaped humans, but the details are lost on him, obscured by the thick wall of the protection spell, dense and heavy with his own magic. Eventually he finds the fourth traveler settled closer to the border. 

They must’ve been the one to set off his warning system. Squinting his eyes, Merlin tries to get a better look at them, but still can’t make out any discerning features past the intensity of his own magic. 

It’s the price to pay for casting such a powerful spell, one strong enough to keep their village hidden like this for so long. It’s also ultimately why he installed Lancelot here, to keep a watch out for the things Merlin cannot see. Not that the position was compulsory by any means. Lancelot was pretty enthusiastic about doing his part to keep Ealdor safe once they decided to let him and his companion stay here, all but volunteering for the job when Merlin brought it up. 

“No.” Lancelot shakes his head. “From what I can tell, they carry no visible weapons and their clothing bears no signs of loyalty to any kingdom or mercenary faction.” 

Merlin wants to ask Lancelot how he knows what to even look for to be able to tell this, especially from this far away, but in the short time the man has spent living here, Merlin learned that asking certain questions, especially those pertaining to his past or how he acquired his rather…unusual skillset, does not bode well for his own sanity. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. Lancelot has more than proven himself to be nothing short of one of the most honorable men Merlin has ever known. 

“Druids, then?” Merlin asks, instead.

“I don’t think so. No druidic markings, and I haven’t seen any of them perform magic, at least not yet. Can you feel anything from any of them?” 

Merlin closes his eyes, trying to get a feel for any traces of magic amongst the travelers, but again, because of how powerful the spell is, it’s hard to feel anything besides his own magic. It’s like trying to find a drop of water in the ocean, a speck of sand on the beach, a flicker of light in the sun. Even if it were there, attempting to pull out any specific details becomes redundant the more he tries. Even without his magic blocking him, it would still be tough. He’s not like Morgana, he doesn’t have the ability to just pick up on other sorcerers, not unless he feels them use their magic. 

Still, though, after a few moments of searching, he thinks he can feel something—something familiar, in a way he can’t quite put his finger on. 

“One of them, yes, I think,” he says, confused. “But I can’t figure out who it belongs to.”

“Can they feel your magic?” Lancelot asks.

“They shouldn’t be able to. The spell won’t allow it.” Suddenly, there’s a bit of movement—the three travelers further away buzzing about the edge of the treeline. “What’s happening?” 

“Looks like they’re making camp,” Lancelot says, then huffs. “It doesn’t make sense. They’re setting everything up out in the open. Why not try to take cover amongst the trees?”

Merlin frowns. No, it doesn’t make sense. “What about that one,” he asks, pointing to the person settled closer to the town. “What are they doing?”

“Looks like…nothing. He’s just staring ahead.”

Merlin squints, trying to pull his vision into enough focus to see for himself. Something about the man also seems familiar, just like the magic he feels coming from someone in the group, but still, Merlin can’t quite figure out why. It’s almost as if…

Merlin shoves the thought down hard. No, it isn’t them—isn’t him. He isn’t coming back, Merlin knows that. There’s no point in believing— hoping otherwise, not when he has a village to take care of, to protect from people like the travelers before him, people who have come to the outskirts of their little town, with good intentions or not, and jeopardized the safety of his people, of his family. 

“What do we do?” Lancelot asks, looking up at Merlin. 

Merlin takes a deep breath, centering himself enough to try to work out a plan. He tries to channel that authoritative demeanor again, tries to pull it over himself like a mask, to pretend to be the leader that so many people seem to regard him as nowadays. Once he’s feeling a little more steady, he mentally runs through the best and worst case scenario as to why the travelers have chosen to make camp here, and Ealdor’s options going forward. 

“We don’t know anything about them yet,” Merlin eventually settles on. “If their reasons for being here are benign, then we have no reason to do anything but watch over them. But if they start acting strange, we’ll revisit.” Because Merlin cannot justify attacking a group of seemingly innocent travelers when they haven’t given him a reason to, just on the off chance that they might be a threat to Ealdor. No, he’s smarter than that— Ealdor is smarter than that. 

“Aye, sir,” Lancelot says, surprisingly without irony, as though Merlin is some sort of illustrious commander or war-hardened general leading them into battle. 

Merlin can’t help but smirk a little at the idea. In a way, he kind of is—that is, if their village can be considered its own nation, or if their total of four fighters, Merlin included, can be considered an army. 

“I’ll keep the first watch, then,” Lancelot continues, dutifully, oblivious to Merlin’s casual humor regarding the situation. 

“Send word if you see anything strange,” Merlin says, sobering up a little. “You’ll switch out with either Will or Matthew at nightfall. I have to go speak to the villagers, let them know what’s going on, and reinforce the barrier spell.” He’s mostly thinking out loud at this point, but Lancelot nods anyway. 

Before Merlin can set off, Lancelot stops him. “Merlin,” he starts. “Can you just…make sure he’s okay?” His expression is open, vulnerable, like it usually is whenever he speaks about the boy. “He’s probably really scared, right now.” 

“Of course,” Merlin promises. “I’ll tell him you’ll see him tonight.” 

“Thank you, Merlin,” Lancelot says, his face still holding that open expression, but now tinged with a sort of…significant appreciation. The kind Merlin doesn’t think he really deserves all that much. Something in him feels guilty for it, in a way he can’t explain. 

Nonetheless, Merlin nods. He understands how hard it is to be apart from someone you care about in times like this, and he knows how difficult it is for Lancelot and the boy to be separated from one another, especially after everything they went through before they came to Ealdor—or at least, what Merlin has been able to glean from the little Lancelot has told him. The least he can do is make sure they’re both assured of each other’s safety. 

---

Merlin barely has a foot properly in the door of the barn before he’s bombarded by nearly his entire village. They pack in tight around him, sporting various degrees of worry and fear, and pressing him for information about what’s going on, why they have to hide, and how long he expects they’ll have to stay in the barn. Somehow, though, his mother worms her way through the crowd and to his side, pulling him into a tight hug. 

Squeezing back, he takes a moment to take a deep breath, to not let himself get overwhelmed, before letting her go and addressing the village at large. He relays to them everything he and Lancelot discovered at the border, as well as his plans going forward. Of course, this seems to only bring more questions, which he does his best to answer, but eventually, the questions become impossible to answer without suddenly developing the ability to see the future, the irony of which is not lost on him. 

Somewhere amidst it all, Merlin feels something nudge at his brain, a simple knock on the door to his mindspace, drawing his eyes to the back corner of the barn. Emrys, comes a voice in his head, tiny and brittle, its owner sounding just as scared as Lancelot predicted.

With a little bit of magic, Merlin pushes his fellow villagers aside, forcing them to part enough for him to squeeze his way out, and makes his way to the small, shivering figure tucked away in the left corner of the barn. 

Mordred, Merlin greets, approaching him quietly. Slowly, he crouches down to sit beside the boy on the floor, but despite the obvious relief he seems to feel at Merlin’s presence, he doesn’t stop shivering. 

It isn’t surprising—they’re well on their way to winter now, the days getting colder and colder and the sun setting earlier and earlier, and the boy is wearing thin, ill-fitted clothing. It was the best Merlin could manage with the limited supplies he and the other villagers could offer. With Ealdor being cut off from the rest of the world now, trade and travel have been halted for months, so nearly everything needs to be rationed or reused for everyone to have their basic needs met. 

Either way, Mordred must be freezing. 

Propping himself up on his knees, Merlin peels his jacket from his shoulders and goes to lay it across his knees, but stops when he freezes, as though petrified. Not wanting to startle him further, Merlin scoots back a few feet and places the jacket on the floor between them. After a few moments of confusion, the boy looks up to him, as if asking for permission, which Merlin gives with a nod, before taking it and tucking his arms into the sleeves. 

Something instinctual in Merlin wants to do more, wants to offer him some sort of physical comfort, like an arm around his shoulder or a hand to hold, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. After they first arrived here in Ealdor, it took over a week for Mordred to let anyone but Lancelot anywhere near him, and then a few more for him to let anyone but Lancelot or Merlin, or Merlin’s mother, near him. Getting him to stay in here with the rest of the village is a feat in itself, nevermind what success they might have at the border. 

But still, Merlin can’t help but scoot a little closer to him, filling up some of the space he put between them, a part of him hoping he can warm Mordred up by increased proximity alone. 

Mordred watches him warily as he does his, but doesn’t recede further into the corner or run away, so Merlin takes it as a win. 

Emrys, Mordred says, properly acknowledging him, or at least, Merlin thinks so. In the time Mordred has been in Ealdor, he’s rarely, if ever, spoken aloud, even to Lancelot, instead preferring to communicate with his magic. But even then, he doesn’t say much, and when he does, he always calls Merlin, Emrys.

Merlin doesn’t know what it means or why he always addresses him by it. He thinks that maybe it means something in the language of the old religion, that maybe it's something the druids call each other, and as the only other person with magic here, maybe Merlin’s just the only one who can hear him say it. 

It was the first thing Mordred ever said to him, just a little over a month ago. Much like this morning, Merlin had felt something or someone stumble over his wards, and stupidly, he and Will went out to get a closer look at it, traveling past the barrier, weapons drawn and expecting a fight. Instead, all they found was Mordred, a quivering mess beside an unconscious, badly wounded man. 

Emrys, he had said in Merlin’s head, a spark of surprise in his eyes, almost as though he recognized him. Or maybe he just recognized Merlin’s magic. Please help us. 

It didn’t escape Merlin the danger he could be putting his village in by helping them. Even if it weren’t some sort of trap, a way for Cenred or his men to lure Merlin and his people out, it was obvious they were running from something. From bandits, Cenred, or even Camelot, Merlin couldn’t be sure of, but it was clear that someone had attacked them, most likely because of the boy’s magic. 

Also, the man the boy was with—Lancelot, they would eventually figure out—was armed, and not with just any weapon, but a real sword, a mercenary’s sword. If the village had taken him in and healed him, who’s to say that he wouldn’t attack him once he woke up?

But at the same time, he was fading fast, and for whatever reason, it was clear that he had protected Mordred, someone with magic, and had almost lost his life in doing so. The boy also wanted him alive, enough so to trust Merlin with his magic by speaking to him, when keeping it hidden would’ve offered him the most protection. 

Merlin had a choice, one he wasn’t sure he was prepared to make at the time, still weakly holding the fate of his village in his two hands. 

But then he saw the boy, saw his wide, pleading eyes, and it reminded him of something—of someone. It reminded him of Morgana, of the way she looked at him when they first met, of how scared she looked, even when she was trying her best not to show it. 

So, he did what he should’ve done back when Morgana needed him, when she was scared and alone and he turned his back on her. He helped them. 

Emrys? Mordred questions, pulling Merlin from his thoughts and back into the present. 

Merlin shakes his head and continues, Lancelot is okay. He’s at the border watching over the travelers. As far as we can tell, they’re not a threat. At this point, we’re just waiting for them to pass through the area. 

The boy looks forward once again, but nods his understanding. 

Merlin hesitates for a moment. One of them has magic, he finally says. 

The boy’s gaze locks to him again, his eyes intense, and full of…hope. 

Merlin grits his teeth and continues, We’re not sure who amongst them has it, but Lancelot says none of them bear any druidic markings. 

The boy’s expression drops, that little bit of hope snuffing out like a dying light, nearly as quickly as it appeared. He looks to his knees and pulls them closer to his chest, so that they all but disappear under Merlin’s jacket. 

No, they wouldn’t, Mordred says. There aren’t many of us left to carry the mark of the ancients, not anymore. He rubs the right side of his chest, closes his eyes, and lets out a slow breath, most likely in an effort to keep himself from crying.

Lancelot will be here in a few hours. One of the others will take the night shift watching the border, Merlin says, trying to offer some, if any, relief. Tears start to trickle out of the corners of Mordred’s still closed eyes, his attempts at halting them unsuccessful. 

Yet again, Merlin wants to do…something— anything to offer him comfort, but he’s at a loss as to what to do or how to help. Mordred’s tears flow a little stronger now, running fast down his face, and Merlin’s heart clenches painfully. 

Once again, Merlin cannot help but be reminded of Morgana, but this time, he’s reminded of himself, too. He knows first-hand what it’s like to be lost and afraid, to live in a strange place surrounded by strange people you don’t know if you can trust. He knows what it’s like to be on the run, to fear for his life every second of every day, and all for a part of him that he has no real control over, that he shouldn’t have to hide even if he did. 

It’s funny, he thinks, in a rather grim fashion, how people like him and Morgana and Mordred, sorcerers who can know the unknowable, can see the unseeable, and can feel the unfeelable—people who contain power that could protect them better than any shield or any sword—seem to be those who have the most to fear, who have the most to lose.

And when he looks at Mordred, when he thinks of Morgana and his time in Camelot, he can feel the suffering of their kind. He can feel their death and their torment, their fear and anger and sometimes, even their shame , rumbling through him like a fire burning his insides, always just slightly kept at bay. One day, he thinks it might burn him alive, leaving nothing but ash and dust in its wake. 

Suddenly, Merlin feels a small tug at his shirt. To his surprise, he finds small fingers clutching the corner of his sleeve, and large, bright eyes looking up at him, filled with understanding. And Mordred does understand, Merlin realizes. He might be the only person here who can. 

Thank you, Mordred, Merlin sends. Mordred’s surprise is evident, if not in his expression, then in the vague presence of his magic still in Merlin’s mind. He studies Merlin’s face carefully, searching for something, Merlin isn’t sure what. After a moment or two, he pulls his fingers away, holding them in his other hand against his chest—that same spot from before. Looking back down to his knees, his tears have all but stopped, and he no longer shivers. He nods quietly to himself. 

Satisfied and with nothing else to say, Merlin quietly takes his leave. Mordred doesn’t move to stop him, nor does he speak in Merlin’s mind again. In fact, Merlin no longer feels his presence in his mind at all. 

He gets it, when he first got back from Camelot, beaten and wounded and grieving, he thinks he probably would’ve liked to just…sit for a while and process everything. But between the threat of Kanen’s return and aftermath of his attack, the protection spell that took nearly all of Merlin’s magic to create, and his newfound role in the community, he never really got the chance to.

Even now, he still carries all of it with him, everywhere he goes, like a weight on his shoulders that never gets any lighter. But he can’t dwell on it now, either. 

He doesn’t have time to, he has a village to protect. 

Shaking it off, Merlin goes off to find Will and Matthew to discuss the watch schedule going forward. Will volunteers to relieve Lancelot at sundown, with Matthew staying to watch over the barn in rotating shifts with some of the other men. With a solid plan in mind, Merlin leaves to reinforce the protection spell, Will following silently behind him to keep a watch out. 

On their way out, Mordred’s small voice pops in his head again. Thank you, too, Emrys, he says, leveling him with that same appreciation Lancelot did earlier in the day, only a bit more timid, muted. Still, it means a lot to Merlin.

Merlin isn’t really sure he deserves that either. 

---

Merlin decides to reinforce the spell at Ealdor’s southernmost border, the part of town facing the hillside, opposite to the area where the travelers have made their camp. 

Typically, the refortification process is a simple one, only involving a little bit of his magic to strengthen the spell. But, with everything going on, Merlin is more drained than when he usually does this, so it takes a bit more out of him this time. Thankfully, though, the magic he adds now will last them a few weeks, so the town should be covered for a little bit, definitely long enough for the travelers to pass by here.

It’s only once he’s finished that he realizes how quiet Will has been up until this point. Typically, even in the most stressful of circumstances, Merlin can hardly get him to shut up. He’s always been as loud and brazen as Merlin is— was, he supposes. Silence from him is more cause for concern than if he screamed in Merlin’s face. 

Even in a glance, Merlin’s suspicions are confirmed. Will carries a pensive expression, his demeanor stilted. Just like this morning, he looks conflicted, almost like he has something he wants to say, but with every passing moment, he must decide against it, only for the urge to pop up again and again.  

“Okay, tell me,” Merlin says, growing impatient. He attempts to inject a bit of humor into his tone and averts his gaze back to the spell in an effort to give Will enough space to speak his mind. 

Will pauses. “Tell you what?” he eventually asks. 

Merlin can’t help but roll his eyes. “Whatever is going on in that thick head of yours.” 

Another pause. “It’s not important,” he says.

“Well, now I have to know,” Merlin says with a chuckle. But when he looks back at Will, his face is devoid of any humor. Silence looms between the two, and Merlin can feel his own expression drop. Worried, says, “Seriously, whatever it is, you can tell me.” 

Will is silent again, contemplative. “It’s just…you can’t keep putting it off, Merlin.” 

Confused, Merlin asks, “Putting what off?”

Will looks down to his feet, unable to make eye contact. “You know what I mean. It’s coming, whether we like it or not. It’s only a matter of time.” 

Realization slowly dawns on Merlin, like a creeping sort of madness. “What’s coming?” he asks, pretending to be oblivious, if only to give himself more time to think, but even he knows his attempts at ignorance are paper thin.  

Anger visibly rises in Will. “A fight!” he snaps, eyes meeting Merlin’s once again. “Whether it be the bandits, or Cenred’s men, or whoever is after the boy and the new guy, or even those people who are settled right outside of our town!”

“Is that what this is about?” Merlin asks, trying his best to keep calm, to keep his magic from rising up to protect him. The spell rumbles slightly, almost imperceptibly, next to them. “They’re not a threat, Will.” 

“We don’t know that yet, you even said so yourself,” Will says in a sigh, all of the pent up anger and frustration he was holding having spilled out with his initial outburst. “And if not them, then someone else. All it takes is just one slip up—a distortion of light or magic or even just a step across our border—and we’re done for. It’s coming and you know it.”

“What do you want me to do about it, then?” Merlin finally snaps. The spell moves again, so he starts walking away from it, back towards the barn. “Go out and attack them? Kidnap them? Kill them?” he shouts over his shoulder.

Will follows behind him, stops him in his tracks with a gentle hand to his arm. “I didn’t say that,” he says between gritted teeth. His eyes are pained. He clearly doesn’t want to have this conversation any more than Merlin does.  

“When people go missing, other people notice,” Merlin says. “That’s what’s going to get us caught. That’s the real threat.”

Will shakes his head. “We need to leave here, Merlin,” he says. “We need to pack up and go, probably to another kingdom, far from Essetir, far from Cenred’s land.”

“You’re joking,” Merlin says, but by Will’s expression, he isn’t. Merlin can’t help but let out a bark of laughter. It sounds cruel to his own ears. “You want to leave Ealdor? You want to leave our home behind?”

Will’s eyes are unrelenting, stubborn. “It’s the only way to be assured of the village’s safety. It’s the only way to protect ourselves.”

“I’m protecting us,” Merlin says. “I've been protecting us since Kanen and his men came and tried to burn it to the ground! I almost killed myself casting this spell.” He gestures to the spell in question. “So that you, and me, and my mom, and everyone else we know wouldn’t have to leave our home behind.” Now Merlin is yelling, unable to hide his anger any longer. 

“That’s not the only reason, though, Merlin. Is it?” Will sighs. “That’s not the only reason why we’re still here.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Merlin cannot keep the hurt from his voice, from his expression. 

Will’s face is full of regret, but frustration lies in the tight line of his mouth. He looks away. 

“No, Will, what is that supposed to mean?” Merlin urges him on, urges him to say it. 

“He’s not coming back, Merlin.” 

Merlin reels like he’s been punched, pain blooming in the center of his chest and spreading outward. His face scrunches up and betrayal radiates through him. 

Will takes a deep breath, grips the sides of Merlin’s arms like some sort of strange comfort for what he’s about to say next. “Arthur is not coming back,” he says, as though there was any need to clarify who they were talking about. 

Merlin’s eyes burn at the name, tears blurring his vision. His throat tightens, his limbs feel heavy and his head feels like it’s no longer connected to his body. He tries to look anywhere but Will, tries to find something else— anything else—to focus on, desperate for any kind of distraction from Will’s words. 

“He’s not coming back here,” Will repeats, clutching his arms. Despite his words, his tone is filled with compassion. “And I’m so sorry for that. It’s just…staying here and waiting for him will only put us all in danger. You, me, your mom— everyone.”  

And Merlin doesn’t want to be here anymore. He needs to leave, he needs to go somewhere—anywhere but here right now. 

Knocking Will’s hands away with his arms, he makes his escape. 

“Merlin.” Will tries to get his attention again. “I’m sorry, but—”

But Merlin is already walking away, wiping his eyes as he goes. He’s not sure where he wants to go, just knows that he needs to be alone right now. 

---

There is no proper burial for Kanen and his men, or what's left of them, after the fight. But still, when all is said and done, Merlin sits at the gravesite for a little while, the smell of smoke in his nose and the taste of ash on his tongue. 

Very suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and despite the gentleness of the touch, despite the familiarity of it, he startles in place. Will wraps another arm around his shoulder, as though he’s trying to keep Merlin from floating away. “It had to be done,” he says, his voice breaking.

Merlin can see black soot already covering the stones atop the ground, already beginning to do his work for him to hide what happened here. “Did it?” he asks weakly. “Did we really have to do all of this? I just can’t help but think…what if there was another way.” 

Because…Merlin has never killed someone before. He’s wounded a few, has tried to kill one, but in the end, even with so much hate in his heart, he couldn’t do it. He never thought he’d have to, but now he has blood on his hands. 

“There wasn’t,” Will says, holding him tighter. “Not with the time we had left. We would’ve all ended up dead, either by their hands or from starvation. You saved us.” 

“I could’ve warned them, maybe. I could’ve given those who wanted to run a chance to.”

Will is silent for a bit. “Maybe,” he says eventually. “I don’t know. But they chose this. They chose to kill us over supplies they didn’t need. They weren’t innocent.”

Neither am I, Merlin thinks. Not anymore. 

Will pulls back a little, meets his eyes. “What you did today was not easy, but it was the right thing to do. I know that, your mother and everyone else knows it, too.” He presses their foreheads together. “So whatever weight or pain you feel from this, give some of it to me. I’ll always be there to help you carry it.” He pulls back again, looking him in the eye again. “Okay?”

Merlin nods. Whether he believes him or not, his words about Merlin doing the right thing, he knows that no matter what, Will will be there for him. “Okay,” he says.

They stay there for as long as they can, but they’re quickly running out of time. Merlin needs to cast his spell before Kanen’s men, the ones who got away, come back. 

Merlin doesn’t want to have to hurt anyone else today. 

---

Merlin wakes up some time later in his mother’s hovel. It’s still dark outside, the inky blackness of the night creeping in through the window. He doesn’t really remember coming here, figures he must’ve instinctually sought it out in his sadness after his conversation with Will. 

Rubbing a hand down his face, the feeling is still ever-present, a pall of grogginess to accompany his sleep-addled mind. Despite this, Merlin’s head feels a bit clearer now that he’s been given time to rest, and within the empty spaces, Will’s words from earlier echo against the inner walls of his mind. 

“He’s not coming back, Merlin.”

“Arthur is not coming back.”

“Staying here and waiting for him will only put us all in danger.”

Even just thinking about it, a feeling something like repulsion rises in Merlin, and he feels himself pulling away from the conversation, making it smaller and smaller in his mind until he can’t hear—can’t feel it anymore, like a hand recoiling from the fire after it’s been burned. It’s quick and instinctual, and it scares Merlin far more than what he’s actually trying to avoid does. 

And in the silence of the night, all he can think is…could Will be right? Has Merlin, all this time, avoided relocating his village simply because some part of him thought that Arthur would come back for him? 

Because, Merlin defeated Kanen and his men months ago, defeated everyone that came since, and still, he never thought of moving his people somewhere less dangerous. He could’ve done it, too. He still has the book Morgana and Gaius gave him, the book on invisibility spells and glamours. He could’ve used that to hide everyone until they were far enough to travel safely and out in the open. 

Tir Mor is just southeast of Essetir, a small country easy to access and bordering the sea. Even though Merlin has heard little of it, he has heard that it is a land where restrictions on magic are far less strict than they are in Cenred’s kingdom or Camelot. With a few easy protection spells and a couple of wards, his village could probably find peace there, rather than constantly living on edge worried that someone will sneak into the night and kill them all in their sleep. 

And Merlin could find peace there, as well, without the fear of death or imprisonment constantly hanging over his head. He could just be…Merlin, whoever that is these days. 

Suddenly, it’s almost too much to bear for him, the thought that he jeopardized his people's safety just on the off chance that Arthur might come back for him. That he’d even really remember or care about Merlin all this time later. That he would defy his father to find a sorcerer who he’d known for a little over a month. 

Merlin is so stupid. How could he have been so blind to his own motives?

Pressing against the inner corners of his eyes, Merlin tries to halt the tears of shame and frustration that threaten to spill over. He doesn’t want to cry, not even here, alone, in the safest place he knows. Especially not here, it feels too much like a betrayal. How dare he cry over a problem he created, over the ways he’s wronged his people?

His people. His mother. 

A pang of longing hits his chest at the thought of her. He needs to see her, he realizes suddenly. He needs to talk to her or apologize, he needs— something. He doesn’t know, but whatever it is, he thinks his mother can provide it. 

Wiping his eyes, he stands up and heads out, almost dead-like in his movements. As he makes his way to the barn, he catches a light in the corner of his eye coming from near the border—it’s Will, he realizes. He must have a small fire going while he watches the travelers. 

A part of Merlin wants to go out to meet him, wants to talk things out and tell him that he’s right, tell him that he’s sorry for how he reacted. But the thought of it only adds to the ache in his chest, so he decides to save it for tomorrow after he’s gotten a chance to see his mother. 

Still, though, he can’t help but wonder how Will is feeling after their talk, can’t help but wonder how long he’d been hiding his concerns just to spare Merlin’s feelings. Because, above all, Will cares about him. He cares about Merlin as a person, as his best friend, and not just someone who can do incredible things with his magic. 

He’s been there from the beginning, has seen every shade and every season of Merlin, for better or worse, and has stayed by his side, has offered to help carry the weight of everything bearing down on him. 

Merlin feels that specific kind of shame bubble up in him again, something akin to what he felt earlier, when Lancelot looked at him with such admiration, when Mordred thanked him for showing him a simple kindness, or when his people were looking to him for answers about the travelers, trusting him to make the right decision to keep everyone safe. 

And he failed them. 

The door creaks a little when he enters the barn, but no one seems to wake at the sound of it. The entire village seems to be out cold, the stress of the day deepening their sleep. 

Despite this, Merlin hears a voice to his left. “Merlin,” they call in a whisper—Lancelot calls. He’s awake and sitting upright against the wall in the corner of the barn, the same spot Mordred was in earlier, who is fast asleep, using the older man’s thigh as a sort of makeshift pillow. To Merlin’s surprise, he still has Merlin’s jacket on him, draped over his form, the corners tucked under his body like a blanket. “Merlin,” Lancelot calls again, wary of waking the boy.

Merlin tiptoes his way over to them, also wary. Sitting down next to Lancelot on his other side, Merlin lets out a deep breath, one he didn’t really know he was holding in. 

“Can’t sleep?” Lancelot asks quietly after a few moments of silence. 

“I had enough,” Merlin says, shrugging. “You?”

“Nah,” Lancelot waves him off. “Bad habit from my days on the run. Sleep always came at a cost I couldn’t afford. I don’t think I’ll ever really get the hang of it.”

Merlin nods. He gets that—when he first returned from Camelot, despite his exhaustion, he also had trouble sleeping. It only got worse after the fight with Kanen and his men. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d just relive everything that happened to him, all the horrific things he had seen, all of the horrific things he had done. 

Somehow, Lancelot seems to pick up on Merlin’s spiraling thoughts and changes the subject to spare him. “How did everything go with reinforcing the barrier?” he asks.

“It went well,” Merlin says because it did. He means to just leave it at that, but there’s something in the way Lancelot looks at him when he asks, his eyes open and curious. He always seems to save his kindest expressions for Merlin, always regards him with earnestness and a startling lack of judgment or expectation. Even though he still doesn’t think he deserves it, Merlin can’t help but rise to it. “Will and I had an argument,” he finally admits. 

Lancelot’s expression grows concerned for a brief moment before he turns away, presumably to give Merlin some space. “I see,” he says, too respectful to ask about it, but clearly, he wants to. “I’m sure you’ll make up. You two are like brothers, anyone can see that,” he settles on, instead. 

“Yeah, we are,” Merlin says. And he's certain that they will make up, but that’s not the issue, at least not in the grand scheme of things. “I just—”

He’s interrupted by a small whimper coming from Mordred, his eyes clenched shut and expression twisted up in pain. Calmly, Lancelot places his hand on his back, rubbing gentle circles into the fabric of Merlin’s jacket. Mordred lets out a little contented sigh at the soothing motion, his body relaxes, and he burrows deeper into Merlin’s jacket, pulling it close to his chest like a suit of armor. 

“Does that happen a lot?” Merlin asks. 

“For as long as I’ve known him,” Lancelot says. “Another reason it’s hard to sleep at night. He never gets any sleep if I’m not there to soothe away the nightmares. He’s seen too much to do it on his own.” 

And even though Merlin doesn’t know much of Mordred’s past, he does know that for him to be here, to settle down in a nowhere town with a mercenary as his sole protection, as his makeshift family, he must’ve lost everything—-his home, his culture, and everyone he’s ever held close to him.

Merlin can’t even imagine it. He’s only managed to lose a few people in his life, people who he had only known for about a month or so, and he still carries that pain with him every day. He still knows that they’re still out there, somewhere, living their lives with food in their bellies and a roof over their heads. It’s likely that everyone Mordred’s ever known is just…gone. Lancelot, too. 

“It’s better now, though,” Lancelot continues, pulling Merlin from his thoughts. “It’s better here. It’s stable, and—well, aside from today—you generally know what to expect each day. Before, everything was always…up in the air. Not even your next breath was guaranteed.”

Merlin nods. He felt that way in Camelot, too, like he was wading through water, with nothing really solid to grab onto to anchor himself with. Well, except for one thing. 

“Also, you’re here,” Lancelot says, “which helps a lot.” 

Merlin is suddenly taken aback. “Me?”

“Yes, you ,” Lancelot says, turning back to face Merlin, his lips quirking up into a small smile. “He takes comfort in you.” 

“I don’t understand.” Merlin feels even more confused. “How? No— why?”

Lancelot’s smile grows, his eyes bright. He looks downright endeared. “Why not? Your magic is strong, and you use it for others, not for yourself. Violence isn’t your first instinct, and you don’t easily rise to a threat, but you will do what has to be done to protect the people you care about. That’s a comfort to him—to me, too.” 

Merlin is having a hard time processing all of this. “He told you all of this?” he asks, unable to keep the disbelief from his tone. 

“He didn’t have to,” Lancelot says simply. “I mean, just look at him.” He nods towards the boy and bunches the fabric of Merlin’s jacket with his fingers, lifting it just slightly off of the boy’s back. Reflexively, Mordred whimpers a little and pulls it back into place. “Your mother said he hasn’t let go of it since you gave it to him, some part of him always holding fast to it, even now, in his sleep.”

Merlin feels that shame return once again, feels it rise up in his throat, burning like acid. He doesn’t doubt that what Lancelot says is true, he knows the man wouldn’t lie about something like this, about anything, really. But that just makes it so much worse because he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve Lancelot’s honesty, doesn’t deserve Mordred’s comfort or Will’s devotion or his people’s pride. 

Screwing his eyes shut, he braces against what he’s about to say, what he’s about to admit. But yet again, the urge to resist, to hide from the pain and pretend it never existed in the first place, scares him more than anything. “But…” he starts, takes a deep breath, “what if I’m not really the person everyone thinks I am?”

Confused, Lancelot asks, “What do you mean?”

“I mean—what if I can’t do right by my people?” Merlin swallows against a lump in his throat, his voice breaking. “What if I haven’t been doing right by them?”

Even more confused, Lancelot shakes his head. “I don’t understand what you mean. How could you possibly think that?”

Merlin takes a deep breath, curls into himself. That avoidance is back again, but only for a brief moment because this is Lancelot. If Merlin didn’t already trust him by now, he wouldn’t have let him stay after he’d healed, wouldn’t have allowed him to look over the border day by day, and most certainly, he wouldn’t be having this conversation with him. But he is, and he does, so with barely a pause, he tells him about his argument with Will, what he said and what Merlin realized back at his mother’s home. 

Once he starts talking, though, he can’t seem to stop, the words falling from his mouth as though someone were forcibly pulling them out. Soon, he finds himself telling Lancelot everything—everything about his time in Camelot, about leaving his home to help some wayward prince and falling in love with him, about the people he had to hurt to save him. He tells him about fighting Kanen’s men and creating the barrier spell for the first time, almost dying in the process, all to protect his people. But after what Will said, he realizes it was all for nothing. He’s failing them, just because he’s been waiting for the man he loves to come back to him. 

Lancelot takes it all in well. He never interrupts Merlin with questions, only listens carefully, a thoughtful expression on his face. Although, when Merlin mentions the punishment for using magic in Camelot, the death of Thomas Collins that Morgana witnessed, Lancelot can’t help but flinch away, his hand pressing just slightly into Mordred’s back, almost as though he thinks he can protect the boy from all of the dangers of the world, if only he can keep him close to his side. 

When Merlin is finished, when all of his words have emptied from his soul and he no longer has anything left to say, it’s quiet between them, only the sounds of snoring and the crackle of fire enough to break up the silence. For a little bit, Merlin wonders if maybe he’d gone too far, if maybe he’d said too much and Lancelot is as disappointed in him as Merlin is in himself. He’s just about to get up, to go find his mother like he originally planned and try to get at least a little bit of rest before sunrise, when Lancelot places his free hand on Merlin’s, where it rests on the floor. 

“I’m so sorry, Merlin,” Lancelot says, and he means it. But how? How could he hear all that Merlin’s done, all the people he’s hurt, and still try to comfort him? Lancelot looks down to Mordred, again, his expression guarded but his words are anything but. “Not a lot of people have been through what we have been through, even more so for people like you and him. They don’t understand what it’s like to lose nearly everything that’s ever mattered to you, and for reasons you can hardly comprehend. And they don’t understand what it means to have to fight for what you do have left. 

“That’s what you’re doing, Merlin. You’re fighting for your home and you're fighting for your people, even the ones who aren’t here right now. There’s nothing wrong with that,” he says. “Because you, and Mordred, and I know, that at the end of the day, all you have left is what you fight for.” 

Merlin shakes his head, having difficulty parsing through Lancelot’s words and more so, believing them. “But, what if Will’s right? What if my people will be safer— happier somewhere else?”

Lancelot shrugs. “Then ask them,” he says, as though it’s that simple. “See what they want because I’ll tell you, if they wanted to leave, if they didn’t feel safe here, they wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly in this barn tonight. But they do and they are. They trust you, Merlin. We do, too. And trust is never freely given, it’s earned. So don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve done everything you ever could, and more. If I can see that, then I’m sure your people can, as well.”

You’ve done everything you ever could, and more. 

Lancelot’s words ring in his head, over and over again. It reminds him of his time back in Camelot, of similar words that once gave him so much hope, then gutted him like a knife to his stomach, and now, they’re meant to lift him up. And maybe it isn’t what you can or can’t do in any given circumstance that matters. Maybe Lancelot is right, maybe what really matters is what you fight for. 

“Thank you, Lancelot,” he says, and he means it. Not all of his worries have been assuaged, and he still wonders if he’s doing the right thing, if he has been doing the right thing. But he’s been doing all he can. He’s been fighting for all he can. 

But the question is, what is Merlin willing to fight for next? 

Without much else to say, Merlin wishes Lancelot a good night, which Lancelot returns, his eyes growing heavy and his head slumping a little, the exhaustion of today finally catching up with even a trained mercenary like him. Before he’s properly asleep, Merlin makes his way across the barn toward his mother. 

She already has his bedroll set up for him beside her when he gets there, and although sleep doesn’t come easily nor smoothly, Merlin is able to get just a little bit of rest that night. 

---

The first mercenary to stumble across their border doesn’t get very far. Merlin doesn’t even know what he’s doing until it’s over, all he hears is a scream from one of the villagers and his magic acts on its own, throwing the mercenary down to the ground so hard his head smacks against the stone below, a river of blood outlining his body on the ground. 

The villager who screamed—her name is Brynn, he thinks—thanks him profusely, says the mercenary held a blade to her neck, and she thinks he was about to kill her. Merlin is still reeling from the shock of what just happened, of what he just did without even thinking about it, and just nods and walks away. 

They bury the mercenary with the others. 

---

Merlin wakes to two bright, blue eyes watching him, unblinkingly, and he startles in place. 

Emrys? Mordred asks, his inner voice sounding concerned. He tilts his head slightly in question and scrunches his eyebrows together, seemingly having no clue why his behavior would have caused Merlin to act this way. 

Merlin shakes his head. Stifling an odd laugh, he reorients himself to the space and time surrounding him. He’s still on his bedroll in the barn with the rest of the villagers, who sit scattered and quietly eating amongst themselves, trying desperately to pretend they haven’t been waiting for him to wake up and tell them what’s going to happen next. 

Sitting up, he rubs his eyes and lets out a groan. When he opens them again, Mordred is still watching him, that open, curious look never having left his face. He must be waiting for something, too, probably the same as everyone else. 

A part of Merlin is also waiting. Wishes someone would tell him what will happen next and what he’s supposed to do about it. He takes a few more minutes to settle into the waking world before finally addressing the room.

Their most pressing questions are obvious and therefore, easy to anticipate. Everyone wants to know when they can go home. 

“Not quite yet,” Merlin says. “At least not permanently, but I think it would be okay for you to return to your homes to gather any necessities and tend to your livestock.” 

The barrier spell has been reinforced and no one has heard from Lancelot or Will about any movement from the travelers, so as long as they’re quiet and don’t venture out too close to the town’s outer fence, it should be safe. 

“But I would like it for us to spend another night here, though, just so we’re all together in case something does happen,” Merlin continues. Especially since one of the travelers has magic. They could do far more damage in far less time than a simple mercenary with a sword if given a chance. 

Merlin will not give them that chance. 

A chill runs through him at the thought, accompanied by memories of burned bodies and cracked skulls, of tens of unmarked graves fallen at the altar to Merlin’s magic, so that he could protect his people. 

“I’m going to check in with whoever is at the border now, and I’ll keep you all updated with what I find out,” Merlin bookends. “We’ll take it from there and regroup, but for now, go, collect your things, and prepare for another night in here. We’ll get through this, just like we did last time.”

The villagers nod amongst themselves, murmuring to each other about what’s going to happen. He hears a slight tone of suspicion simmer amongst them, but none carries an opposition so severe that it can’t be snuffed out by the gravity of the situation and the seemingly well established trust they have in Merlin and his abilities. It brings to mind his conversation with Will last night, and then his conversation with Lancelot, but he can’t find it within himself to truly process it all, and for now, he’s just thankful that the villagers have stopped asking him questions that he can’t answer. 

Suddenly, he feels a tug at the hem of his shirt. Looking down, he sees that it’s Mordred, who it seems, hasn’t left his side since he woke up.

Emrys. He says. Can I come with you? He looks down. I don’t have anywhere to go like everyone else does. 

Merlin’s heart squeezes a little at this. No, I’m sorry, but it’s too dangerous. He pauses. But maybe you could go with my mother back to her hovel? I’m sure she’ll make you something good to eat if you help her carry her things. 

Instinctively, he finds his mother’s eye amongst the crowd and flicks his gaze from her to Mordred and back again. She nods, understanding what he’s asking her, and starts to make her way toward their direction. 

Mordred nods thoughtfully at this, but he looks disappointed, those big blue eyes turning pitiful. 

I’m sorry, Merlin thinks, resisting the urge to tousle his hair. Once his mother joins them, she gives him a quick hug and then is already ushering Mordred off to help hand out pottage to the other villagers. As Merlin begins to head out, he finds Mordred watching him again, his eyes intense…and worried—so worried that Merlin thinks he can feel it reach him across the room, settling in his chest as though it were his own. It follows him out the door, never truly dissipating no matter how far he travels away, the image of wide, blue eyes at the forefront of his mind for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

As soon as Merlin leaves the barn, he already knows where to go. He already knows where to find Will. 

Moving past familiar rocks and trees, he squeezes his way through thorny bushes and skips over dips in the ground, grass yielding under his feet as he forcefully wades his way through the green-thickened path. 

Then, everything opens up.

He hadn’t planned on including the clearing in his protection spell. He might’ve thought of it, once or twice, but never truly considered it. It would be hard enough to cover the town alone, he thought at the time, and what was in the town was necessary—crops, villager’s homes, animals they could use for milk and labor. No one else seemed to really care about the clearing but him and it served no real functional purpose for the town, so he figured it would just have to be something he’d have to give up. A relatively small sacrifice compared to what he’d already given up so far. 

But some part of his brain, something deep in his subconscious while he was nearly drained of magic and on the edge of dying, thought differently. It wanted to protect it, so it did. 

Will doesn’t move when Merlin sits on the ground next to him, doesn’t speak, barely even breathes. He knew that Merlin would find him here, just like Merlin knew that Will would be sitting here waiting for him. They both know how much this place means to Merlin. It holds some of their brightest memories, of countless summers lazing around together, of play-fighting with sticks and gleefully shirking their responsibilities just to be young and free for a little while longer, probably far past the time when they should have been. 

It’s where Will first found out about Merlin’s magic, too. Where he caught Merlin lifting flower petals in the air, lazily swirling them around himself to match the shapes the clouds made above him. 

“Of course that’s what you would use it for. Playing with daisies and making pictures.” 

Will only said it once Merlin’s panic had subsided, once his breath calmed and his hands had stopped shaking. Merlin’s mother said that he should never tell anyone about his magic. That even those closest to him would see him differently if they found out. But not Will. He only saw more of who Merlin was, and he continued to call him his friend, all the same. 

More than that, Will knows that this place reminds Merlin of Arthur, of the nights they spent looking up at the stars, both trying to find a place they could call home. 

In a way, the clearing feels like a sanctuary, of sorts. There are no walls here, no borders, no laws on magic. It’s a liminal space, a place free of judgment, of worry, of any sense of destiny or what Merlin is supposed to do with all of the power he’s been given. It’s safe here, which Merlin now knows is a rare thing for a place to be, at least for him.

“You know, I haven’t really been here in a while,” Will says, finally breaking the silence. He pauses, waiting for Merlin to respond, an unspoken question hanging in the air between them.

Are you still here with me, even after last night?

“Neither have I,” Merlin says, answering it. I am. It says. Always. 

Will lets out a deep breath, relief flooding his features momentarily before the weight of the conversation appears to set in again. 

“It never really felt right, coming here after you left for Camelot,” he says. “You know, even before that, I don’t think I ever really came here unless I knew you’d be here, too.” He blows out another breath, this one much lighter, and looks to the stars, searching, remembering. “All of my memories of this place have you in them. It felt—I don’t know…wrong to be here without you. Like it would make all of those memories go away, like it would maybe make you go away, too.” 

Merlin can’t help but look at him at that. “Will—”

“I know, I know,” Will waves him off. “That’s not what I’m saying. I just…I want you to know that…I don’t want to leave Ealdor, either. I don’t want to leave our home. This place is all I’ve ever known, my whole life is here, every memory I have has been made right here. Losing it would feel like…I don’t know, like losing a piece of myself. I don’t want to give that up.”

“I never thought that you did,” Merlin insists.

Will shakes his head. “What I said to you yesterday—I was frustrated and scared, and it all came out so wrong. I was wrong, but telling you how I felt, well, it wasn’t a decision that I came to lightly.”

Merlin thinks that that makes all of this so much harder to bear. If Will had said what he said off-hand in the heat of the moment, it probably wouldn’t bother Merlin this much. But no, clearly it was something Will was holding onto for much longer, something that he felt so strongly he had to tell Merlin, even though he knew it would hurt him if he did. 

“Like I said, I don’t want to lose this place,” Will continues. “But, in all honesty, Merlin, I would burn this place to the ground and leave every good memory I’ve ever had in my life behind if it meant keeping our people safe, if it meant keeping you safe.” He turns to look Merlin dead in the eye. “That’s why I said what I said, however horribly it came out. I just need you to understand that.”

“I do understand,” Merlin says quietly. He looks away. “And you’re right, I think…” Merlin has to force his next few words out, can barely get them through his clenched teeth. “I think I was waiting for Arthur to come back and find me. I didn’t want to lose my memories of him, either. I–I loved him.” He shakes his head. “I still do.”

Merlin can feel his eyes welling up, feels that pull and burn that tells him he’s about to break down, and for some reason, he doesn’t have the energy, or even the willpower to try to stop it. Will must see this too because he pulls Merlin close to him after that, lets him fall apart in his arms and he does. 

“I know,” Will whispers into his ear. “I know,” he repeats, almost mournfully. “It isn’t fair that you have to do this, that you have to constantly choose between the people you love like this. It’s never been fair.”

“But it isn’t a choice, Will,” Merlin says. “Because no matter what I pick, no matter what I do, it just feels like a betrayal. Between everything I did there for them and everything I’ve done here for you and our people. It just wouldn’t matter anymore.” 

“It did matter, though,” Will says. “It still does. Merlin, if you left Ealdor today and never came back it would still matter. We’d still never be able to pay you back for what you’ve done, for how you’ve helped us. We’re alive because of you. No one here takes that lightly. And I can’t imagine your prince does either, after all you did for him. He won’t forget that, not if he’s even half as honorable as you say he is.”

Merlin pauses, trying to take in all of Will’s words. His throat is still too tight for him to respond, but even if he could, he doesn’t know what he would say. No words can truly encapsulate how he’s feeling, can accurately articulate the position he’s in right now, the decisions he has to make when seemingly he alone can make them. 

Will seems to understand this, or maybe he only understands that silence is a response in itself, because he doesn’t say any more for a while, just continues to hold Merlin. 

After some time, Merlin slips from his arms, his hands and legs growing numb, but still, he doesn’t know what to say. 

“You know my position, Merlin,” Will says, finally breaking the silence. “You know what I think will be best for the village. But whatever you choose, I will follow you.” He gets up after that and places a firm hand on Merlin’s shoulder as he leaves. 

He’s been up all night at the border, Merlin belatedly remembers. He must be so tired, yet still, he made the time to meet Merlin here, to leave his own world and step into Merlin’s for a little while, to tell him he loves him in every way except actually saying the words. 

Merlin isn’t sure how he’ll ever be able to do the same. 

---

Despite the events of the morning, the rest of the day drifts on, flowing like water in a stream. Merlin splits his time between looking over the border with Lancelot and helping the villagers attend to their farms and move any necessities into the barn. 

However, it’s readily apparent that the villagers are a bit more liberal in their ideas of what constitutes a necessity. Merlin has to reiterate more than once that no, they can’t have chickens in the barn, even if they might provide eggs in the morning or will be fun for the children to chase around. And while it is okay to bring extra blankets for oneself and others, bringing an entire bed frame is far too much, unless they desire for Merlin to use it as firewood. 

When he said this, he noticed many of the villagers who seemed to have similar questions for him hang their heads in disappointment and head back toward the barn, their small sacks of food and other amenities in tow. 

For as lively as the move from the barn to their homes and then back to the barn has been for the villagers, the border, on the other hand, is relatively calm. Lancelot sits at its edge, his demeanor casual, yet his eyes intense, his hand gripping the handle of his sword, ready to attack if given the slightest provocation. 

In a way, it unnerves Merlin, not because he’s afraid of the man in any fashion, but because the look in his eyes reminds Merlin that even in the most innocuous-appearing people, there can live skilled ferocity, ready to be wielded at the moment when everyone least expects it. Merlin wonders a little if he looks like that, himself. Like a fire at the edge of a hearth, ready to destroy everything if only given the chance to be let out. 

Merlin doesn’t talk to Will that day, even after the man has awoken from his nap. Despite leaving off on good terms, it seems to be unspokenly, yet mutually agreed upon that they both need time and space to process things after what was said between them, both the night previous and early this morning. 

Soon enough, it’s dark out once again, and Merlin finds himself sitting amongst his people near the fire set safely in the middle of the barn. He listens to their chatter, their desperate attempts to talk about anything but what’s happening just outside their little haven inside a haven. They make it look easy, and maybe it is for them. Maybe Lancelot was right about their trust in him, their faith that he’ll make everything all right in the end. Maybe Will was right about how much they appreciate what he’s done for them.

Merlin thinks about this as he helps his mother plate and distribute supper, thinks about the way the villagers look at him, their expressions overwhelmingly grateful as he hands them what measly portions they could afford to spare so that everyone would be able to eat tonight. He thinks about Mordred, who has been basically attached to his hip for the rest of the evening, following him around and looking up at him with those big blue eyes, his gaze unrelentingly open and vulnerable. Honestly, Merlin doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before, too busy thinking he didn’t deserve to lead this village and killing himself for doing it anyway, that he didn’t even think to wonder why they let him lead them in the first place. 

It’s just, growing up in Ealdor, Merlin couldn’t help but feel…different. And it wasn’t just because he was different. In fact, he never really knew that he was until he was a child, when his mother had deemed him old enough to explore the village by himself and play with the other children of the town like he had been yearning to for so long. Only, every time he tried to interact with them or their parents, he just felt…separate from them, almost like there was an invisible wall between him and them, like the barrier spell protecting Ealdor from the outside world. He felt wrong in a way, like his magic repelled other people, even though they didn’t know about it. It’s one of the reasons he and Will got along so well. With him, that wall was seemingly nonexistent. 

So it’s baffling to Merlin, the warmth that the villagers seem to regard him with now, even though they know about his magic, even though they know all about the reasons why he’s different. Maybe that’s why they trust him now. Maybe the wall between them wasn’t because of Merlin’s magic, but because he was hiding it, because he had to.

As Merlin lays in his bedroll that night, he wonders what it would be like if the people of Camelot, if not for Uther , would let down their walls just enough to see that people with magic are no different than them—that magic is something to be wielded just as any tool. He wonders if they would treat them differently too. Merlin doubts it, but he also initially doubted his people’s trust in him. He probably would have doubted that someone like Arthur—Uther’s son— could change, too, had he not seen it for himself. 

But who knows what Arthur’s doing now? Who knows what he remembers and what he doesn’t of what Merlin did for him, of all the time they spent together? Who knows what he believes now that he’s back under his father’s rule once again? 

And who knows when— if Merlin might ever get to see him again? Who knows if it would really even matter if he did? 

Emrys. Merlin turns and sees those big blue eyes looking up at him again. Will just left to relieve Lancelot at the border, so the man should be coming back soon. In the meantime, Mordred has seemingly decided that Merlin will be his protector for the evening, having placed his bedroll between Merlin and his mother and using Merlin’s jacket as a blanket once again. Merlin thinks, rather amusedly, that he won’t be getting it back from the boy any time soon, if ever. With even more amusement and no small amount of warmth, he realizes that he’s okay with that. 

Why do you call me that? Merlin sends back. Emrys? He’s been thinking about it a lot lately, especially after his conversation with Lancelot the night previous. Since then, Merlin has begun to notice the sincere and meaningful way in which Mordred uses the name to call him and how, no matter where they are or what they’re doing, Merlin’s attention can’t help but be drawn to him when he does, like the name is a spell Mordred is using to summon him, like the word Emrys is an incantation in itself.

Mordred pauses, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. It is what the druids call you. 

The druids?

Merlin is, of course, familiar with the druids. Even as a child, he had heard tales of them from the rare travelers who had stopped over for the night at their little village, swearing to have spotted small groups of robe-clad nomads carrying large, ornate staffs and covered in strange symbols moving from kingdom to kingdom.

“You could feel the power and magic coming off of them in waves,” one courier from Gawant had said, sitting around a fire with nearly half the village leaning forward, hanging onto his every word. “They never spoke, but they moved as one, like a pack of wolves or a flock of birds. Why they let me see them and live to tell the tale, I don’t know.” 

At the time, Merlin found himself shrinking in his spot on the dirt floor, afraid that the man could somehow feel the magic coming off of him, too. Then, he felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder, felt her silent, soft reassurance, and calmed. 

After that, all he could think was that he wished he could tell the courier that the druids wouldn’t have hurt him, that they were probably more afraid of him than he was of him. He believed this so intently at the time, almost like he could feel it, but he never knew why. 

But, perhaps ironically, Merlin learned the most about what he now knows about the druids in Camelot. In his efforts to find a cure for Arthur, he happened upon a few first-hand accounts and oral histories of the druids and their place in Camelot before the ban on magic was established. He learned of their pacifism, of their dedication to passing down the ancient magic of the old religion from generation to generation, how they carried it with them like a burning flame, only to be mostly snuffed out by Uther and those who followed him, those who continue to follow him. 

But that’s all he knows about them and other than Mordred, he’s certainly never met one before. So it confuses him that, according to Mordred, they seem to somehow know about him, at least enough to give him a name. 

But, what does it mean? Emrys. He asks. 

Mordred’s eyebrows scrunch together even more, creating a large divot running through the middle of his forehead. Then, it smooths, and he sits up, folds his legs beneath him, and pulls his collar back to reveal a large druidic marking seemingly tattooed onto his chest. Merlin has seen him touch the area before over his shirt, usually when he seemed stressed or sad, but never knew why. Eventually, Merlin just figured that it was something Mordred did to ground himself and decided not to think anything more of it. 

He’s starting to learn, though, that Mordred doesn’t do anything without a reason. 

It means this. Mordred says, pointing to the image—a symbol inked in black, containing three inward spirals that curve away from each other but still connect in the center. 

A triskelion. Merlin says, although he doesn’t know how he knows this. 

Mordred nods, then points to the first spiral. It represents life. He points to the next. Death. Then to the last. And rebirth. 

Immortality. Merlin’s mind supplies again, and yet again he doesn’t know how he knows this. 

Mordred nods again. It is the cycle of magic, as it flows through us. My magic is yours and yours is mine, and one day it will belong to another. He touches the symbol once again, almost reverent. 

It’s a strange emotion to see on someone so young, but Merlin knows that Mordred is far beyond his years, that he has seen far more than any child should. 

Through our magic, we carry our ancestors with us, and one day our descendants will carry us with them, too. It is the cycle that connects us all. It is what we have always believed. Mordred’s eyes grow sad and distant, seeming to remember a past that is long gone from him and yet clearly still so close to his heart. 

But why did the druids give me a name that means immortality? Merlin asks, as gently as he can, so as not to startle the boy. But he needs to know. He needs to know what all of this is supposed to mean. Why…me?

Mordred seemingly returns to the present. Because it is your destiny to bring magic back to the land of Albion. To renew the cycle.

Destiny—but Merlin thought that he already fulfilled his destiny when he saved Arthur. That’s what the dragon said back in Camelot, that his destiny would be to help him because Arthur would be a great king one day. Merlin thought that that was the end of it, that his story was over once he left Camelot. How am I supposed to do that? 

How is he supposed to fulfill a destiny written for him without his permission, when he can barely keep his people safe from bandits and thieves? How is he supposed to challenge decades of oppression in lands such as Essetir and Camelot? Why is he, of all people, supposed to be the one to do it?

With your prince, of course. Mordred says. His fate is also yours. 

But Arthur hasn’t come for him, hasn’t even tried to send a message to ask if he’s doing okay with everything going on with his village. How is he supposed to share a fate with someone who seemingly doesn’t care about him? 

Merlin feels the pull of tears burning the corner of his eyes. Wiping them away, he tries to hide them for Mordred’s sake, afraid he’s going to scare him. But when Merlin looks at the boy, he only sees the same sadness reflected back at him. His eyes brim with the tears that Merlin tried to suppress, and Merlin doesn’t think, just pulls him into his arms like he’s wanted to for so long, and cries into his hair. Thankfully, Mordred doesn’t seem to mind, just holds him back just as tightly and cries into his shoulder. 

The grief between them is unfathomable, even though they may not know the depth of it within each other, they both understand that it’s there. And it takes Merlin a little bit to realize that there is no wall between him and Mordred, there is no separation. He wonders if this is what the druids experience with each other, if they truly do live and move as one just like the courier said so long ago. And Merlin wonders if Mordred was right, if their magic is shared between them, if it is shared with every other person who has it, and everyone who ever will. 

This is Merlin’s last thought before he finally drifts off, the sound of Mordred’s soft, steady breathing against his chest lulling him to sleep, his calm existing in Merlin as though it were his own. Maybe it is, at least for now.

---

Merlin wakes up hours later, his body jolting. The warning bells in his head crash and clang violently, metal scraping on metal. 

The travelers. His mind supplies just as harshly. They’re coming. 

Panicking slightly, his eyes search the barn and his magic reaches out, scanning the room for an intruder, readying him for an attack. But he finds nothing out of the ordinary, the villagers sleeping safely in their various bedrolls scattered throughout the darkness of the barn. Looking down, Mordred is still sleeping as well, his eyes closed and his breathing steady as he lays in Merlin’s arms. For his sake, Merlin takes a moment to calm his breathing and steadily detaches himself from the boy, who at some point in the night, must have wiggled his fingers into the fabric of Merlin’s shirt, clutching it tightly, as though even in his sleep, he knew that Merlin would have to leave suddenly and unexpectedly. 

As Merlin slips from his bedroll, he hears a voice from his right side. “What’s going on?” Lancelot asks quietly, currently sitting atop Mordred’s discarded bedroll. “Did you feel something?”

Merlin nods sharply but doesn’t say anything for fear of waking up and startling Mordred or the other villagers. Lancelot’s gaze intensifies and his hand moves to the hilt of his sword, his eyes darting around the room much like Merlin’s did a few seconds ago, before settling back on Merlin, his eyes looking to him for what to do next. 

Merlin jerks his head toward the barn door, and wordlessly, Lancelot follows him out. They walk quickly and purposefully toward the town’s border, both preparing themselves for what they might find when they get there. 

---

“Merlin—” Will starts when they arrive. 

“I know,” Merlin interrupts, not wanting to waste time. “What do you see?” He does his best to look past the blur of the barrier spell and thinks he can see movement, but as always, can’t make out any details. 

“One of the men is heading toward the town,” Will says. “He’s headed downhill from the treeline. No weapons or armor on him, but it won’t be long until he’s made it here.”

Merlin nods. “What about the others?” 

“Still sleeping, it seems,” Lancelot supplies, confusion coloring his features. “The man—he looks…dazed in a way. He’s moving slowly, like he’s being pulled forward against his will.”

“Could he be under some sort of spell?” Will asks. 

“I can’t feel anything coming from him,” Merlin says, reaching beyond his own magic to feel for any surrounding the traveler. But all he can feel is that…familiar magic coming from one of the others still sleeping by the treeline. 

A chill suddenly runs down his spine at the thought of having to fight another magic-user, which he will very likely have to do should—no, when things turn ugly between him and the traveler. 

Merlin shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, though. He’s still a threat,” he says, his heart racing. His magic, which has been on edge ever since the travelers first arrived, tugs at him in question, but he denies it for now with a deep breath. “Both of you go back to the barn, quietly wake the villagers and secure the door.” 

“I’m not leaving you,” Will says, his tone incredulous. 

“Neither am I,” Lancelot insists. 

Merlin’s magic tugs at him again, more insistent this time. He clenches his teeth, denying it once again. “The villagers have no one to protect them right now. My mother—” He turns to Lancelot. “ Mordred has no one to protect him right now.” 

And I don’t want you to see me like this. He thinks. I don’t want you to see what I might have to do to these people. 

Lancelot’s expression is intense, his eyes flicking back and forth from Merlin to the border and back again. And Merlin knows that even though Lancelot is dedicated to him, to this town and its people, and wants to do his part in protecting them as he has for the past month now, his first priority is and always will be Mordred. But even still, he seems hesitant, conflicted. 

“It’s okay,” Merlin placates. “I’ll take care of it from here.” He keeps his expression steady, sincere, wanting to show Lancelot that he means what he says because he does. The other man seems to understand this, probably understands more than Merlin thinks he does, so he doesn’t waste any more of their time, running back toward the barn to do what Merlin told him to. 

However, Will, on the other hand, is stubborn. “No,” is all he says. 

“Will—”

“No,” he repeats. “You are not doing this alone, Merlin.” He puts a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, his grip firm and comforting. “Whatever you choose, I will follow you.” It’s what he said this morning, and Merlin knows that Will, of all people, understands what the next few moments might look like between Merlin and this group of travelers. After what happened with Kanen and his men, after what Merlin had to do to them, Will has seen first-hand what Merlin is capable of, what he can do when the people he loves are threatened. And much like all of those months ago when he first found out about Merlin’s magic, he never turned him away, only held him closer. 

“Okay.” Merlin nods. “Okay,” he repeats in an exhale, this time more to himself than Will. Still, though, he can’t help but feel relieved that he doesn’t have to do this alone, that he has someone with him at a time like this. 

In unison, he and Will look forward, preparing themselves for a fight. As if on cue, the man makes his way past the last of Merlin’s wards and the last of the alarm bells ring out in his head, echoing, echoing, then silent. 

Merlin’s magic tugs at him one last time, only this time, not in question but in warning. It claws its way out of his chest forcefully and painfully, surrounding his form with power and energy, ready to fight, to kill, to do anything to protect him and the people he cares about—his village, his friends, his family.

In moments like this, he can’t help but think of Morgana, can’t help but think of her magic, and how it acted without her permission to save both her and Arthur. And even though he spent time in her memories, saw first-hand everything that led up to the night of the sorceress’ attack, he doesn’t think he truly appreciated how she felt until Kanen and his men attacked Ealdor, until he saw his magic eviscerate them before even a single sword could be drawn. 

As the man gets closer to where the protection spell begins, so does Merlin. Reaching forward with one hand, his fingers graze the outer seal of the barrier, and in response, it ripples around them, bubbling up and rolling like boiling water. Soon, the protective magic of the spell begins to dissipate and channel into Merlin’s form, making his eyes burn and glow like fire inside his head. Tears he didn’t know were forming fall hot and fast down his cheeks, leaving ash in their wake. Blowing out a breath, he welcomes the pain, the power of his own magic, and something inside him rumbles, ready. 

He’s ready. 

Then, he hears a voice, one he hardly recognizes, one he never expected to hear anywhere but inside his own head. “Wait!” Mordred shouts from behind him, running fast toward them with Lancelot in tow. 

Merlin’s head swivels, shocked to his core, before protective instinct takes over and he releases magic back into the wall, which solidifies to hide them once again. What are you doing out here? He yells, well, as much as one can inside somebody else’s head. You could’ve gotten yourself hurt!

Mordred appears unfazed by Merlin’s tone. You have nothing to fear, Emrys. He sends back calmly. They’re your friends. 

My friends. Merlin says, unable to process what Morded is trying to tell him with everything going on right now. His magic tugs at him again, perturbed and frightened and upset that Merlin isn’t doing anything about the oncoming threat. He pushes it aside again, tries to focus just on what Mordred is trying to tell him, mostly because he knows the boy won’t go back to the barn if he doesn’t. So he turns to fully face him, trusts Will to keep an eye on the traveler, and listens. 

I didn’t know who they were when I first dreamt of them the other night. Mordred starts. I couldn’t see them—I could only see you at the border, readying yourself for a fight. With his words, images fill Merlin’s head of what he recognizes to be a few seconds ago, of him standing in front of the barrier, an aura of magic and power surrounding his form. Merlin briefly flinches at the image, at the rage and fury in his eyes, but tries his best to remain calm and silent, at least for Mordred’s sake. 

I was scared and I wanted to tell you. Mordred continues. But I couldn’t be sure if what I was seeing was real or not. I often dream of terrible things that do not come to pass. Absently, Merlin realizes that this is probably why he has been so attached to Merlin over the past few days. He was worried for his safety, worried that one of his nightmares might come true. The future is always changing. It can be hard to track sometimes. 

Merlin hadn’t known that Mordred had this form of magic. He supposes that the parallels he’s been making between the boy and Morgana didn’t end at just their shared demeanor. 

But when I was sleeping just now, I saw them. Modred continues. I saw him— your prince. I saw you together. 

Merlin’s heart halts in his chest, stuttering to a stop and dropping out through the bottom of his feet. My prince, his mind supplies. 

There. Mordred points over Merlin’s shoulder, towards the blurred wall of magic separating them from the figure still approaching the town from the other side. Another image conjures in his mind, one he is unsure belongs to Mordred or himself, but he can see himself once again, can see himself crying and holding on to—

“Merlin—” Will interrupts this vision, confusion and concern coloring his tone. But even so, Merlin can barely hear him, can barely register anything outside of what is exactly in front of him, the magical wall and what he now knows is— who he now knows is on the other side. 

Stepping forward, his magic truly acts without his permission. Only, this time, instead of the pain it caused him when it broke free from him earlier, Merlin hardly feels it as it cuts a line halfway through the wall of the spell before him, bisecting, parting, and ultimately allowing him to see him.

Arthur. 

His prince, his friend, his love, his destiny. His Arthur. 

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts. 

At this, Arthur stops short. His dead, unfocussed stare and blank expression slowly fade away, and the muscles in his face jolt, generate, and contract into an expression of abject bewilderment. Will was right—he looks like he was under some sort of spell. 

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts once again. Arthur’s eyes search for the source of the sound and eventually lock on his form, his expression confused and…pained. But it doesn’t keep him from moving forward. Merlin isn’t sure if it's himself or maybe still his magic, but he can’t help but mirror Arthur’s actions, his muscles acting independently of him and propelling him toward the other man with the urgency of a drowning man swimming to the surface to finally breathe fresh air. 

It reminds him of when they were still connected by Morgana’s magic, back before Arthur started to disappear from him more and more, when they could only travel a certain distance from each other before being pulled back toward one another. Almost like they could never truly leave each other, like they were always meant to be together in some way, shape, or form. Almost like they were made for each other. 

“It seems like there’s some sort of bond between the two of you.” Gaius’ words from long ago play in Merlin’s head. “Almost like his very soul is tethered to yours.”

“It was your magic that saved him after all, young warlock. It is why he found you when his need was greatest. He sought out your magic for protection, even when he didn’t know of it or you.” The dragon said in the caves underneath the castle. 

“His fate is also yours,” Mordred said just last night. 

And Merlin thinks he’s always been, in one way or another, moving towards Arthur. From the moment he was born to the moment he will eventually take his last breath, he will always be moving toward him. 

When Merlin and Arthur crash into each other, when he feels Arthur’s arms snake around his torso and squeeze like he’s afraid Merlin will disappear if he doesn’t hold him as tightly as he can, when he feels Arthur’s tears on his neck, and smells his hair for the first time since Camelot, he thinks he can feel their combined destiny, shared between them like the flow of magic.