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Chapter Text

Arthur Pendragon had always been able to see them. The secret titles above everyone's head. Everyone has them, even his father. Most of the time, it just described their jobs or positions, and they glowed a certain colour depending on who it is. Most had names like 'The Servant' or 'The Worker' and glowed a shade of green or blue.

At first, he thought that everyone could see them too, but he learnt otherwise over the years. The first time he fully realised this was when he was five. Before, he'd always thought that people just didn't like being called their secret name and colour. He thought that they didn't tell anyone about it because it was private to them, like his sword or father's crown. It was theirs and he was intruding on their privacy. Arthur knew that his father, Uther, didn't like to be called 'The Hypocrite King' and told that his colour was a darkish red.

It was his nursemaid that made him understand that his gift was not something everyone had. When he saw her, he could see that her colour was a faint gold. No-one else's colour was gold although Gaius's had flecks of it in his. To see someone so different was strange. What was more strange was her title: 'The Hidden Mourner'. At such a young age, Arthur was curious. Why was she mourning? Why did she have to hide the fact that she was sad?

When the nursemaid, Mary, put Arthur to bed that evening, he was getting frustrated because he couldn't figure out why. Uther had taught him to never ask anyone for help since it was a show of weakness; he had listened.

''Come to bed now young prince,'' she said as she lit the fire, her dark brown eyes reflecting the dancing flames.

''I don't want to!'' That wasn't strictly true since he was exhausted, but the frustration at not knowing why Mary was gold was starting to leak through.

''Come and be a good boy now,'' she sat on the bed and patted it, indicating for him to sit as well. This wasn't a normal servant's behaviour, normally, the others would have let him stayed up as long as he wanted since he was the prince. Mary was different in so many ways. ''I know you're tired. I can tell you a story if you don't want to sleep yet.''

Arthur walked over to her slowly and climbed on the bed. It took a while since he was too short at the time and, in the end, Mary helped him.

''Now, do you want to hear a story?''

Arthur contemplated his thoughts for a moment then blurted out, ''Why are you gold?''

Mary looked slightly shocked and taken aback by his question. ''What do you mean?''

''Everyone has a colour. But no-one's gold. And you're gold. And why are you mourning? Why do you have to hide that you're sad?'' The questions came out in a torrent, his curiosity getting the better of him.

His nursemaid blinked. ''You can see the colours?''

Arthur waved his arms around in frustration. ''Of course I can!'' he said indignantly. ''I'm not blind! I see everyone's colour and secret names.''

Mary glanced fearfully at the doors of his chamber, her dark curls dangling as she did so. She whispered, ''I...I'm going to answer your questions but you must promise me never to tell anyone about this. Promise?''

He nodded slowly and looked at her in the eyes to show her that he was serious.

''You have to understand something my prince,'' she began. ''Not everyone can see the colours and names that you see. What you have is a rare gift.''

''Other people can't see them?'' Arthur asked puzzled.

She nodded.

''Can you see them?''

Smiling at him, she nodded again.

''So why are you gold then? And why is your secret name 'The Hidden Mourner'?''

''Everyone has a specific colour, like green or grey, to match their emotions and life,'' she explained slowly, making sure that he was following. ''But people with magic has gold instead. The more gold their colour is, the more magic they have.''

''But magic is evil! My father says so!''

''Magic isn't good or evil, it's like your sword. A sword is good or evil either, but you can use it to defend innocents or hurt people. Magic is like that. You can use it to make food, or you can use it to make the food disappear.''

Arthur thought about how Gaius used to do magic and the gold specks in his brown aura.

''So that's why you're gold?''

''Yes.''

''Why are you sad?''

The nursemaid smiled sadly, ''I'm sad because my family isn't here since they had magic as well.''

''Oh. Okay. You can see them soon though!''

The older woman didn't reply to that, instead she said, ''You must never tell anyone that you can see auras. Some people don't understand. They will think it's magic and you can get hurt.''

''Not even my father?''

''Especially your father. Do you promise me to never tell anyone, ever?'' Mary looked at him and placed her hands on his shoulders. ''Promise Arthur?''

''Yes. I promise.''

And he did. Arthur told no-one of his gifts even though it hurts him every time he saw someone die. During one of his raids on the druid's camp, when he first took a life, he became sick afterwards. The aura that had surrounded the boy flickered out, a gold bright enough that the lack of it was like being tossed into the dark.

When Mary was arrested and put on the pyre for sorcery, he cried. The fire had consumed her and he could see her faint, warm glow and her secret name buried under the smoke. The days that followed her execution were painful. In his spare moments, Arthur's mind replayed her screams as the fire licked at her. He tried not to think about the scent of human flesh that filled the air afterwards. Or the way her flesh must've melted and the deadly flames eating up her organs like a savage beast. He tried to stop his mind from wondering if she had been granted mercy by choking from the smoke, or if she'd been forced to withstand the torture as her bones crumbled to ashes yet she still lived.  And the ash. The ash of the only person who knew of his gifts.

It was then he understood what Mary meant when she said she was sad because her family wasn't there anymore. And why she had mourned in secret. Her family had been killed for sorcery; if she mourned openly, then she would've been dead sooner.

Since then, he swore to remember every person that had been sentenced to death for sorcery by his father. Arthur knew, deep down, that it could be him since his Sight was too close to the magic that Uther despised for comfort.

Chapter Text

In Arthur's very humble opinion, let it be said that Merlin was an idiot. He was the most idiotic idiot to have ever commit idiocy. Either that or he was extremely suicidal. Arthur strongly suspected both. Because only a suicidal idiot of a sorcerer would go around flaunting magic in Camelot of all places.

But he's getting ahead of himself.

Arthur had been in a foul mood that day, with Thomas Colin's execution lingering in the back of his mind, along with Morgana's taunts and accusations.

"I expected better of you Arthur Pendragon! How could you let an innocent man die? All he did was healing a child!" Morgana had screamed at him, her face red with fury.

How on earth was he meant to stop it? Sure, he could smuggle innocent sorcerers who meant no harm out of Camelot, but how was he meant to stop the executioner? Of course, he could try, but then his father would've killed the man anyway and then start a witch-hunt to teach him a lesson. He knew this because that was exactly what Uther did when he saw Arthur crying after an execution. He had also been locked in the dungeons for a week after that.

It was better to let him die, than to risk the lives of hundreds. It was a sacrifice that was necessary.

So, to relieve his stress and ensure that he wouldn't accidentally do something momentously stupid as Morgana said, he was throwing knives at his servant. Morris, his name was. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea he's ever had, throwing knives at a commoner who had never had a day's training. Especially with all the other nobles' sons standing around him. However, it was significantly better than causing his father to execute some innocent. (The said innocent that his father would execute had most likely never actually seen magic in their life anyway.)

Just as Arthur had finished throwing the fifth knife, Morris suddenly dropped the shield, causing it to roll at the feet of another commoner. That was when he met him.

Merlin, the official idiot of Camelot.

No. Scratch that, the official idiot of Albion.

"Hey, come on, that's enough."

He turned, at first surprised that someone had told him off. No one apart from Morgana and Uther was brave enough to do that. Then, he noticed something else about the peasant who had spoken.

"What?"

As surprised as he was about the boldness, he was even more surprised by the newcomer's aura. And his titles. Yes, titles. There were not many rules for the auras or titles that he could see over the year, but there were things that has never changed. Sorcerers and other magical beings always had gold in their aura, no matter how little; and a human can only have one secret name. A person's name can change over the years, depending on the choices they make in life, but they never had more than one. The rule had never been broken - until now.

There were three, large, glowing names above his head, hovering like a giant sign.

Emrys.

Magic.

And The Lonely Child.

''You've had your fun, my friend,'' the stranger carried on, shaking his head and completely oblivious to Arthur's internal struggle to not open his mouth and gape.

Then he noticed his aura. It was impossible to not notice his aura, Arthur would've been blind to not notice. The boy was obviously a sorcerer. The most powerful sorcerer he had ever seen, since he was a goddamn torch. He radiated magic, lighting up the street with the golden glow that he was emitting. The sight almost blinded him: it was like staring into the sun itself.

Arthur was half-convinced that someone had seen the idiot (because that was surely what he was) and that the guards would come by to drag him to the pyre at any moment.

''Do I know you?'' he asked, feeling a sense of familiarity towards the stranger. Perhaps it was the deep streak of Pendragon red, which matched Arthur's own aura, that stood out boldly in his sun-like presence. It wrapped around the peasant like a sort of second skin, lesser than the sea of gold that surrounded it, yet no less visible.

''I'm Merlin,'' the sorcerer offered with a goofy smile. His heart melted slightly at that. The name doesn't ring any bells and he felt oddly disappointed, though he couldn't understand why.

''So I don't know you,'' he said, trying to keep the disappointment at that fact from being too apparent.

What was Merlin doing here? No sorcerer, especially one that powerful (with the exception of Morgana but that's another matter) would ever dare go anywhere near Camelot. Unless they were trying to kill him or his father. Was that it? Did Merlin come here to get revenge on the Pendragons? It wouldn't be the first time, though oddly, they always seemed to ignore him and instead went for his father. But something told him that that wasn't the case here.

''Yet you called me 'friend','' Arthur remarked, trying to figure Merlin out. 

''That was my mistake.''

''Yeah, I think so.''

''Yeah. I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass.'' With that, the sorcerer turned and walk away. It was getting increasingly difficult to not drop his jaws on the floor. The audacity! No-one had ever insulted him before - well, Morgana had, but her insults were more of the barely-concealed threat variety - much less a commoner. Unfortunately, it also confirmed his belief that the boy was very much suicidal, since if he wasn't going to be executed for the magic, he was a centimeter away from being arrested for treason and insulting the Prince. 

"Or I one who could be so stupid."

He knew that it was wise to let the matter go, dismissing it as a peasant's foolery. Yet something in him couldn't let go. Well, never let it be said that he wasn't impulsive at times.

Too late to back out now he guessed.

"Tell me, Merlin, do you know how to walk on your knees?" As soon as Arthur said that, he immediately wanted to beat himself over the head with a stick. The implication of that. The innuendo. Luckily, it seemed like the sorcerer didn't notice.

"No."

"Shall I help you?" Great. He can now go and die of embarrassment. Wouldn't that be a sight. Prince Arthur of Camelot, best swordfighter in the Five Kingdoms, died from making innuendos to a village peasant. Even if that peasant was the most powerful sorcerer he had ever seen.

"I wouldn't if I were you." Merlin's bright blue eyes narrowed.

"What are you going to do?" Blow him up to smithereens for seeming like he wanted him in his bed, probably.

"You have no idea," the boy warned. 

"Be my guest. Come on. Come on!" Great idea Arthur. Rile up someone who can kill you with a snap of a finger after he warned you, he thought.

Merlin threw a punch at him - and a rather pitiful one at that - which Arthur caught on instinct. He then twisted it and held the boy down, although he was sure that he was going to end up dead later.

"I'll have you thrown in jail for that," he hissed into Merlin's ear, something in him taking far too much delight in having the boy on his knees.

"Who do you think you are, the King?"

That was strange. He had expected to be assassinated. Not sassed at further. Although Merlin not knowing who he was explained a lot about his attitude.

"No. I'm his son - Arthur."

Then he watched as the guards dragged the strange sorcerer away.

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He was confused. More confused than he had ever been in his life. Because Merlin was now his servant, and didn't want him dead at that. 

Another fight had broken out between the two of them the other day, with Arthur being unable to resist provoking the sorcerer again. 

Morgana may have said that he was the most thick-headed person she had ever met. But he wasn't oblivious, however, when Merlin had started using magic to cheat. He had been suspicious at first, but then realised that they were harmless tricks - such as pulling strings and tangling up his mace. A sorcerer as powerful as Merlin could no doubt do more, but the boy clearly didn't have the intention to kill the Prince. Which was quite peculiar, since he's never had the pleasure of meeting a powerful magic-user without them trying to kill him or his father.

Arthur had let Merlin go, after giving him a warning that the idiot would hopefully listen to.

Or not, as tonight had proven.

Because the boy, who turned out to be Gaius's ward (and wasn't that interesting), had saved him with magic (he was quite sure about that, since no-one can possibly move that fast). And in return was made into his personal servant by his father.

It would seem that the mystery that was the young, yet powerful, sorcerer was very strange indeed. And Arthur fully intended to solve it.

Chapter Text

Little over two years had passed since Merlin had been made Arthur’s manservant, yet, he could only wish that he could say that the situation had gotten any better. Of course, they were something close to amiable companions now (he didn’t want to say friends , he doubted many people had a friend who was a powerful sorcerer living in Camelot and worked for them), but he just perhaps wanted the sorcerer to possess a little bit more common sense. 

Just a little bit. He really wasn’t asking for much here.

Because Merlin appeared to have somehow traded his brain for that of an ant’s. While the prince wasn’t overly educated in the matters of magic for obvious reasons, surely it was a little challenging to have accomplished that without losing the ability to function. But then again, he wasn’t completely sure if his manservant could , to be honest. Seeing the amount of times reason seemed to have lost its battle with him.

No reasonable person would willingly announce that they were a sorcerer to Uther Pendragon of all people. Nor would they sneak around talking to dragons. Or drink poison for someone they allegedly hated. Or battle immortal, soul-possessing, dead-ish sorcerers for that matter. Or…

The list just went on really.

So, instead of only having to hide his Sight from his father and panicking about how to tell Morgana she has magic too, he now also has to look after a bordering on suicidal warlock (who was apparently in some sort of prophecy with him).

Great. Awesome. Ah, the things he has to do.

CRACK!

He spun around, crossbow in hand, only to see that Merlin had stepped on a twig. Has he mentioned? The said suicidal warlock also managed to be clumsier than a newborn fawn - which furthered his ant’s brain theory really. 

“Sorry,” he apologised, staring up at Arthur with those adorable blue eyes. Not that he would ever admit that he found Merlin adorable of course. He was a prince, and princes do not find their manservant adorable , magic or not.

“ Mer lin, you do realise that we are meant to be hunting,” he hissed at him, though with no real heat. “Something that requires intelligence, agility and stealth .”

They had been trappling around in the woods for nearly an hour now (just the two of them, he didn’t want his father’s knights around today), but they had yet to find any game. Probably because a certain somebody had scared them all off.

A heated glare (his heart leapt a bit at that, no-one had ever dared do that before Merlin) and then a muttered reply, “You seem to be getting on fine without.”

“I heard that.”

“Prat.”

Obviously, that was the moment the assassins decided to attack. Why on earth must it always be when he was trying to flir- have a good time? And always in the woods or the castle? After hearing the same old reasons (vengeance on his genocidal father, ransom, him being a prince, money) and seeing the same old routine being carried out, the unoriginality was getting to him. 

They burst out of the bushes, four dressed in black and waving around weapons with all the grace of a falling tree. After that rather unimpressive entrance, they charged, swords pointing and slashing carelessly.

Arthur ducked as the first blow was sent toward his head and stabbed at his attacker in a place that almost had him wincing in sympathy. He leapt up, his movements honed by years of training, eyes searching as the man beneath him groaned in pain. Another two came at him, he quickly disarmed one and punched them in the jaw, effectively knocking them out. The other appeared enraged at this, coming at him with practiced hits that would've taken down a lesser-skilled person. He blocked a blow coming at his head, then used the opening that it gave him now that the assassin had a weak spot. Sending a clean kick at the assassin, the fight was quickly over.

THUMP.

Turning just in time to see a heavy branch falling on the last attacker’s head, Arthur worked hard to keep his face straight, a practice he thankfully had improved over the years. And tried to pretend to not see the evidently golden eyes.

As unfortunately, his manservant thought him stupid enough to not notice the blatant use of magic. 

Right.

In.

Front.

Of.

Him.

Really, Morgana may have had some merit when she said he was thicker than a knight’s helmet, but he wasn’t that oblivious. In another world, in a life where he didn’t have his Sight, that might have been the case. However, in this world, he could see a magic-user’s gold aura flaring whenever magic was used; and Merlin's flare was more like a massive wave. He bet, mentally, that it could probably light up the whole of Camelot during the night if Merlin used enough magic.

“Lucky that branch fell down huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Lucky.”

Then he added, “Otherwise you would be skewered on his sword right now.”

Merlin adopted a mock-hurt look. “I’m not that incompetent you know. I can look after myself.”

“Against straw dummies, maybe. Or maybe even those leeches I saw on your face yesterday”

“I was cleaning Gaius's tank!”

“I remember him yelling something about letting Lord Olwin drink his medicine recklessly.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m the prince here, Mer lin. I tell you what to do.”

The warlock just gave him a shit-eating grin that had him itching to throw that idiot in the stocks (he often joined in throwing food at him, from a distance of course). But something in those blue eyes made him pause. There were subtle bags under his eyes, the sort that one gained from a sleepless night. 

“Are you alright? You seem tired,”

“Wow Arthur. Never thought you cared.”

“I don’t,” he retorted immediately, still concerned for the younger boy. “But it wouldn’t be very productive if my manservant were to drop dead from exhaustion, would it?”

“Clotpole.”

“You still haven’t answered my questions.”

“I’m fine, just a little tired. Something happened the other night.”

“The other night?” Arthur echoed, his mind wandering to find the causes.

“Yeah, just a little disagreement with Gaius. That’s all.”

Oh. Oh . That.

He remembered it, having accidentally heard the rather heated argument (little disagree his arse, it was full-on yelling, bordering screaming) as he was walking down to get a draught for his headache. 

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Wandering toward Gaius' chambers, Arthur rubbed his head wincing at the pounding headache he was experiencing. It was near midnight so the corridors were almost empty, save for the occasional guards on duty. The prince silently cursed the squabbling lords - having to go through all the paperwork that his father had dumped on him was an experience he could go without. Uther had decided that Arthur would have to start doing his share of a King’s duty from now on - something about preparing him for the future. He was fine with that, but reading an entire pile of parchment about who stole who’s sheeps would get to anyone.

As he was about to raise his fist and knock on the wooden door, he became aware of two raised voices coming from inside. Two very familiar voices. One of Gaius' and the other that of Merlin's.

“-forbid you to say anything Merlin,” he heard Gaius said firmly

“Why? I know how it feels, I know what it’s like!” Merlin's muffled voice shouted.

“We don’t know if she has it yet, if we are wrong, what then? You will end up on the pyre.”

Arthur pressed his ears against the door, listening to the argument. It sounded grave, unlike the many times that the old physician had told the sorcerer off for mucking about. And it must be about magic, from what he’s gotten so far.

“But it’s most likely right! She’s probably a Seer, or at least a prophet of some sort. You know it. I know it. Suppressing it won’t work!”

“It will work. Besides, perhaps she doesn’t have enough magic to lash out.”

“But she does Gaius! The dreams, the visions, the nightmares, they happen almost every week. The book says that only those close to or are capable of being High Priestesses can do that.”

His suspicions were proven right. It was definitely something about magic, about someone possessing magic without knowing they do. But who could it be? 

“What will you have me do then? She’s the King’s Ward, to have magic and be that close to the King is a death sentence.”

Morgana. They were talking about Morgana. This was very bad news. Or perhaps good news, since two sorcerers are talking about how to help her, instead of him having to do it himself. But to hear that she was so powerful that she could become a High Priestess is worrying. 

Arthur knew that her visions were troubling her, yet he hadn’t realised how much. Sooner or later, her magic was going to lash out from lack of usage - he knew that from a young druid he’d smuggled out of the castle a few years back.  And given that she was practically his sister in terms of association with Uther, it was forming a very risky outcome.

“Watch her and tell her the truth when the time comes. Do you want her to accidentally do magic and alert Uther?”

“No Merlin.”

“But-

“I will hear no more of this. It puts too many people in danger, including you. The sleeping draughts I give her will have to be enough,” the physician said loudly, cutting off his ward.

Sensing that the argument was drawing to a close, Arthur knocked and went inside, ignoring the startled jumps and the sound of a vial smashing.

“Gaius,” he said, as if he hadn’t just eavesdropped on them. “I came for something for my headache.”

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  “Well,” the prince pulled himself of his memory. “I hope that you will resolve it.”

And maybe find a solution for Morgana. Before it all blows up in their faces spectacularly.

“Now let’s get back to the castle. It’s getting late - we don’t want to have my father send out a search party for us.”

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Later that night, the Lady Morgana tossed and turned in her sleep, her grey aura awashed with gold. She dreamt, dreamt of a split path, of two futures. One with a beautiful land, and the other of death and the fall of a king.

A scream pierced her chamber as her nightmare worsens.

At the same time, a prince was woken by a wave of golden magic.

The path has started to split, but which future has been chosen for Albion?

Chapter Text

Hi

Unfortunately, this isn't an update. I just wanted to say that this work along with others will be on hiatus for a few months. 

I am NOT abandoning it. 

However, I currently do have a lot of work to do along with a few books I need to edit and meet my deadlines for.

I am also dealing with several mental illnesses so I don't think I will be in a mindset where I can update for a while.

Apologies for the inconvenience.

Chapter Text

The problem of Morgana’s magic continued to linger on Arthur’s mind. No matter what he did to shake it off, it found a way to come back and bother him. He tried to assign Merlin impossible chores, watched him use magic without so much as locking the door, assigned him even more chores, and when that failed, paced. Pacing did not help either.

It was clear that things were getting out of control. Morgana’s poorly concealed eyebags and terrified glances made that clear. What wasn’t clear however, was a solution. Gaius was still refusing to budge on his stance, continuing to give her stronger and stronger sleeping draughts despite their obvious lack of help. Merlin appeared to be in a silent feud with Gaius on this decision and glared at him whenever he thought no-one was looking, but was hesitating to actually do anything about it. At least, that was what Arthur gathered from his numerous eavesdropping sessions.

And as for him, he still had absolutely no idea what to do.

The most obvious solution was to take matters into his own hand. He had fantasised about doing this several times. One would think it would rather be simple to just barge into Morgana’s room and inform her about her magic, the nature behind her nightmares, and possibly her ability to become even more of a menace with mystical powers at her fingertips. Arthur would certainly be more than amenable to this - it’s certainly better than watching his idiot of a manservant be too terrified of his mentor. (Seriously, what was he, five? Certainly old enough to not cower under Gaius’s eyebrow.)

However, reality was not as uncomplicated as fantasy.

The most obvious hole in this plan was the topic of his Sight. It would be rather difficult to explain exactly how he knew about Morgana’s magic without talking about it, and it really wasn’t something he’d want to go around poking just yet. (He could just imagine it. Merlin’s flabbergasted expression betraying his lack of intelligence as always, Morgana’s absolute fury for keeping it a secret, and Gaius. Well, Gaius will most likely do that Thing with his eyebrow and give him that Look. All the more reasons to avoid that.) 

Secondly, he hated to admit it, but Gaius was right. As the King’s Ward, she was far too much of a risk to jump into this situation without caution. He knew Morgana, having grown up with her for most of his life. He knew her righteous temper and he knew that it could overcome her in moments of personal injustice. The time she challenged his father to a duel when she found out women couldn’t be knights in Camelot was a testament to that. From what he remembered, she’d even managed to weasel Sir Leon into lending her a second sword and a crossbow. Arthur supposed in hindsight it was a good thing that it was only to first blood and not to death. (That was the only positive out of that particular hazard, and one had to take what joy one can while surrounded by maniacs.)

She had a point that Arthur definitely agreed with. But she had also challenged a man who was willing to slaughter an entire people to asway his guilt, not that she knew it. If she found out such a secret as magic had been kept from her, she might do something terrible. Despite all her cunning, Morgana could be as impulsive and reckless as she accused him to be. 

He groaned into his desk. The quill he’d been chewing for the past hour trailed an enormous ink stain on his half-written speech.

“You alright?”

Merlin was staring at him like an interesting bug from the flickering fireplace. He was supposed to be dusting the soot off the mantelpiece; Arthur swore the gleaming mahogany, carved delicately into the shape of a coiled dragon, looked blacker than he’d ever seen it. 

“Of course Merlin. Why wouldn’t I be?”

That had come out a little more sarcastic than he intended. Merlin only frowned. Lit by the glowing embers of the fire, Arthur thought he could see glints of the gold of his aura swirling in the molten blue of his eyes. Ironic, considering he was actually a sorcerer.

“Is it the speech that’s bothering you?”

He did not understand why Merlin’s face was twisted into such concern. What reason had he to worry for Arthur of all people? By God, he wasn’t even bleeding on a battlefield. The man had always been a worrywart but why he directed his anxieties at him was a mystery. Plus, it seemed oddly hypocritical that he fussed over Arthur while he was still locked in a cold war with Gaius.

Realising that he’d taken too long to answer, he admitted, “Maybe. I do have to impress the Earl of Kent or this alliance could fail.”

This alliance being one of Camelot’s first attempts at reconciliation with the kingdom after the Purge. Kent was a powerful West Saxon kingdom that had staunchly stood against Uther’s maniacal vengeance on magic but was far too south-east to be threatened with invasion. Its monarchy was also a fickle lot, with personalities varying every generation. Arthur distantly remembered that the current queen, Eoforhild the Third, was hesitant to visit but was willing to send an ambassador. Hence, Lord Alwyn, Earl of Kent.

“You’ll be great Arthur. You’ll be a wonderful king someday after all.”

There was a hint of conviction in his voice, a sureness of absolute belief. It still blew Arthur’s breath away that he’d managed to earn so much of Merlin’s faith. 

He hummed noncommittally. “I’m more worried about Morgana though. She looks ill, and her nightmares grow stronger these days, even if she won’t admit it.”

There, a dig at information and a chance to see if Merlin was willing to confide something. He stilled, as if to stop himself from fidgeting. The wet cloth in his hand paused over the dragon’s wooden eye. A silence stretched between them, lingering for seconds then minutes. Arthur would almost feel the air drenched in awkwardness and the secrets kept from the other.

Finally, Merlin cleared his throat and said, “Gaius’s been brewing her some stronger draughts lately. I’m sure things’ll be better soon.”

A non-answer but he expected nothing otherwise. And falling back on Gaius was actually quite an ingenious way of not divulging an opinion — for a man who acted like an utter idiot most of the time. (Yes, he does count a powerful sorcerer living in Camelot as an idiot. Most importantly, an idiot with a death wish.)

“What if they won’t work? If she’s developed an immunity of some sort. She’s been taking them for years and she keeps needing more. What if they do more harm than good?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, Gaius's been doing this for years. I’m- I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“I do hope so.”

That awkward pause descended again. Arthur had no idea what to say next, not after needling him about such a topic, especially one ladened with undertones of magic. Perhaps he should be consoled by this; Merlin still had some self-preservation at least. 

Merlin shifted by the fire. Arthur knew that was the most he was going to get out of him this evening. 

“Umm…it’s getting late now…uh I need to get back and give out some potions before curfew…errg…”

“Of course.”

Placing the soot-stained cloth in the water bucket by his feet, Merlin made for the door. 

“Right…right I’ll just go then.” He nervously points a finger out into the gloom of the corridors. “Good night then sire.”

And with that, his golden presence retreated from Arthur’s chambers, slamming the door behind him and nearly putting out the candles doing so. The sound of Merlin’s footsteps receded and Arthur was left with nothing but a ruined speech and his thoughts once more.