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Chapter Text

“I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴀʙsᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ ɪɴsᴀɴᴇ,” Merlin says, “but Catrina is a troll, and Gaius is possessed by a goblin.”

Arthur blinks at him twice, slowly, just to see if Merlin will fess up to joking now or if Arthur is going to have to throw something at him first. 

When Merlin just stands there, panting as if he’d run here and his eyes wide and face serious, Arthur’s shoulders fall just slightly. He’s seen this look before with Valiant and then again with the poisoned chalice. Yet— just in case— he prompts, “You’re kidding.” 

Merlin’s lips draw up thin and he shakes his head solemnly just once. “I wish I were, sire, but I am absolutely, seriously telling the truth.”  

And he said ‘sire’ in just that tone of voice. Great, that means Merlin really is serious. 

“What evidence do you have, Merlin?” Arthur asks tiredly. “You know that I’ll need more than your word to go to my father about this.” 

Merlin shakes his head. “You can’t go to the king about this!” He protests. “He’s under Catrina’s spell, that’s why he fell in love with her so quickly, why they’re now married.” 

Arthur considers this for a moment. His father has been acting unlike himself recently. He thought that Catrina was a fine woman, but Uther hasn’t been taken with anyone that Arthur can ever remember. The fact that he’d married Catrina had been surprising, especially without a word about his own mother.

However, Merlin is still throwing out accusations about the king, the new queen, and now his own guardian inside of the castle. That’s not something Arthur can decide to believe on a whim, especially with how thick Merlin can be sometimes.

So, he deflects. 

“Yes, of course, my father has been bewitched by Catrina, who is a terrible troll, and Gaius is, what did you say, again?”

“Possessed by a goblin,” Merlin repeats, slightly frustrated now.

“My bad, of course. Gaius is possessed by a goblin— honestly Merlin, where do you come up with this kind of nonsense? Did you have too much to drink?” 

Merlin levels him with a stare that has absolutely no effect, but communicates that he’s thinking ugly words about Arthur that he doesn’t want to say aloud in fear of being hit by a flying goblet. Arthur has three of them on his desk right now, and eyes them thoughtfully in warning. 

Finally, Merlin looks away with a sigh. “Fine, sire,” he bites out. “If you’d rather not believe that I saw Gaius bite into a gold coin with my own eyes and need evidence for yourself, I’d suggest trying to ask the king about the new taxes.” 

“The new what?” Arthur asks, choosing to let the part about Gaius biting a gold coin drop, because Merlin has a serious problem with his imagination, sometimes. 

“Taxes,” Merlin repeats flatly. “I believe Cook called them ‘monstrous’.” 

Arthur stands up immediately. “The people are already paying almost more than they can afford. Really, Merlin, I don’t know why you didn’t lead with that bit first. Come along now and let’s see about those taxes.”

───── ⋆⋅♔⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur bursts into the throne room with Merlin hot on his heels. It’s odd to see his father and Catrina sitting side-by-side with her hand enclosed in his, but Arthur brushes the thought away quickly, walking up to get closer.

“Father,” he says with the slight edge of his anger peeking through, “can you please tell me why, exactly, we have placed a new tax on the people?” 

His father looks at him in a way that Arthur doesn’t expect. His gaze seems almost like it’s going through Arthur instead of looking at him, softer around the edges than it normally is. Immediately, it makes Arthur’s brain tick that something is off. 

“Arthur, the people of Camelot had grown fat off of us. For too long we had indulged them, and it was time that they paid for what Camelot provides them with.”

This explanation does not assuage Arthur at all. “What exactly,” he says, clicking the ts with clarity, “does Camelot provide?”

“Peace, protection, food; Camelot is a haven for its people,” Catrina answers easily. “It is one they have taken for granted, even taken advantage of.” 

“The people are poor, they barely are getting by!” Arthur refutes. “I went out and saw many give all they had left in their homes; enough so that I told the guards to hand it all back out. Father, you cannot overtax the people, you taught me so yourself.” 

Catrina looks over at the king and Arthur can see her curling her hand tighter around his father’s. “Your father is not overtaxing the people. He has confided in me about wanting to do this for a long time. We even consulted Gaius, and he agreed that the idea was sound.” She leans into Uther’s space and continues, “Isn’t that right?” 

Arthur watches, astonished, as Uther turns to look at Catrina and smiles gently with an expression that he’s never seen before on his face. 

“Yes, my love, of course,” he murmurs. When he turns back to Arthur, his face has evened out again, and he commands, “The tax will be imposed. Do not intervene in this matter again, Arthur. My queen and I do not need your help in the matters of state when you are not even Crown Prince yet. Leave us.” 

Arthur stands there for a moment, just looking. Catrina meets his eyes, and he wonders if he is or is not imagining the challenge that he sees there. 

But there is no need to pick up the gauntlet. Everything during this visit has been extremely out of character for his father. He believes Merlin, now, and therefore his life has suddenly become much worse.

He allows himself a moment of wishing that Merlin had just been drunk before offering a nod to his father, turning on his heel, and leaving the throne room exactly how he entered it, Merlin trailing behind like an untrained hound. 

Once they’ve turned a few corners, Merlin asks, “So do you believe me yet?” 

“Can you promise me you saw Gaius try to bite into a gold coin?” He asks impatiently.

“I swear it on my life,” Merlin promises solemnly, like Arthur knew he would.

Arthur picks up his pace another notch and sighs. “Then, unfortunately, Merlin, you have convinced me.” 

───── ⋆⋅♔⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur knows it isn’t exactly proper to burst into a lady’s room without notice, but his father being controlled by a troll seems a bit more pressing than propriety at the moment. Magic tends to almost get them all killed with the recent undead knights, evil historical sorcerers, and the unicorn’s curses being case in point. Besides, if anything unseemly happens he can just blame Merlin. He had brought Morgana flowers that time she was unwell recently, which is a logical enough explanation, should all go wrong. 

Thus, he bursts open her chamber door and announces to the room, “I know this is going to sound absolutely and utterly insane, but Catrina is a troll and Gaius is possessed by a goblin.”

He knows Merlin is glaring at him for the wording, but even a blind pig can find an acorn once in a while. Besides, it was succinct and cut straight to the point. With time, he could have come up with something better, but time is of the essence. 

“I don’t like her either Arthur, but there’s no reason to be rude,” Morgana says, quirking an eyebrow and looking up from the tome that, if her tone of voice is any indication, he had so rudely interrupted her from reading. He feels her eyes study him a bit closer before she gently shuts the tome and places it on her vanity. “And this is Gaius we’re talking about?”

He lets out a small groan and runs a hand through his hair at Morgana’s almost flippant remark to what is a legitimate crisis. He can feel Merlin standing behind him with a smirk on his face and hears the snicker of, “And to think I have no tact,” under the servant’s breath. It takes every fibre of self-restraint not to wallop him for the comment, but there is more than enough armour to punish him with polishing later. 

“Is this true?” Morgana asks incredulously, narrowing her gaze and looking past him to Merlin.

“Yes, by all means, ask Merlin,” Arthur sarcastically remarks with a huff as he crosses his arms. It’s not as if he’s the prince or anything.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” she retorts, throwing him an exhausted glare before fixing her gaze back on Merlin as if imploring him to continue. 

“Arthur is not mistaken. Catrina is a being of magic and Gaius is possessed by one,” Merlin says with a solemn nod. 

“Uther despises magic. You really expect me to believe he married a magical creature?” Morgana scoffs. “If this is a joke, it isn’t humorous, Arthur.”

“I don’t think it is, milady,” Gwen pipes in from the armoire where she is hanging up Morgana’s seemingly endless supply of finery. “The circlet you had mended was brought in today and Gaius almost fought me for it. It was rather odd.”

“Yes, it was odd because he’s a goblin,” Arthur says snippily. When Merlin looks like he’s about to protest, Arthur adds, “Possessed by one, that is,” before giving the servant a gloating smile. He’ll take his wins where he can get them today. 

“Fine, I’ll try to clear this up with Uther,” Morgana gets up from the vanity, resolved to exit the chamber before Arthur steps in her way. 

“Already tried that,” he says, placing an only marginally condescending pat on Morgana’s shoulder and directing her back to the vanity. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair as he sits on the edge of Morgana’s bed frame. “We need a course of action, not to anger him any more than he already has been.” 

After a few moments of oppressively empty silence, Merlin pipes up saying, “Before Gaius was possessed he did mention that the library has a book of magical creatures with information on trolls.”

Ah, yes, more wonderful information he should have had much earlier about this debacle. This is a distressing trend with Merlin today, it seems. Arthur lets out a small groan of frustration as he stands back up, “Why didn’t you say so earlier, Merlin?”

“I would have, sire, if you had let me speak,” Merlin says with a tinge of annoyance to his voice that indicates the ‘sire’ this time is indeed mocking him. 

“Well get on with it then, and let’s find it,” he says, lightly swatting Merlin on the shoulder as he goes through the chamber door’s threshold. “Are you ladies coming?”

Gwen and Morgana share a nod before they follow Arthur and Merlin out of the bedchamber to find whatever God forsaken book his incredibly dull manservant is just now remembering the existence of. 

───── ⋆⋅♔⋅⋆ ─────

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers, “would you like to tell me why you neglected to pick up the bestiary when Gaius originally told you to get it?” 

Arthur hates having to sneak through his own castle, especially at night. The whole thing makes him feel like an intruder in his own home. At best, the experience would be demoralising, but right now it just feels humiliating. 

“Well,” Merlin hedges, “there was a little bit of a situation, you see.” 

“A situation, ” Arthur repeats, making sure his footfalls are light and soundless like he’s on a hunt, clutching the vault key in his hand. “What kind of situation would warrant you to forget the reason you went to the library in the first place? ” 

“Well,” Merlin says, and his tone continues to be much more sheepish and guilty than it really should be. “There was a goblin.” 

Arthur stops abruptly and looks at Merlin over his shoulder. “How did the goblin get in the library?” 

Merlin shrugs helplessly, looking like a simple fool, and Arthur rolls his eyes. 

“Well we all know why the thing didn’t possess you,” he grumbles before turning back around. “Now shut up, will you? We’re getting close.” 

Arthur doesn’t even need to be looking to know the expression on Merlin’s face right now. He’d bet his crown on that affronted look he gets when Arthur gives him too many chores all at the same time and grins to himself. 

When the only footfalls he hears are his own, he calls lightly, “Well, hurry up Merlin!” And then he starts down the last staircase to the vaults, where Geoffrey had reported Gaius to have moved the bestiary earlier that day, presumably to keep Catrina safe.

Distracting the guards is dishearteningly easy. All Arthur has to do is throw some rocks to make noise on the other side of the corridor and they’re both running from their posts as if the doors to all of the cells had simultaneously fallen off.

“Remind me to put retraining the guards on my schedule,” Arthur says to Merlin as he turns the key to the vault door. 

Merlin snorts like he thinks that’s funny and replies, “Noted.” 

The door swings open easily and thankfully without a sound before the two of them slip inside and light their torches hastily.

Arthur strides to the left, gesturing for Merlin to follow as he says, “New items usually go over here.”

Merlin’s brow furrows. “But what if the goblin knew that and put it elsewhere to confuse you?” 

Arthur laments that his pride had kept him from inviting Gwen and Morgana along; Merlin is quite possibly the worst partner for this he could have chosen. “We don’t have time to argue Merlin, I don’t know when the guards will be back. You’ll just have to trust me and help. This way.” 

Merlin does follow along, but the silence between them is more fraught with tension than before. Quickly, they begin to look for the book, which Merlin had described as an old, thick tome with a black cover.

Arthur does his best not to touch anything as he looks either, knowing that the vaults are home to a great number of enchanted and magical items that he does not want to mess with. They have enough magic they are dealing with already, he cannot deal with any more. 

The minutes pass faster than they have any right to, and as each passes, Arthur’s trepidation grows. His search becomes frantic, whipping his torch around and stalking down the corridor to illuminate as many items on the shelves as possible. 

Each time he runs into a book, his hopes rise only to fall down further with each failure when he does not see the correct title embossed on the cover. Whenever he takes the time to glance at Merlin, the servant looks just as frustrated as Arthur feels. 

Another minute or so passes before the clanging of armour rings down the hallway, and Arthur glances over at Merlin before both of them extinguish their torches without fanfare. 

“I thought the shift change didn’t happen for another fifteen minutes at least,” Merlin hisses. 

“They usually don’t,” Arthur whispers back furiously, and then curses himself. Gaius, possessed by a goblin Gaius who is working with Troll Catrina, was the one who put the damn bestiary in the vaults. 

He knew that Merlin knew about it. This was a trap, and they had walked right into it. 

“Halt!” A guard yells out, and it takes every mite of control in Arthur’s body not to let out a curse extremely unbefitting of a prince.

───── ⋆⋅♔⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur, having just spent a night in the cells and then put in chains, does not feel gracious in the slightest when the guards shove him into the throne room. So, where most other prisoners would kneel to beg for mercy, Arthur stands defiantly, his head up and regal bearing settling into the set of his shoulders. 

The only thing unbefitting of the picture is the way his hands are chained together in front of him and the two guards that refuse to leave his sides. 

“Father. Catrina.” Something in Arthur is darkly satisfied with the way that he manages to get the first word, the subtle disrespect of the action fueling his fire.

“Arthur, my son. I am most displeased to see you standing in front of me like a common criminal, committing crimes against the very crown you were born to one day wear.” The judgement from his father is nothing new, but it stings heavily and Arthur feels sixteen again and desperate to prove his worth to his father no matter the cost. 

“I have not committed any crimes, Father,” Arthur says casually, pretending that the words did not hurt in the slightest. “I was only looking for a necessary book that was misplaced in the vaults.” 

Catrina shakes her head. “Why lie, Arthur?” Her voice is slick and smooth, and Arthur has begun to hate the way that she pretends to look upon him with kindness faker than he has ever seen before. 

“We know that you were stealing from the crown’s wealth.” 

Arthur blinks for a moment at the accusation, confused at the turn this has taken. “Excuse me, my lady? Stealing? I have never had the remotest need to steal—”

Catrina tuts loudly and reaches for Uther’s hand. “We know how strongly you opposed the new tax,” she croons. “And it is most noble of you to try and help your people, but stealing from the crown to do so, like some old tale brought to life?” She lets out a laugh. “That is foolish, Arthur. That is treason.” 

Arthur starts and laughs right back at her. “I tell you that I go to the vaults to get a book and you act as if I was going to steal from the crown to somehow give the people back what the new taxes would take from them? That vault has no usable wealth. It is only filled with magical items.” 

“Exactly,” Uther says, and his tone is chilling. “Why would you break into the magical vaults to get a book, Arthur? Camelot’s library is extensive. You would not have a need for any book in the vaults, unless you were planning to utilise magic to combat the new tax.” 

Arthur feels the weight of the unspoken threat lingering in the air. He has to step very carefully here, otherwise his father will fall into the hole of madness that sorcery never ceases to draw up in him. 

“You know I am not a friend of sorcery,” Arthur implores, drawing up every painful memory of his fifteenth year and somehow hoping that Uther can read his mind. “That is ridiculous. I would never do such a thing.”

“The evidence is irrefutable,” Uther says, the hardness in his voice making Arthur want to scream, “And you are aware of the associated punishment.”  

“But we couldn’t put our dear son to death, so I convinced your dear father to commute your sentence.” Catrina says with a thinly veiled smile to Arthur before turning to Uther dotingly and squeezing his hand again, “ We think that banishment is an appropriate punishment for your actions.” 

Our son? Don’t make him retch. If he wasn’t already fully convinced that his father is beyond all help, this is all the confirmation he needs. His father has been cross with him before and it wasn’t a normal week in Camelot without his father lecturing him about something or the other. But Uther would never believe him to aid sorcerers nor would he banish him from Camelot. 

If he or Morgana are gone for a fortnight longer than anticipated on a patrol or a diplomatic mission, Uther practically sends the entirety of the guard to track them down. Arthur knows this from personal experience thanks to Merlin, who has gotten them lost on multiple occasions. He’s not allowed to hold the map, nowadays. 

Still, that fatherly king willing to send an army to look for his son and directionally-challenged manservant is not the Uther that sits before him now, who would be content to let his only child and remainder of Ygraine be scattered to the wind.

“Father,” he begs, “This isn’t like you. I beseech you to reconsider as your son and heir. There’s a reasonable explanation for all of this.”

“Former heir. Should I fall, Camelot will be entrusted to Catrina’s capable hands,” Uther says, giving Catrina an awestruck look before turning to face Arthur. “At least I know she has the goodwill and fortune of our family and Camelot in mind.”

“Of course she has fortune in mind. Can you not see she’s a troll?” Arthur implores his father, the chains on his hands clinking as he gesticulates to try and get the point across. It is hard enough to get Uther to listen to his opinions on how things should be done on a good day, let alone when he’s besotted by a magical being. 

Uther raises his voice as his gaze becomes stern in a way that is not unfamiliar to Arthur and never loses its harrowing force. “That’s no way to speak of your mother, Arthur.”

That’s it. It’s one thing for Catrina to play mother dearest, but his father loved his actual mother above all else. 

“My mother is Ygraine de Bois, Queen of Camelot and First of Her Name, Father,” Arthur defiantly musters, before adding, “Or have you forgotten?”

He catches a flicker of something in his father’s eyes before Catrina promptly shuts down the possibility of him finding out. “How dare you even mention that name in our court after all your dear father has been through?” Catrina shakes her head disapprovingly before she turns to Uther. “Uther, darling, you must deliver his sentence before he blasphemes in our hallowed halls any further. I couldn’t bear to see that boy hurt you.” She practically spits out the word “boy” as she looks at him with disdain that can only be rivalled by Arthur’s own for her. 

Uther nods and lets out a heavy sigh before giving Arthur a sombre look. Bereft of the emotions that should have come at the implications of the sentence, Uther speaks as if his own son is a common prisoner. “You are to leave Camelot by nightfall. If we find you have returned to the grounds of this kingdom we will have no choice but to carry out your original sentence in the highest order.”

Exiled and disinherited? Brilliant. Perhaps he should have ignored Merlin’s imploring yesterday morning and stayed asleep all day. It certainly would have helped him avoid— or at least put off— whatever living hell he has brought upon himself. He supposes at least he could get that farm he had envisioned. It’s not as if Merlin has anywhere else to be.

Chapter Text

Hɪs ғᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ʀᴇᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ​​that agriculture is the backbone of their great nation and how despite their impoverished nature, farmers too were stewards of Camelot, in their own way. Farming is an idyllic profession in the rustic countryside far away from the hustle and bustle of the capital where community and self-sufficiency were prized above all else. One could tame the earth and live without much worry and grow whatever they pleased, be it luxury crops or basic foodstuffs. Living off the land, one could become one with nature instead of stone walls and steel weaponry. Running away and living on a charming little farm with his own honey, milk, and preserves always sounded like a perfect escape, but the reality couldn’t be further from the truth.

Farming is not charming in any sense of the word. Having to wake up at ungodly hours and to spend several hours birthing sheep is quite possibly the furthest thing from a pleasant life. As a soldier, being covered in blood and horse shit isn’t out of the question on the battlefield, but the fact people do this by necessity— or worse, by choice — is preposterous. He has hay in places he never thought hay could get into, and exchanging a down mattress for a straw one has not done wonders for his back. The biggest crime is that he can’t implore Merlin to draw him a hot bath out here to help ease his muscles, because nobody seems to bathe at regular intervals. And his servant apparently has more important things to do like planting crops for the season over helping him. It’s utterly miserable.

 He cannot think of a single redeeming quality of agricultural life. The instruments for farming are difficult to use and the second he’s learned how to use them, they’ve broken on him. All animals of the farm despise him. He volunteers to help the neighbour they get milk from by milking cows, thinking it will be easy until he discovers they enjoy his misery. Kicking over the pail when he’s milked them is an accident, kicking him whenever he tries to milk them is a personal attack. These rural horses seem to excrete more than your average horse and there’s no possible way to get it or the stench out of his good boots. And don’t get him started on the horrific nature of their terrible tasteless food out here. He used to envy servants who talked about their parents providing warm home-cooked meals. Now, he is thankful he’s only been ingesting them for a week. It’s doubtful that his stomach will survive the month and the rest of his body will survive the week if he has to do any more manual labour. They should have just become sellswords. They may have died, but farm work is a fate worse than death.

When Arthur was the prince, putting down the sixth bandit raid that month or stopping the third assassination attempt that week left very little time for personal reflection. Being a ruler means understanding whatever fresh horse shit happens in the kingdom and working to handle it for the good of the realm. Being a peasant means countless hours in the fields left alone with your thoughts while trying to ensure food gets on the table. It’s not a way to live, certainly not for him. 

Having time to think means that you notice that your hands have blisters in new places, or that your shoe rubs wrong in that one particular spot horribly. It means that you notice every tiny detail about the landscape around you and it means that, for better or for worse, once you begin to exhaust all of the small, petty thoughts, you begin to think about yourself.

Arthur, as a rule, does not like to think about himself. He has always been a man of action, and he knows who he is, thank you very much. Sitting around contemplating his life never leads to anything good. 

He used to spend days thinking about his mother when he was a child, wondering what she was like and wishing that she was there. He’d come up with a version of her in his head based on the few stories he had, a short entry in a heritage book, and the painting of her that his father cherished. She was his imaginary friend for ages, until his father found out when he was eight and told him that only peasants played pretend. 

But, for all intents and purposes, Arthur is a peasant now. And he gets why they would play pretend and have imaginary friends, because there is nothing to do out here. But besides that, Arthur cannot stop thinking about his father.

At first, Arthur worries about him. Uther is a strong man with strong opinions. Seeing him bend to the will of sorcery was disheartening and even threatening. Merlin had assured him that Gaius had said that troll magic was very, very strong, but Arthur can’t help but think that it was his fault, somehow, that the enchantment hadn’t broken. 

Did his father not love him enough to shake it off? The thought is irrational, he knows. It’s not about love, it’s about the strength of the enchantment that overtook his father’s will. Still, even knowing that, it feels like a betrayal to Arthur. 

But Arthur has never felt good enough for Uther. He knows that his father pushed him hard only to prepare him for life on the throne, but there were always standards that Arthur never felt he lived up to. All he ever wanted was his father’s approval, and look at him now. Banished. Alone. Doing fucking farm work of all things just to stay afloat. 

A small part of him is still holding out hope that Uther will break the enchantment on his own, oust Catrina, and then come find him. It’s part of the reason that he was willing to come to Ealdor in the first place, due to how near it is to Camelot’s border. He had never been more grateful for his father refusing to annex the small village than when Merlin offered it up as a destination for their little journey. 

He knows how unrealistic the dream is, though. 

So, in order to get away from it all, Arthur thinks instead about what he will gain from this. It is a horrifyingly short list, and it goes something like this:

1. I do not have to disagree with Father and try to talk him out of acting without evidence against accused sorcery/sorcerers.
2. Morgana will no longer come to me to talk about how horrible Uther is being, nor will she storm out on dinners and make me have to assuage Father.
3. I do not have to pretend to like Catrina or think of her as a replacement for my mother. 
4. I no longer have to deal with assassination attempts (just murder!). 
5. I do not have to retrain Camelot’s guard.

The list is a horrible idea. Arthur, instead of feeling better once it is done, feels worse. Demoralised. Pathetic. Useless. 

He keeps coming up with synonyms to keep himself occupied while removing small weeds from a bed of dirt. Each synonym means another weed out of the ground.

Purposeless. Toss. Unsuitable. Toss. 

Fucking miserable , Arthur thinks, tossing another into the pile that keeps growing. Every time it feels like he’s making progress, he looks up and sees the entire rest of the area he has left to cover. 

Why was he the only one tasked with this job? Unproductive. Toss. 

It’s not like he’s the only one here. Gwen and Morgana refused to be left behind in the palace, accepting Arthur’s banishment as their own. One of them out here would make this go at least twice as fast. 

Pitiful. Toss. Deplorable. Toss. 

Arthur sighs. Dejected. Toss. 

His stomach grumbles, and he thinks about lunch. It’s not going to be any different from their sloppy breakfast, but Arthur can’t help imagining a royal feast on Hunith’s table, pork and Cook’s delicious evening rolls along with gravy and some mashed potatoes… Arthur would kill a man for potatoes right now, he would and there would be zero regrets had about the matter. 

Enervated. Toss. 

“Arthur?” It’s Morgana. She’s wearing a simple top and pants, which is a little odd after seeing her in barely court-appropriate dresses every day for years. Regardless, Arthur stands up immediately, grateful for her interruption of his task. He’d take any interruption gratefully, in truth, but having it be Morgana is a little bit annoying. 

“What do you want, Morgana?” 

She rolls her eyes at him and gestures back down to the dirt. “I’m not here to stop you from working.” 

Arthur glares at her and asks through gritted teeth, “So are you going to help me, then?” 

She looks down at him even though she’s shorter, drawing on her noble upbringing like he’s the only peasant here. “I suppose. But I was sent to tell you that lunch is going to be soon.” 

“Thank God, I’m starving. I hope it’s something good.” Arthur plops back down onto the ground and pokes at a weed that stares back at him offensively, ignoring Morgana’s presence dutifully as she slides on her second-best pair of riding gloves and begins to expertly wiggle the weeds out of the ground. 

Disheartened. Toss. Despairing. Toss. Drained. Toss. 

“Arthur, could you weed any slower?” 

He looks up to Morgana, who is across from him, with a glare. “I’ve been doing this for hours, Morgana. I’m sorry if I’m a little tired.” 

She scoffs. “All of us have been working since the crack of dawn, you don’t get a free pass.” 

Venomously, Arthur wonders when Morgana has ever worked as hard as him at the castle. She practically didn’t have any duties as Uther’s ward, and Arthur was prince! Captain of the kights! He led patrols and training and had to take part in council meetings, which were optional for Morgana, and since she knew they were a snoozefest she normally skipped. 

“What, like you had free passes almost every day at the castle? I don’t need you to lecture me about hard work.” 

Morgana glares back at him, one of her worst ones that she normally saves for Uther, and Arthur regrets his comment a little. 

“I see. You’re not sure what to do about Uther and it’s driving you insane, isn’t it? You’ve only ever had to be a golden boy prince, love of everyone’s lives, but now that you’re a peasant you can’t get over the fact that your father just threw you out the door.” 

Arthur cracks his knuckles. Morgana isn’t the only one who knows how to drive the blade in where it hurts. “My father was enchanted . But what about you? You’re just fine , aren’t you Morgana? I know you had a nightmare last night, it woke me. You’re scared and you have nobody to rebel against, so who is the lost puppy between the two of us?” 

Morgana’s anger flares in her eyes. “Don’t talk to me about Uther. You know what he’s capable of when he’s not enchanted, don’t act like this is a surprise. If he made you kill all those Druids when you were fifteen, then—” 

“Don’t you bring that up. I told you to never bring that up, Morgana.” If Arthur had worn his sword, he would draw it right now. He swore Morgana to secrecy over that with his tears and a secret handshake they hadn’t yet grown out of all those years ago. It’s not something Arthur likes to remember. 

But Morgana, when on the warpath, cannot and will not be stopped. “You know he can be a monster, Arthur. This enchantment only shows the blackness of his soul that he tried to keep hidden. I think it’s good that we got out of there. Maybe now you won’t grow up to be just like him .” 

Oh. That stings . Arthur loves his father. He would do anything for him. But Arthur doesn’t want to be exactly like him. There are rules that Arthur doesn’t agree with that his father swears by, and traditions he ensures are observed in Camelot that make no sense rationally. 

Arthur has known for a long time that he wants to change things when he rules. But Morgana thinking that he would ever, for instance, lead Druid raids unmolested or kill a child just for the crime of having magic? 

He would never.  

The fact that she thinks he would hurts, and so Arthur looks away back to the weeds at his fingertips, going back to his synonyms and trying his best not to think. 

Devitalized. Toss. Cowed. Toss. 

Lunch cannot come soon enough.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

The second that whatever Merlin thinks he can pass off as food touches Arthur’s mouth, he spits it out involuntarily. Hunith is making a quick trip to a neighbouring village and, for some God forsaken reason, she’d put Merlin in charge of the cooking. It is perhaps because he and Morgana almost burnt the cottage down when they tried, but that is neither here nor there. Merlin should not be in charge regardless. It’s offensive to food to call this food.  

“Didn’t you learn anything Merlin? I’m well aware you’re lacking in several areas, but I didn’t think we’d have to add cooking to the list,” Arthur remarks. He’s hungry, tired, and should not be responsible for his actions as a result of the turmoil this meal is causing him. It’s Merlin’s fault. 

“I’m deeply sorry Cook didn’t volunteer to come along with you in exile,” Merlin snarks. Fine . He should be more appreciative. He supposes.

Arthur tries another spoonful and it is every bit as terrible as the first. Never mind that last thought. Did Merlin even sample the porridge before he gave it to everyone?

He only can resist the urge to spit it out because of the glare he’s getting from Merlin, so he swallows the vile stuff. At the look he’s getting, Arthur explains himself, gesticulating at the offending foodstuff. “It’s absolutely tasteless. No herbs? No spices? I swear the horses eat better than we do.”

“You can, by all means, find out for yourself if you’re so convinced,” Merlin says, tapping his foot in annoyance. 

 Arthur holds out the full bowl of something that he could not, with any semblance of sanity, identify as porridge and waits for Merlin to take it. Arthur narrows his gaze at Merlin, as if to challenge him. “I’d rather you did. You, for one, are used to this slop and I'd rather not further irreparably damage my taste buds.” 

“Of course. Pardon me, sire. I must have missed your coronation as Ealdor’s monarch,” Merlin remarks snidely, ripping the bowl of porridge from Arthur’s hand. He adds it to the collection of dishes he has been gathering from lunch and storms back to the cottage. 

Arthur sees Gwen out of the corner of his eye and turns to offer her a tired wave.

The smile that she gives back to him feels like ice, and Arthur is confused. He didn’t think he’d done anything to upset her? But there is something distinctly frustrated in her demeanour that leaves Arthur feeling out of place, like he should be watching himself.  

“Arthur!” She calls, and he feels a little stupid for wanting to pretend to ignore her and whatever her problem is. “Come collect firewood with me, will you?” And, wow. She must have learned that tone from Morgana because the cutting edge slices through all of his doubts and has Arthur scrambling to agree.

While his brain is still working, no agreement having come out yet, Gwen grabs the edge of his sleeve and begins to stalk away, dragging him along behind her. It’s a little bit offensive, really. Arthur might not be the prince anymore, but he still has some dignity. 

Once they’re into the woods, Arthur yanks his sleeve out of Gwen’s grasp, affronted and embarrassed. 

“What was that for? You couldn’t just ask me to talk with you privately?” He hisses. 

She turns back to him and pokes him in the chest, which takes Arthur by surprise so much that he forgets his anger. “You, Arthur Pendragon, are an insufferable, ungrateful, arrogant child ! You are not a prince any longer, in case you forgot. And the way that you’ve been acting shows me that you have learned absolutely nothing about kindness despite poor Merlin’s best efforts!” 

Arthur splutters. “What is that supposed to mean? I’ve done all the chores I’ve been told to do. I’ve made sure I’m not a burden to Hunith.” 

At that, Gwen laughs but it’s a bitter, ironic sort of thing this time that sends a chill down  Arthur’s spine. “Oh no, that is really how you think you’ve been doing? I don’t think so. Would you like to explain to me what you’ve been doing to Merlin this whole past week, then?” 

Arthur narrows his gaze at Gwen in slight confusion at the hostility. “I can’t say I’ve done anything to Merlin out of the ordinary? And he’s been his usual dull self.”

“That is precisely the problem, Arthur. You’re still ordering him around like nobility when you are the furthest thing from it at the moment,” Gwen says with a frustrated groan. “We’re all equals now, and it’s about time you start marking this your new ordinary.”

She might have a point. Still, it’s not exactly easy to go from being waited on hand and foot to become lower than the servants yourself. This ‘new ordinary’ is not something he chose. He deserves some credit for trying so hard.

Arthur places a hand out, as if to placate the fiery woman before him, and says, “Gwen, you have to understand, this is exceptionally difficult for — ”

“Morgana is adapting just fine,” she quickly retorts. Of course she is. Morgana’s always better at everything than Arthur, or at least that’s what his father always implied. Morgana was the favourite in the castle and is still the favourite in the cottage. It means he gets no sympathy for his life being completely turned upside down. Great.

Feeling slightly defensive, all things considered, Arthur flippantly replies, “I think I’m trying my best given the circumstances.”

“Well, try harder,” Gwen says, nodding her head and shoving a small bundle of firewood in his arms. “I think you should start with apologising to Merlin.”

Lovely. Apologising to his former servant is the only thing less thrilling than being scolded by Morgana’s. This day could get only better if he is forced to weed while talking with Morgana again to make him feel more infantilized and emasculated than he already is.  

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

“Merlin? Merlin ?” Arthur shouts as he aimlessly roams the outskirts of Ealdor looking for the man. He was going to do the noble thing and apologise for his actions to get Gwen off his back, but at this rate, it isn’t worth it. Ealdor is only so big and Merlin is seemingly nowhere to be found. Mumbling swears under his breath that aren’t befitting of a prince but are just fine for a peasant, he continues his search. 

Just outside of the village, a small path goes into a wooded area where he overhears someone talking. Upon closer inspection, Arthur finds the voice belongs to Merlin, who is sitting next to a small collection of rocks with some wildflowers at its base. From behind a tree, he can make out the tail end of a sentence: “ — not his servant anymore at least.” A small, stifled laugh follows. 

Is Merlin talking to a rock about him? Surely if Merlin felt the need to complain about Arthur, Morgana or Gwen would have indulged him. He knows Merlin is a bit daft, so maybe it’s some folksy tradition? 

Merlin barks out another laugh, this one more sardonic, and shakes his head. “You’d chastise me for it but I still don’t think I should tell him. Yes, he’s thick and utterly hopeless, but it’s still a big shift, Will.” 

Oh. Right. Will. The circumstances have become abundantly clear to him now. 

It’s kind of surprising, though, that all that remains of the lad is this small grave marking. Will was a dangerous sorcerer, that much was true. But he also conjured a whirlwind to save the town from Kanen and had given his life to save Arthur from the crossbow bolt meant for him. He too was a hero, it would have been befitting for his grave to be something more than this. Perhaps Merlin would have seen to it if they hadn’t had to return to Camelot so soon after his passing. But they couldn’t hold up the duty of the kingdom for the funeral of a peasant, let alone a sorcerer. 

Still, Arthur wonders if things would have been different if Will was still alive. He could have used his magic to stop Catrina and break the powerful spell she cast over his father. He could have helped fix everything, but that isn’t an option anymore. 

If he hadn’t been so ridiculously insistent on figuring out the identity of the sorcerer, they could have been able to kill Kanen before the fatal crossbow bolt was shot. Was Morgana right? Was a small part of him already like his father in terms of these magic crusades he was inundated to? And more importantly, would being disinherited by the same man affect his way of thinking? Seeing Merlin, still devastated despite the passage of time at the gravesite of a young man who would have been around his age makes Arthur question if it was the right thing to do then. He supposes he’ll never truly know.

The one thing he can do is try to make it up to Merlin. While he cannot do anything about Will, he can do something about this. Merlin is probably struggling to acclimate back to life in Ealdor with his mother and the rest of them. Merlin had admitted to leaving the village because he felt that he didn’t fit in anymore, so being thrust back into it all must be stressful, especially when Arthur, who certainly doesn’t fit in here, is tagging along. And, not that he would admit it, but Arthur may be more of a liability than an asset on the farm. He is trying his best, to be fair, but he could be doing more as Gwen had ever so kindly informed him. 

Perhaps he should apologise to Merlin and help bring him out of this dismal state. They could make up and everyone would be happy for the time being. It’s just like keeping the peace in his now miniature kingdom. He can do this. 

“You do know that speaking aloud to a rock doesn’t mean it will respond, right Merlin? Tactically, it’s very unsafe; did you know I could hear you from forty paces back? If bandits were in these woods, you’d be long dead.” There. That’s a perfect opener. He expressed concern for Merlin’s well being and gave him a practical tip on how to stay safe. 

He honestly can’t say why Gwen would be mad at him for doing things like this. Sure, at lunch he might have been a bit harsh, but Merlin needs to be reminded about his own safety sometimes, the clumsy oaf. 

Merlin scrambles to get up, putting a hand over his heart. “Arthur!” He exclaims. “You scared me, I had no idea you were there!” 

Arthur rolls his eyes fondly. “It’s because I know how to walk quietly in the forest, unlike someone I know.” 

Merlin crosses his arms, refusing to rise to the bait. “So what do you need, Arthur?” 

“Help with dinner, obviously . I can’t cook but at least I can properly season things. Stop moping and come on.” 

Expecting Merlin to follow, Arthur gestures back towards Hunith’s house and takes a few steps before realising that Merlin hasn’t moved. He turns back to find Merlin standing there with his head down, a rare frown on his face. 

The look sets off alarm bells in Arthur’s head. He thought Merlin had just come out here for a nice chat and reminiscing session with Will’s ghost, but maybe it had been more than that? Regardless of the cause, this isn’t how things with Merlin are supposed to go. 

Apologise, he hears Gwen’s voice in his head, and it makes it easy for him to say, “You know I’m sorry about lunch, right? This has all been a bit of a change. I shouldn’t have yelled.” 

Merlin’s head jerks up, and he looks right at Arthur, his eyes wide in what must be shock, since Arthur knows he rarely apologises. 

There’s a beat of silence where Merlin just looks at him, and it makes Arthur nervous enough that he fills it, saying, “That’s why I’m offering to make dinner with you this time. So we won’t have any more issues, and if it’s bad then I can’t blame you for it all.” 

The comment relaxes Merlin into shaking his head and he starts to walk back towards Arthur, swinging his steps wide, a smile back on his face like usual. 

“I should have known you wouldn’t be able to apologise without being a prat,” he remarks, and Arthur punches his shoulder at half strength. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

They make their way back to Hunith’s house in comfortable silence. When they make it to the door, Merlin stops in front of it, eyeing Arthur in thought. He seems as if he's going to say something, but stops himself. He then lets out a small huff and asks, “Can I give you some advice?” 

“I suppose it is slightly warranted in light of recent events. But if it’s complete drivel, then I’m going to ignore it,” Arthur responds. Considering they are now ‘equals’ as Gwen says, he probably cannot refuse Merlin outright on these things anymore on the basis of rank. He doesn’t exactly want advice at the moment, but it calms him that Merlin doesn’t seem to be cross with him anymore. The least he can do is pretend to listen to him.

“The next time you apologise to someone, try not to insult them,” Merlin says smugly, giving Arthur a knowing look. To add insult to injury, he adds, “ Multiple times. ” 

Arthur fumbles. “I — I didn’t insult you. I… was making an objective remark.” 

“No, you were being a clotpole. But I did appreciate the apology, for the record. Other than the insults, it was almost nice.” And then he gives Arthur a smile so bright it’s almost blinding before he opens the door and walks inside, leaving Arthur with no other choice than to follow him in.

Chapter Text

Fᴀʀᴍ ʟɪғᴇ ɪs ᴀᴡғᴜʟ. Arthur knows this, but it has slowly become slightly less awful over the course of time. Now that his hands have started to form calluses in the places where the instruments burn and he has learned all of the best ways to do many of the chores that he was ignorant to before, his quality of life has improved. Marginally, anyway. 

Gwen took some time to soften in her demeanour towards him, claiming still that he was acting like a prince and not a peasant. However, Arthur has really been trying over the last month or so, or however long it’s been. Part of Arthur wants to count the days, but the other part of him can’t bear to think of exactly how long it’s been since he was within Camelot’s walls for possibly the last time. 

Regardless, he’s gotten Gwen to have several extended conversations with him within the past couple of days, so Arthur would say that’s an improvement. His biggest moment of realisation had occurred during a conversation with Morgana. 

“Arthur, you do know why everyone’s so hard on you, right?” She’d asked while they’d been in the middle of collecting water from the small well in Ealdor. 

He’d glared back at her, feeling that there was an insult in there somewhere, but too tired to parse it out. “Obviously not, Morgana, or I wouldn’t be doing whatever it is people hate me for.” 

She had rolled her eyes as he’d felt the bucket finally splash water, looking over the edge to scoop some of it up before making the return journey to the surface. 

“It’s because you never do anything that you’re not asked to do,” she said, rather more gently than usual. 

Arthur had been surprised at the comment. What the hell did that mean? 

Though he had not understood at the time, Arthur had learned quickly what Morgana meant. There were certain things that needed to be done almost every day, like feeding the chickens or gathering firewood or watering the crops or making the meals or washing the dishes or making progress on one of the many other projects always needed to be done at the farm. 

For instance, one day Merlin and Gwen had fixed a new hinge on the front door, which before had been on the verge of falling off. Or, another day, Arthur had been roped into fixing the roof in the spot where it leaked.  

Anyhow, now Arthur understands that there are always things to be doing. If he is not working or eating, instead of waiting for a task to be given to him, he needs to go out and look for something to do. 

The implementation of this advice has, quite literally, changed how Arthur interacts with every single occupant of Hunith’s dwelling. Now, Arthur can attest that doing shit work with good company is twenty times better than doing even decent work with shit company. 

It had taken a significant amount of his pride to thank Morgana for the advice between gritted teeth, and she’d smiled sweetly at him and ruffled his hair for his attempt, causing their banter to ease from caustic to playful jabs. 

So, now it is Arthur who makes trips for firewood unprompted. He waters the crops in the morning before it gets hot with Gwen in tow, and checks on them with Merlin every evening for progress. Morgana joins him in weeding every few days, and they keep their banter light, making a competition out of whose pile of weeds ends up being the biggest. He and Merlin make dinners together more often than not, and once Hunith returns Arthur watches curiously as she uses their leftover milk to make cheese. 

And, nowadays, when Arthur has his time to think, he still wonders how Camelot is doing, but thinks a little less of his father. Instead, he wonders about Cook in the kitchens, and how she always seasons everything perfectly. Arthur wishes he knew where she got her spices from because he misses them now, and guesswork has gone a long way but is no substitute for the real thing. He wonders about Geoffery’s library, and hopes the man hasn’t been too terrorized by the troll or the goblin possessing Gaius. He wonders about the woman whose stall of trinkets is on the left side of Camelot’s main road, and wonders if she’s doing well. He thinks of Camelot’s guard and if they’ve been lax about their security recently. He thinks of the taxes he’d opposed that his father had been magicked into saying yes to. Really, Arthur just cannot take his mind off of the people of Camelot.

It causes him no small amount of distress that he no longer can say he has any responsibility in the way they’re being treated. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

“Thank you for fetching the milk, Arthur. Breakfast is on the table,” Hunith calls as Arthur makes his way into the kitchen of the hut at an ungodly hour of the morning. As much as he hates to admit it, he has become somewhat accustomed to getting up with the sunrise, making the trek to one of their neighbour’s cattle farms, and exchanging their extra grain for a pail of milk three times a week. The whole experience is rather exhausting and, according to a nagging voice in his head, demeaning. However, milk is one of the few luxuries he is thankful to have here. Hunith’s cheese pies and custards are almost as good as the ones Cook makes back home, so if he can do anything to usher in these small blessings he will. 

“Thank you,” he calls back before sitting down at the table. He scarfs down the food a little less elegantly than is befitting of a prince, but then again it isn’t like he needs to worry about that anymore. From behind him at the washbasin, he hears Hunith chuckle at his antics. He raises an eyebrow at her curiously and she smiles at him.

“I’m glad you’ve finally grown accustomed to my cooking, is all,” she says as she loads some dirty clothing into a tub to launder. Grown accustomed to it? She’s the best out of their little band. 

Ah, right. Neither he nor his palate were exactly easy to handle when they were here when Will passed, was it? Then again, he has grown a lot since then in a number of ways for reasons beyond his control. He cannot say he’s fully pleased with this, but as others seem to be, he supposes it is a rather good thing. He needs to get his approval where he can, considering a certain currently-enchanted parental unit is out of the picture. 

Arthur smiles back at Hunith as he finishes off the remainder of the eggs. “Well, things have changed since our first visit to Ealdor.”

“Not entirely for the worse though, even if you’ll protest it,” she says with a knowing look as she finishes loading the remainder of the clothes into a tub. Arthur goes to say something but she continues, “Come now, I’ve lived with you long enough to know how you are and my son would oblige the missing details even if I didn’t.”

Wait . How often does Merlin talk to his mother about him?

 “I know you have struggled to adjust to life out here, but you’ve become a huge help on the farm,” Hunith says, sitting down next to him at the table.“I cannot thank you enough.”

Arthur would question the earnestness of the statement, but unlike some people, he is pretty sure Hunith wouldn’t harm a fly unless her family was threatened. It’s still odd to hear though, after months of sarcastic commentary on his bumbling inexperience, that he’s been helpful. After mentally chastising himself over this, despite having no reason to have learned any of these skills in the first place because of his birth, he is glad to hear he isn’t a liability. It is nice to know he’s serving some sort of purpose out here, even if he’s just the one to collect the firewood and fetch the milk and hunt sometimes. It’s not being a prince, but he supposes it’s something.

“Merlin would write to me about the goings-on of Camelot when, if ever, he could find the time in between serving you and assisting Gaius,” Hunith continues, shaking her head with a small smile on her face. “He complained, of course, but still attested you were more fit to rule than your father. I wasn’t entirely sure of it then. But having seen you grow and mature into a man your father never could be, I’m sure of it now.” 

Arthur wants to say something to Hunith, but cannot find the words, let alone any semblance of a singular word to say to her. She is so kind and full of love that he, even as a former prince, feels undeserving of. She’s taken him, Morgana, and Gwen into her home despite the additional effort and cost to the household, and treated them like they are her own. It’s bizarre to feel he has a ‘mother’ for the first time that he can put a voice, face, and name to someone who doesn’t feel like a far-off memory or some bard’s tale. Hunith has given him the motherly affection he has gone without his whole life, even when he is unworthy of it, and has asked nothing of them in return. He needn’t prove himself on the battlefield, he just needs to be. It’s bittersweet to think he could have had this his whole life if things were different, but he supposes it’s better to have experienced this briefly than to never have at all. 

What is he supposed to say to all of this? As he fumbles to respond, Hunith places a caring hand over his, helping Arthur ground himself.

Arthur settles on “Thank you,” as he places his free hand over Hunith’s and gives it a light squeeze. He smiles upon her kindly and she returns it with that abundance of warmth that he has, on rare but nevertheless, pleasant occasions, come to recognize in her son.

“And even if he protests it, going to Camelot and having you as his dearest friend has helped Merlin too. You complement one another well, Arthur, and I’m glad that as you all undergo this that he has your support.”

Dearest friend? He supposes he can’t say they aren’t friends. Come to think of it, after the past few months he would be a little offended if Merlin despised him and only thought he was an idiot. Albeit, Merlin will always think that, but it’s the intent that matters. Still, the thought that Merlin does care for him, so much so that his mother is aware of some of their friendship’s nuances and can confidently refer to Arthur as his dearest friend, is a bit confusing. 

He doesn’t necessarily mind Merlin’s presence. It would be dreadful to just be with Gwen and Morgana all the time for backup considering how close the pair is. He would have been lost on what to do or where to go if Merlin hadn’t packed up and moved to Ealdor with him after the whole disinheritance deal. Merlin could have just stayed in Camelot until the whole goblin thing blew over in comfort there as the physician’s assistant instead of saying damn it all and moving to the hometown he never felt suited to with Arthur of all people. If Merlin had stayed, he isn’t quite sure if he would have survived this long. Though he would never dare admit that, lest Merlin’s ego gets too big, which he certainly can’t have.

He would have missed him as well as their witty repartee. Even if the man does drive him mad, his day is always better for it, which he’s been coming to realise more and more by the day. Arthur supposes he cares. A little. No more than is normal or proper. 

As Hunith gets up to return to the laundry Arthur musters out, “I too am grateful for his companionship,” a little too disastrously. It earns him another knowing look from Hunith, although it seems a tad different from the one before. He is thankful that there is not enough time to unpack exactly what that means at the moment, but there will be in the next several hours of weeding. Lucky him. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur is loath to admit it, but making dinner with Merlin is quite possibly one of his favourite tasks on the farm. A great deal of why is because it is the task that is the least abysmal out of all of them. He can sit down, which his feet are thankful for, it is an activity that can be done inside, the results are immediate and satisfying, and Arthur supposes that it’s nice to do it all with Merlin at his side. 

Merlin knows a lot about herbs, obviously, since he was apprenticed to Gaius. One of the most fun things they do to plan meals is, while they do another chore together, Arthur will do his best to describe something Cook used to make at the castle with as much detail as he can. Then, Merlin, using his expertise, will come up with a plausible list of herbs the meal was seasoned with based on Arthur’s recollections. 

He’ll find what he can in the woods or pick a few from Hunith’s garden if she grows them, and they’ll throw together their best attempt at a Cook of Camelot Recreation.

Of course, sometimes, the fare has been substituted from rabbit or deer meat to squirrel, or worse yet, rat , but they have made some meals that even Morgana has been impressed by. 

And so, on the days that Arthur and Merlin cook, he does his absolute best to go hunting to ensure they do, actually, have good meat to eat. Of course, Merlin looks at him smugly every time Arthur even picks up the crossbow, since it had been Merlin to pack the thing on his horse before they’d left Camelot and not Arthur, who had been much too concerned with his sword-sharpening materials and, of course, his armour which he needs in order to keep everyone safe . Mer lin.

Regardless, the damn crossbow is a helpful tool that Arthur uses to contribute to their livelihood. Such are the lines of his thoughts currently, as he cuts the fat and ligaments off of the two rabbits he’d killed earlier. 

Merlin is out looking for herbs in one of the groves to the west, and Arthur hopes he’ll be back soon with the corn mint, since Hunith already cultivated a few pots of wild garlic herb near her house that they’re planning on using, due to its recent growth. 

Once he’s done, Arthur wraps the prepared rabbit in a cloth and goes around the house to collect enough garlic leaves to wilt and a few of the flowers to mash into a paste for around the outside of the rabbit. 

When he gets back inside the house, Arthur takes a moment to sit down and stoke the fire, getting it ready to cook over for their meal. In the middle of tossing on a few extra logs, he hears Merlin returning by the sound of him whistling, which makes Arthur grin, because he knows that means Merlin was able to find the corn mint. 

As he enters through the newly repaired and now soundless door, Merlin grins widely and holds up the bundle in his hands triumphantly. 

“I got enough to dry for next time, and brought a couple stalks home to plant in an empty pot!” Merlin announces, his enthusiasm on par with a man who has just won a tournament. 

Arthur rolls his eyes fondly. “Of course you did,” he murmurs, before calling back, “well everything else has been ready for ages, so if you put down what you have for me tonight next to the rabbit, I’ll get the cooking started while you plant the corn mint. But don't take ages , Merlin, alright?” 

“I never dawdle,” Merlin says with an entirely too-innocent expression on his face before setting down a few stalks of mint and breezing out the back without a second glance. 

Arthur just huffs at his antics and then gets started on seasoning the rabbit and making the mint-garlic paste coating. 

When Merlin comes back in to join him, there is already a pot sizzling away with the rabbit inside, and another full of the bones and discarded bits with water for soup the next day. 

Merlin fits in next to Arthur easily, their precedence making the process seamless. Merlin turns the meat where Arthur forgets to, and Arthur goes to get more firewood when the fire starts to die down. Merlin makes a joke with that bright smile of his, and Arthur turns it around on him readily with a laugh. 

It’s nice to have time with Merlin like this. It reminds Arthur of the solo hunting trips he used to go on with Merlin, times that he will always remember fondly. And the meal looks to be shaping up more than well, Arthur’s stomach grumbling in anticipation at the smell.

A few minutes later, when the rabbit is done, Arthur watches Merlin toss the garlic leaves into the rabbit’s drippings to wilt them, taking it off the fire.

He’s concentrating on cooking the best he can, Arthur can tell, because Merlin has this look of concentration that he wears when he does these kinds of tasks. Arthur files away the memory of Merlin in the firelight, cooking this delicious meal next to him in his brain before looking away to stoke the flames and stirring the pot of broth with altogether too much redirected concentration.

This gross over engagement in the cooking process leads Arthur to ignore the rapping at the door. It seems about time for Hunith, Morgana, and Gwen to return from their weekly sewing circle with some of the local townswomen, and they can let themselves in as usual. What’s unusual is the faint of a male voice amongst them, especially considering Merlin is right next to him.

“Do you have room for one more this evening?” The male voice calls, and Arthur is extremely tempted to say no. He has been working far too long and far too hard to let any more of the braised rabbit that is absolutely necessary to go to waste. He knows it would be rude of him but he really deserves this one little luxury in his life considering the withdrawals he’s been enduring of late. 

However, his attitude changes marginally when he is faced with not a mystery villager, but instead Lancelot accompanying the women. Merlin, on the other hand, is beaming as he moves to the cupboards. With a ridiculous grin on his face, he announces, “I’ll put out another setting.”

Arthur expected dinner to be eventful, but it didn’t have to be this eventful. Couldn’t this have happened tomorrow with the stew? Alas, such is the life of Arthur Pendragon.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ, ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴏɴᴇsᴛ, ᴍɪssᴇs ʙʀᴇᴀᴅ. He knows that it takes a lot of grain and, if it’s to be made nicely, lots of other ingredients that they can’t afford to waste. But all the same, Arthur yearns after bread during a meal like this, or something else with which to mop up the extra sauce. And the sauce is delicious; a slight hint of mint mixed with the wilted garlic leaves and all of the drippings of fat from the rabbit. 

Of course, now that Lancelot is here, Arthur has other, more serious things to be thinking about besides bread, but sometimes one’s cravings cannot be helped. Bread, to Arthur, signifies in part comfort, and that is something he has been severely lacking recently. 

It’s odd now, to sit across the table from Lance, who looks more like a knight than Arthur does. He hasn’t been able to keep his eyes away from either Lancelot himself or the corner where he sleeps in Hunith’s house, where his armour has been sitting in a bag unused for over two months. He tries to run sword drills as often as he can, but gets too tired from all the other manual work on the weekdays, and only normally has time for a good session once a week in the woods by himself. It’s no real substitute, and seeing Lance in his chainmail with his sword at his side stings more than just a little bit. 

So, Arthur sulks over his meal— which has been the most successful one of he and Merlin’s Cook of Camelot Recreations— while Lancelot gets to hear the story of how they all ended up in Ealdor from Merlin and Gwen earnestly, while Morgana pops in with a detail every now and again. 

At the end of their tale, Lancelot turns to Arthur with real sympathy shining in his eyes. “Well, that sounds right awful. Arthur, I’m sorry to hear something like this has befallen you.”

Arthur offers him a small smile and a shrug. “It is done now, and I’m sure that we’ll find a way to fix things eventually.” He leans forwards in his seat a little bit, curious. “But, what has brought you all this way to Ealdor, Lancelot?” 

Thankfully, Lance is more than willing to let the matter of Arthur’s disinheritance drop, and moves on to his own story with aplomb, albeit while frowning. “I came to bring news of attacks on the village of Mountmend. They are being terrorized by bandits whom I hear used to steal from the citizens of Camelot. Why they have moved on to Cenred’s kingdom I couldn’t fathom, and I wanted to firstly make sure all was well in Camelot before asking Hunith to beseech our aid on my behalf, if possible. Thankfully, you are all here already, so that makes that portion of my task easy.” 

Immediately, Merlin and Gwen start to ask Lance about the people of Mountmend, how long they have been in danger, and the like. Arthur listens with one ear, making sure to note the important facts, but he has another avenue of thought running through his head. 

“But what of Camelot?” Arthur murmurs to himself. This news makes him uneasy for reasons that he can’t quite pinpoint, but it’s something about the movement of the bandits, who usually don’t like to move from one kingdom to another unless they are trying to escape the consequences of their actions. Arthur supposes that Leon, as the most likely candidate for Head Knight now that he is no longer with them, could have chased out this particular group, but for them to go on to attack a whole village and not just ambush wandering parties… that is an action that speaks of desperation or longing for power, both of which most bandits had no need for. 

“What have the bandits been demanding from the villagers?” Arthur asks, cutting off Lancelot’s explanation of just how far away the nearest healer from that village is. 

He stops for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing his face before he answers slowly, “Their demands were not very particular, from what I recall hearing. Offerings, I believed they said. The woman I spoke to, Aldreda, mentioned that everyone was terrified and gave them whatever they managed to spare from their households. The bandits were led by two men named Edgar and Godwin. They threatened to kill those that did not have offerings for them by their next visit.” Lancelot ends his explanation with an expression of distaste that shows how he disagrees with the bandit’s barbaric ways. 

Arthur muses on the explanation for a minute until Merlin interrupts him. 

“Why wouldn’t they ask for anything more specific? ‘Offerings’ could be practically anything,” Merlin complains. 

“I think,” Arthur says, realisation dawning fast, “that’s rather the point, Merlin.” 

“What do you mean?” Gwen asks, her brows furrowed. 

Arthur sighs, setting his face to deliver his theory that he hopes he’s wrong about. “If you’ll recall, I tried to stop something right before I was banished— those awful, exorbitant taxes? And once I was out of the way, what do you think is the first thing that hell-begotten ogre posing as the queen magically forced my father to re-introduce?” 

“Those equally odious taxes,” Morgana indulges him in saying, and Arthur offers her a nod of his head punctuated with a hand gesture as if to say Exactly.

Hunith glances about in thought before her gaze lands on Arthur clearly, arresting his movement with its intensity. “So the people of Camelot are now penniless, meaning they’re bad targets for the bandits, who now have had to move on to greener pastures.” 

Arthur nods solemnly. “Unfortunately, I believe so. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.” 

Lancelot hums. “It also explains the lack of specificity. The bandits are desperate for anything to sustain them at this point.” He shakes his head and looks at Arthur with assurance set in his shoulders. “But that does not absolve them of their actions. They still need to be stopped. I must ask: are you— all of you— willing to help me and the people of Mountmend?” 

Arthur wants to say yes immediately. He is no peasant, he is at the very least still a  knight, and this opportunity sounds like a perfect way to get him just a mite closer to who he knows himself to be. But, the group as a whole was asked, not just Arthur, and in the past few months he has been reprimanded for making decisions for people instead of with them. 

So, Arthur casts his gaze inquiringly at the people that abandoned their whole lives to come with him. Each of them meets his gaze with steady, determined features and decisive nods. Only then he feels he has enough confidence to say, “Of course we will help you protect the people of Mountmend.” He glances down to his dish, where the sauce has now congealed, and wrinkles his nose a little bit. “Well, that is, as long as you’re willing to help with the dishes tonight,” he tacks on with a winning smile.

With a laugh and warmth in his eyes, Lancelot agrees, and Arthur feels hope for the future bloom in his chest right next to a growing sense of purpose. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Despite Hunith’s insistence the night previous that the party should sleep in to ensure they are well-rested for the journey to Mountmend, Arthur wakes with the cock’s crow in the odd hours of the morning. Arthur doesn’t bother to try and go back to sleep, shaking out his limbs and dressing himself as he considers how Hunith will be alone again after having the four of them as farm hands these past few months. The least he can do is gather the milk and help shear the sheep one last time. As ridiculous as it is, he will miss the neighbour’s cows who try to kick him, Hunith’s cheese pies, the small village gatherings, and cooking with Merlin. Nothing could compel Arthur to miss weeding but he’d like to think it has made him more in tune with the land and his people. Well, while they aren’t technically his people anymore, but live and let live. 

While Arthur had become accustomed to their rustic little life here, that isn’t to say he wishes to stay. Travelling to Mountmend will hopefully help him find a sense of his true purpose again, somehow. But he certainly won’t find it here sitting and weeding for the rest of his life in Ealdor. There was a reason Merlin left for Camelot and there’s a reason they too must leave. He is hopeful that assisting another borderland village will help him feel more himself again, sword in hand and blood pumping through his veins. The closest Arthur’s gotten to that feeling in months was chasing Merlin down after his insolence scared away a rather large piece of game. They had to eat rat meat as opposed to venison in an egregious stew for a week, which he still hasn’t fully forgiven the other man for. 

Saving a village is a noble deed; it is the sort of thing he did when he was a prince to make himself worthy of the Pendragon name. Who is to say that just because he isn’t a prince or a knight of the realm anymore that he could not find fulfilment in doing just as before? Lancelot certainly is, why should he be any different? His life’s duty and love has always been, first and foremost, to the people of Camelot. Lance has shown that there is still a way to protect them, albeit without the velveteen cloaks and chainmail polished to perfection. As much as Arthur wishes to have the trappings of nobility again, time in Ealdor has helped him realise they are luxuries, not necessities of life, and he can get by without them. It doesn’t mean he will not pout about it on occasion, but soldier or peasant, it is still his duty to live and to serve. Just because his title and coronet are gone, it doesn’t mean his lessons on duty to the realm have vanished as well. 

As he sets the milk on the table of the hut, Arthur eyes the cache of equipment gathered by the door to take with them. Saying it is modest is a bit of an overstatement, but this just means they have to see liberating the village as a challenge. He wasn’t the best swordsman in Camelot for naught. And the journey might help him prove to himself that he still has some semblance of worth and purpose beyond this provincial life that was foisted upon him. 

Pendragon blood still flows through his veins. Arthur knows he is meant for greater things, and prays that this journey to Mountmend will confirm that knowledge in the place of a solitary royal quest to slay a creature of legend. He does not need to prove his greatness to his father, he can go to Mountmend with his friends and prove it to himself. Sure, there’s less fanfare and glory and the like, but he needs this little victory. Desperately . And if that means taking out a group of bandits with minimal weaponry, so be it. He has done it before, he will do it again, and he will do it as many times as he needs to in order to serve the realm in the means befitting his new station. 

Hunith walks into the kitchen and looks upon Arthur with a mixture of surprise and softness. “Arthur, you know you didn’t have to get the milk this morning.”

Arthur shakes his head bashfully and kicks his foot. He knows he’s not good at this gratitude sort of thing, but he owes it to himself—and more importantly, to Hunith— to try. “I know, but I wanted to. It is the least I could do in return for all you have done to aid us in these past few months.”

She smiles at him and lightly swats him with a dish towel. “You know there is no need for formality anymore. And truly, it was no trouble.”

Arthur lets out a small laugh. “Your kindness does you credit. I know I was certainly trouble at times.” 

Arthur fixates upon a rock on the ground as he tries to formulate his words. How should he thank Hunith for doing what some may have deemed impossible? She had welcomed them into her home without any qualms and helped them all acclimate to a rural life they had not known of before, or at the very least, not partaken in for some time. She had, in time, become a mother figure to all of them, even if she was only related to Merlin by blood. Hunith’s grace, humility, and strength outweighs that of the countless consorts he hobnobbed with at court as if it’s a natural state instead of something that needs to be taught. And she does it all alone without the support of Merlin’s father, whoever and wherever he may be, if he is even still alive. How does one thank a woman like that?

Still, he must, so he offers, “It must not have been easy to take the four of us into your home. You were under no obligation to, but were a generous host through and through. I felt more welcome at your table than at any of the great halls I’ve dined in on tours of the realm with Father, which I never would have imagined before all of this.” 

As he speaks, Arthur catches himself pacing a bit. He stops himself and forces himself to look at Hunith. “This is more long-winded than I had intended. I mean to say, out of all of the places we may have ended up in, I am thankful it was at your hearth.”

When he sees a tear start to well in Hunith’s eye, Arthur begins to worry he has done something wrong, but the thankful smile she gives him soothes that fear. “Thank you, Arthur. You all will always have a place here, should you need it. I’m sure the community will miss you all, I know I shall.”

Arthur places a hand on her shoulder and gives it a light squeeze, trying, “We would be remiss not to visit.”

“Morgana, come on! I need you to double check the rations I doubt Arthur—” Merlin says with a shout as he barrels into the kitchen with a stack of clothing. Making eye contact with the both of them he stops in his tracks and asks, “Everything all right in here?” 

“Yes, dear. Arthur was expressing his gratitude for the hospitality,” Hunith says, waving off her son with her towel and a small smile. 

Merlin looks at Arthur slightly taken aback and raises an eyebrow. “This is a frightening new development. Since when do you have manners?” He asks with a smirk before heading towards their little supply cache.

Arthur intends to get the last word in, despite the flush on his face. He isn’t sure if it is from his annoyance with Merlin or the embarrassment of being outed for his kindness in such a way but there’s not enough time to assess that at the moment. Arthur is pulled from the thought by an affectionate pat on the shoulder from the offending man in question’s mother. Hunith gives him a knowing smile with the kindness he would have expected of his own mother should she have lived, helping ground him once more.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Arthur says, returning the smile as he makes his way to the supply cache to scold Merlin for something or another. Arthur cannot allow Melin to think peasant life has made him that soft. Besides, they have bandits to slay, people to rescue, a village to save, and a destiny to find in Mountmend.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ Pᴇɴᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ ᴡᴀɴᴛs ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ at the moment: to be back on Hunith’s farm. If anyone who knew him back home heard him utter that aloud they would think he had one too many drinks at the tavern, but no. He genuinely wishes for it. He forgot what an utter bore travelling can be and the stresses that come with it. Sure, he hunted back in Ealdor and is still hunting now, but then at least he had a kitchen to come home to as opposed to a pile of wood that is a sorry excuse for a fire. One can’t exactly recreate Camelot cuisine on the go, and sleeping in the dirt will not do wonders for his complexion. 

Arthur would truly like to believe his time in Ealdor had humbled him— and he doesn’t think it's too far off, all things considered. Still , he enjoys getting attention for having adapted so well and helping out the community as they live off the land as common folk. People complimented his delicious dinners and fine marksmanship without any ulterior motive which filled Arthur with pride. Now, all the attention is on Lance who everyone is just dying to talk to about his adventures since leaving Camelot. It’s not that he needs attention on him at all times, but he would like a minuscule amount of it, especially considering he’s leading this whole voyage while the rest of them make idle talk.

Camelot is also in dire straits under Catrina and his father’s reign according to Lance’s report. The people must be absolutely destitute if the bandits have taken to robbing villages in Essetir, which isn’t exactly known for its prosperity. They need to make haste to Mountmend so he can accost and interrogate the bandits about the state of his homeland so he can try to find a way to aid his people from afar. But, no . It’s perfectly acceptable for Lance and Gwen to be moving at a slow trot alongside one another while talking in hushed whispers when they should be briskly cantering at the very least . People aren’t starving or dying or anything of the sort.

After several hours of travel, the most shocking thing about arriving at the quaint village is not the unnecessarily long time it took to get there. It is instead a few small hovels at the town’s border erupting in flames surrounded by what seems to be a mob. Village denizens toss water onto the roofs’ wood shingles as others wield pitchforks, brooms, and frying pans to chase down men on horseback. They must be too late.

Arthur goes to pursue who he presumes to be bandits along with the mob on the main road, but Lancelot motions him to stop. He urges everyone to follow him down one of the village’s side roads so they can make use of a shortcut to strike at the enemy’s flank. They hurriedly ride through the roads, careful not to crush any of the panicked bystanders who are caught up in the hysteria. Riding into the outskirts of town, they see the bandits and mob still uproad and heading in their direction, allowing the party to get the jump on them when needed.

When they try to seek higher ground in a wooded area to get a better position for sight and stealth, they find a trio of marksmen in their desired location. Arthur points his drawn sword at them, deciding it’s better to be safe than sorry considering he does not know whose side these people are on. Before he can tell them to stand down, a brunette woman approaches them as if she owns this patch of the woods. One young marksman seems to completely neglect their presence as he still has his aim directed at the main road below. 

“About time you showed up,” the woman says snarkily but without animosity as she approaches Lancelot’s horse. This woman seems to be the contact in question, considering Lance seems to have a repartee with her. Just like Lance seems to be keeping up a repartee with everyone else. Not that he has noticed. 

“I believe it seems we’ve arrived at just the right time,” Lancelot lightly retorts back to the woman as he draws his sword. “Besides, I brought assistance as promised.”

“I believe you promised an army,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him before clapping him on the arm. “Well, let’s see if they fight like one.”

The brunette woman turns to them and says, “Name’s Aldreda. Would love to chat over some homemade biscuits and all that but we sadly already have company.” With that, she tilts her head towards the town below and nocks an arrow into her bow. It appears that they do indeed have company as the bandits make their way within firing distance.

With a command of the forces before him that could rival his own over Camelot’s knights, Aldreda orders, “If you have marksmen they can stay back with my men, if not I suggest you ambush them at the glade. If we fire upon them now they’ll just get away without a proper forward flank. We’ll provide the cover.” 

Brushing the thought to the side that this might have been what it felt like being spouted orders under himself, he is irritated. It’s not that the battle plan isn’t sound, as it does seem to be, but the lack of help he has in the whole matter feels incredibly stifling. He’s being directed around as if he is some common fighter as opposed to the former head of an entire kingdom’s guard. He is supposed to save the denizens with thrilling heroics to earn the village’s praise and have them reignite the fires of duty and purpose within him. This isn’t that . 

“Well you’ve heard her,” Lancelot says as he lightly kicks his horse to get it to canter in the direction of the glade as he motions the others to follow him and Arthur does in suit. Before they leave, Lancelot turns back to add, “You do still owe us the biscuits.”

“If you survive, it can be arranged,” Aldreda calls back. With that, Lance moves from a canter to a gallop as the party moves to catch the group of bandits by surprise. Travelling to the glade, Arthur tries not to focus on the depressing lack of agency he’s feeling in this whole situation and instead focuses on the task at hand. He’s always been good at dispatching bandits and it's not as if his rustiness with a blade will cause him to fail, considering he was the best swordsman in Camelot and these are just common rogues. He can do this. 

Thankfully, he is able to do so upon contact with the raiders. His blade makes quick work of one of them and even if it did not, the impact from getting thrown off of his horse certainly would’ve been enough. One of Aldreda’s marksmen sinks an arrow into a horse’s vitals, allowing for Lancelot to take advantage of the temporary incapacitation. When attacking Merlin, a particularly clumsy bandit loses her mace, allowing for Morgana and Gwen to catch her off-guard and make short work of her with their swords’ combined efforts. The final two adversaries are taken care of by a hail of arrows by the hidden marksmen, making the skirmish rather uneventful. 

Without their riders, the horses that were unscathed gallop off in a flurry as the party tries to stop what ones they still can to retrieve the townsfolk’s stolen goods to little avail. As they search the bodies for any sort of information, Aldreda’s band approaches them from the woods. Before Lancelot can say anything, Arthur announces, “It seems that we were up to the challenge, Aldreda. Your threat has been quelled.”

“Not so fast. This was merely a small raiding party,” Aldreda says, narrowing her gaze at Arthur. She collects the spare weapons from the ground and hands them to one of the marksmen. “When they don’t return, I expect their leaders to want to return the favour in kind. They’ll be back. They always are.”

Arthur lets out a sigh. Perhaps it is a bit too condescending to think that they would be seeking the aid of Camelot’s army for a handful of bandits. Not even a group that small, even if they were exceedingly talented, could warrant that. This is perhaps why he shouldn’t speak today. Might as well just let the others do so, especially if his input is going to be ignored or make him look daft.

“We’ll stay as long as we’re needed,” Lancelot tells her with resolve. Arthur wants to help the people of Mountmend as much as your next disinherited prince turned quasi-sellsword, he does, but shouldn’t everyone have been consulted on this? What if it takes months? What then of Camelot?

“Thank you, Lancelot. If things run their usual course, they’ll return on the morrow, so I dare not think it’ll be for long,” Aldreda says, collecting the last of the equipment and strapping what pieces she can onto the horses and herself. Changing her tune slightly, she adds, “I do believe you are owed recompense, so we can discuss the finer details over a hot meal, shall we?”

Well, even if he isn’t enthralled with this woman and Lance’s choices on behalf of everyone, he supposes he cannot say no to a hot meal. Perhaps he can get more information on the state of Camelot that will make this less than exhilarating outing more worthwhile. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Aldreda has a surprisingly large house, for a single woman. It has more rooms than Hunith’s, at the very least, and she has two real beds, the prospect of which makes Arthur excited. 

They’re all very tired after having to finish up dealing with the aftermath of the raid, but thankfully it hasn’t taken up all of the day and Arthur can ask Aldreda what news she might have of Camelot, since she seems to be the person with the most information in the town. 

Of course, he’ll have to be able to get a word in with her first, since she looks to be deep in discussion with Morgana and Lance both. 

“ Yes ,” Morgana says fervently, “I’ve been saying so for years, women are just as capable as men in battle. I trained in swordplay only because my father thought himself to be indulging me, and then in Uther’s court it was a practice I kept up solely because of precedent. If the knights of Camelot were not soft and did not go easy on me, I would be as good as Arthur!” 

That seems like a heady claim, in Arthur’s opinion. Morgana is good with a sword, but not that good.

Aldreda, on the other hand, seems to agree enthusiastically. Arthur is not surprised when she adds, “I was of much more use to my family when I could hunt with my father. When my brother died from sweating sickness at only seven, they had nobody to depend on but me. Who else was going to step up?” 

Lancelot nods, tacking on, “Why leave out half of the population, especially if there are women willing?” 

“Exactly!” Morgana cries. 

Arthur decides that he does not want to get in the middle of their conversation, and so instead looks around to see where Merlin and Gwen have gone. 

In one of the rooms, he catches them sorting through what little things they carried with them to Mountmend. Seeing as they are engaged in idle chatter and not something as important as his proposed discussion, Arthur leans on the doorframe and utters, “Our host in Ealdor was much better.”

Merlin shakes his head and makes an off-the-cuff remark. “You do know it hasn’t even been an hour.”

Has it not been that long? Nobody is giving him the time of day, how is he expected to know that? He’s been too busy being ignored. “It doesn’t mean I haven’t made up my mind.” 

“Fine. Why are you so sure, Arthur?” Gwen asks with a sigh as she separates the garments that they will eventually need to launder from the clean ones. 

“Well, first off, she’s treating us as if we’re common sellswords,” Arthur grumbles as he presses himself further into the door with his arms crossed, “Does she even know who we are?” 

When he tries to find understanding in Gwen’s eyes he only catches her giving Merlin a knowing look, after which she brusquely dismisses herself from the room. For what reason, he cannot possibly tell. Perhaps she doesn’t wish to scold him about belittling the common people again, but to be fair Aldreda is the one who has been belittling him. He has every reason to be upset this time.  

Merlin lets out a sigh upon Gwen’s departure. He does not look enthralled with Arthur’s choice of conversation either, but it is important. “Considering we’re not in Camelot, I doubt she has been regaled with tales of your valour, sire, ” Merlin says snippily. 

“Hilarious, Merlin,” Arthur says with a glare. He really does not have time to be berated by more people than he already has been today. Least of all Merlin, who is supposed to take his side on these sorts of things.  

Merlin presses a hand to his forehead. “We’re her guests. Just pretend like we’re at my mother’s, you were marginally more sufferable there.” 

“Oh, thank you for the glowing recommendation Mer lin, but there’s one tiny difference: your mother is kind to me,” Arthur retorts back with a huff. 

“And Aldreda has been kind enough to us all,” Merlin remarks impatiently. “Just because nobody praised you for doing what we promised, Arthur—”

What? The fact that Merlin would even suggest such a thing is preposterous. He’s the victim here. Cutting Merlin off before he can say blaspheme any further, Arthur firmly says, “That is not what this is about.”

The knowing look Merlin gives him seems to imply that this is exactly what this is about. Arthur throws up his hands in defeat and leaves Merlin to whatever dull thing he’s doing, per usual. This clearly isn’t going anywhere he wants to because his favourite former servant has betrayed him. He supposes he should return to the others instead of getting into another argument with people he actually likes, considering he’s already on eggshells with the one he doesn’t. 

Upon rejoining the others, he notices Aldreda, Lancelot and the others getting settled in the main room and inquires, “So what would you like us to do?” There, Merlin. Arthur is being civil. He’s practically the picture of civility.

Aldreda glances at him momentarily before looking away, as if he’s an annoying pest that she wishes not to have to pay attention to, and Arthur can feel his grasp on civility slipping already. “Whatever do you mean?” 

Arthur gestures around the house and its several rooms, trying not to sound too caustic. “I mean , where should we put our things? Where should we sleep? This is your house, is it not?” 

“It is my house,” Aldreda replies. “And I should think that you are smart enough to figure out where the kitchen is, and not to put your bags there.” 

“And what of the other bed that I couldn’t help but notice in your house?” Arthur asks, slipping back into impatience. Why should he be civil when she is not even making the slightest effort to be welcoming, anyhow? 

“Oh yes, I suppose there is the spare bed,” Aldreda says airily. She taps her pointer finger on her chin for a few seconds, and then turns to grin sharply at Lance. “It’s yours, Lancelot.” 

Arthur raises his eyebrows at her in shock at the unexpected pronouncement. 

Lancelot waves her off. “No, I couldn’t possibly—” 

Aldreda rolls her eyes, and frankly, that is her only action that Arthur has agreed with the whole night. Lancelot is a bit too noble, sometimes. 

“You brought the army, so you get the bed,” Aldreda explains, her tone brooking no argument. Then, her eyes flick away from Lancelot for a moment before returning to him and she’s smiling again, the same blade’s edge back in its corners. “If only you had a sweetheart to share it with,” she coos, and Arthur’s fickle, momentary allegiance quickly turns to struggling with astoundment at this woman’s audacity. Who does she think she is? 

“Aldreda, you know I do not,” Lance says, a bit too tiredly in Arthur’s mind. 

“I sense a story,” Morgana says silkily. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us, Lancelot?” While she shares an amused glance with Aldreda, Lance shakes his head and ducks away under the pretence of gathering his possessions off of his horse. 

“Did you say something about a hot meal?” Merlin asks, and from anyone else it would seem entitled, but Merlin’s smile makes the whole thing rather more endearing, like he’s telling a joke to Aldreda instead of provoking her. 

“I rather did!” Aldreda agrees, and her smile is much softer than it had been while she’d teased Lance. Arthur isn’t sure he likes it. “I have milk from this morning and some grain for porridge as well as a tad of smoked meat leftover from the last hunt. Would you help me make the porridge?” 

Arthur stares at Aldreda in dismay. Porridge is his least favourite meal, possibly ever. It is tasteless, sloppy, and looks like wood pulp in a bowl. That was the reason he’d had such a hard time at Hunith’s when they’d gone to stop Kanen’s raids there; she had only had enough porridge to feed them all. It was the main reason Arthur decided that he needed to help with dinners in Ealdor, else he’d starve or get sick at Hunith’s table. 

“Is that all you have?” Arthur asks. 

Aldreda turns to face Arthur slowly. “Yes, it is,” she says. “If you hadn’t noticed, Prince Pendragon, there are now five guests in my home that I am harbouring essentially for free. Bandits have been raiding my village for weeks stealing supplies. I am not noble. I am not a lady. I am not rich . The only foodstuff I have that can stretch to feed all six of us is porridge. Do you have a problem with that?” 

Obviously, Arthur wants to say that yes, he does have a problem with that, but Merlin shoots Arthur a glare that stops him in his tracks. 

“No,” he grounds out against his will.

“Good,” she says, falsely sweet, and then she turns her back on him and chats to Merlin only about the dinner preparations, leaving Arthur with nothing to do except sit on the sidelines. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

The only reason that dinner is even edible is because Aldreda was, thank God, willing to accept Merlin’s help in making it, and Merlin, therefore, recruited Arthur to help him select herbs. That very short chat was the highlight of his day, but now as he sits and listens to Aldreda talk about every single little detail about every single bandit attack, Arthur thinks it was not enough to sustain him through all of this.

“—Camelot. At which point, we could do nothing but—” 

Finally. “Would you elaborate more on that?” Arthur asks. He’s been waiting the entire meal for her to mention something about the bandits and Camelot, and she has been giving him very little to work with.

Aldreda, however, does not seem to be as enthusiastic about Arthur’s innocent question. “Elaborate on what?” She asks, her eyes narrowed. 

Arthur, determined and a little frustrated, is not going to be intimidated out of getting what he needs by a mere peasant woman. “On what you said about the bandits and how they came from Camelot,” he clarifies. 

She continues to stare Arthur down as she replies with too-flat neutrality, “Godwin, one of the leaders, mentioned that they’d sucked Camelot’s wealth dry and so they moved on to more fruitful pastures. He said so once .” Here her tone begins to betray her emotions, frustration building in the curl of her mouth. “I did not ask for clarification, because I live in Essetir, not Camelot, and because he signalled to his men directly after that to take from our grain storage.” 

“I’m sorry that I want to help my people,” Arthur spits back at her. 

“Your people?” She asks, and then laughs cruelly. “Tell me, Arthur Pendragon, if the word of your disinheritance and banishment, then, is false?” 

Arthur clenches his jaw. This woman has no right to offer him such disrespect. Obviously he still cares about Camelot and her citizens, it’s been ingrained in him since birth! He wants the best for the people, whether they are his or not. Aldreda has more than insulted him with this comment. 

“I might not be a prince any longer, but that does not mean I am unfeeling and cold towards my home,” he seethes. 

Aldreda still refuses to back down. “Well right now, you are here to protect Mountmend. How about we make sure my village is not pillaged before moving on to goings-on across the border?” 

Arthur itches for a fight. He is utterly incensed, cataloguing Aldreda’s every movement and shifting his jaw in the way he knows is unsettling just to spite her. 

“Sit down, Arthur,” Morgana says after a moment. “The woman is right. After we take care of the bandits, hopefully there will be at least one captured man that we can question.” 

In the back of Arthur’s mind, he knows that Morgana’s words are not too far-fetched. However, in the heat of his anger, he cannot bring himself to see them as anything other than betrayal, hurt springing up in the centre of his chest. 

“Fine,” he growls, but refuses to sit down and instead takes his leave from the table, offering no explanation other than, “I’m leaving.” 

He cannot get out of Aldreda’s damned house fast enough, and thinks that if the bandits don’t kill him, she certainly will.   

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur, after all of that, just wants to be alone. He takes off towards the edge of the woods to the left of the houses and meanders, feeling the bitterness crest in his chest, manifesting in the way he kicks at the rocks in his way. It’s not productive to be feeling like this, he knows. He’s known it since the moment the feeling began, but Arthur Pendragon is so tired of feeling useless. 

He happens upon a path and takes it, relief blooming at the well-trodden dirt beneath his shoes that are starting to wear thin. He has no idea where it leads, but Arthur doesn’t care about all of that right now. He just wants… he wants…. something. And he’s evidently not about to get it, however much he wishes to. 

Arthur walks for a while, and slowly the grumpiness fades away, the rock kicking and stomping feeling foolish and juvenile after he gets the worst of it out. After that, Arthur finds himself walking in contemplation, taking in the trees with the low sunlight. He should turn back soon, but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone just yet, so he keeps on the path, slightly curious to where he’ll end up. 

A few minutes later, he hears a noise from off the path that snaps him into awareness. It’s a sound that could only have come from a human, and Arthur is reminded perhaps a bit too late that there are bandits somewhere out here. 

He creeps towards the noise, changing his gait to that of a hunter’s so that his footfalls make no sound. He has his sword, thank God, but not his armour since it had gotten dirty earlier and he’d made the decision to just take it off rather than sit in grime and blood. At the very least, Arthur hopes he’ll figure out some useful information about the bandits, perhaps about their camp as well as full numbers and resource supply. 

He looks for fire and doesn’t see any, and then strains his ears to hear more of the noise that had been made earlier. He’s just about to lose hope when he hears a high-pitched giggle coming from a grove of trees nearby and a loud “Shhhhhh,” which is not suspicious at all, so of course Arthur is duty-bound to find out more. 

“...Nobody to hear us, why do we have to be quiet again?” Arthur picks up as he slowly makes his way closer to the sheltered grove. Something about the woman’s voice seems familiar, which sets him on edge, but he doesn’t want to call out just in case he is wrong. 

“Hush darling, there are those bandits, after all,” the other person says back, and Arthur frowns, because that sounds a lot like Lancelot. But it can’t be, right? He left Lancelot in Aldreda’s house with the others to finish their dinner after his argument with Aldreda.

“Yes, so that’s all the more reason for us not to stick around. When I said I’d get firewood I didn’t know you were going to try and distract me so much, Lance.” It’s Guinevere. Now that Arthur is closer, her voice is extremely recognizable, and he berates himself for not making the connection earlier. 

“You know I did not come along just for the firewood,” Lancelot says back to Gwen, and Arthur thinks that there’s something fishy about the way this is going. 

“I hoped that might have been the case,” Gwen responds softly, and the tone of her voice is odd as well, a little too gentle and shy. 

Arthur is close enough to the grove now that he hides himself behind a thick, old oak, peeking around the edge to see just enough of the scene inside. 

Guinevere is diligently picking up branches and Lancelot is near a pile of them and using an axe to make the pieces smaller if need be. There are a few branches, but not too many, which means they’ve been out here for at least a point. 

“Having you in my company is a pleasure that knows no bounds,” Lancelot tells her, and Arthur sees the way that Gwen’s shoulders hunch a little bit when she smiles down into the wood she’s carrying before turning around to face Lancelot. 

“I feel the same way. I must confess, I was happy to see you when you came to Hunith’s home. I know you brought bad news with you, and the bandits are horrible, but seeing you again was more than I hoped for.” 

Arthur might be dense, but he’s not thick, and he feels extremely slow for not catching on until now, but Guinevere and Lancelot are flirting. With each other. Arthur does not know when that happened; isn’t Gwen interested in him? He certainly is interested in her, how could he not be? Guinevere is smart and capable and beautiful and kind. When he’d been under that god-awful spell, Merlin had told him it was Gwen’s kiss that broke the enchantment. True love, Merlin had touted, or some drivel that Arthur pretended to brush off at the time but proceeded to think about late at night. 

He’s always wanted to marry for love. Arthur knows his father thought it was a way of thinking he’d grow out of, but Arthur never had. He wants that, wants somebody who will love him first and the kingdom second and who understands when Arthur has to make hard choices and will help him rule and keep him sane through it all. 

Station always matters little to him, when he gets fanciful whims like that. He has imagined Guinevere as his queen more times than he can count, dressed in finery and at his side, Merlin only a pace behind as usual, of course, and Morgana playing the role of Main Irritant just like always. Their kingdom would have been a place of betterment. He would have lived up to the ideals that Merlin said he would, whenever he had one of his oddly wise speeches. 

But that fantasy had crumbled the day he was disinherited. He should have banished it while he’d had the chance lest its leftover pieces endure, struck painfully into his chest like they are now as he watches Gwen and Lance smile shyly at each other and continue to say pretty, pretty words to each other.

Lancelot catches her hand after she sets down her biggest load of wood yet, and he says, “I told Aldreda about you.” 

“Did you really?” She asks, and Arthur mournfully watches the way she’s biting the inside of her cheek. 

Lancelot nods bashfully. “That’s why she was so excited to meet you. I could not direct my stories away from the ones you featured in for long. And she told me that I should ask you something before any other man might take my chance.”

Gwen looks hopeful and scared, suddenly, and Arthur’s heart constricts. 

“What might that be?” Gwen whispers.

“I know I am poor,” Lancelot starts. “I will not be able to give you all that you deserve. But you are good and kind and smart. Your beauty is unmatched by any other woman I have ever seen. You are skillful and you never complain. I have seen your heart, Guinevere, and I find mine longing after it when we are both near and far from each other. Please, may I have the honour of courting you, as best as a humble man like me can?” 

If Arthur were anyone else, he would think that the scene is touching, the way that the two of them are framed, the wide smiles across their features, the romantic sentiment in Lancelot's speech, but he just thinks this whole thing is patently unfair.

Something inside him shatters and he watches Gwen nod frantically, gasping “Yes, Lancelot, yes ” before they are kissing, passionately, her hands wound in his hair and Lancelot’s on her waist. 

After a few moments, he can’t bring himself to watch any more and ducks back behind the oak, leaning against it tiredly. 

Today has been full of lessons, it seems. He is not a trustworthy knight. He cannot make battle plans. He does not deserve the respect of others. He is not worthy of love from the woman he’d been told was his heart’s other half. 

Arthur Pendragon is useless. Superfluous. A disinherited, banished, good-for-nothing snob who everyone would be better without. He walks back to Mountmend listlessly, the path doing the hard work for him as he puts as much distance between himself and the new, happy couple as possible. 

Perhaps it is for the best that he didn’t get the spare bed, then. At least he can choose the corner farthest away from Lancelot to sleep in tonight.

Chapter Text

Eᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀᴡᴀʏ from Ealdor for a few days now, Arthur is unable to shake the schedule he developed in the village. He’s become accustomed to waking with the sun and the serenity that comes with being alone with nature, the livestock, and the odd farmer at this time of day. Besides, it’s not as if he wants to sleep in; the nightmares of the previous evening accounted for that. 

Rising with the sun leaves Arthur feeling bereft as he stares at Aldreda’s thatched roof as he begins to contemplate what it is he wants to do, because Arthur is sick of doing nothing. 

Guinevere had seemed surprised by Lancelot’s speech, he thinks. Truthfully, Arthur had been shocked as well, though looking back he can see Lancelot’s infatuation clearly in his memories— the horse riding right next to each other and whispering and giggling is rather clear, in retrospect. 

But Arthur feels… robbed. He’d thought that maybe he and Gwen had something brewing between the two of them, even though he knows there haven’t been too many opportunities for them to explore that kind of connection during Arthur’s exile, but he’s been going through a lot. Romance hasn’t exactly been in the forefront of his mind. 

So, Arthur thinks while staring up at the ceiling, that he shouldn’t just give up and let Lancelot have yet another victory without putting in the work. He needs to fight for Guinivere’s hand, to show her that he, Arthur Pendragon, prior prince, is still worthy of her hand. 

Immediately, Arthur hits roadblocks. If he was in Camelot he might have invited her to a nice homemade dinner to prove his sincerity and charm her with humility and etiquette. He’d pour the wine for them both, instead of having Merlin do it, and would present her with flowers and an embossed red silk ribbon for her hair that would compliment her handsome complexion. However, he’s in the house of a comparatively destitute woman who wants his head and has no money for frivolous things like ribbons or hand mirrors. Women still like flowers though, right? Of course. Even Merlin knew to bring Morgana flowers when she was bereft over the Druid boy and he’s exceedingly dull most days. If his servant could try to win Morgana over with flowers, Merlin certainly can help him win Gwen over with them. 

Arthur’s back is only slightly bothering him this morning because he couldn't use the bed, but he clearly wouldn’t be ridiculous enough to hold a grudge after the previous evening. After dressing himself and feeling sure of his mission, Arthur lightly shakes Merlin awake from one of the small floor nests they’d constructed out of what loose blankets and things Aldreda had around. Arthur whispers, “ Mer lin, wake up.”

“Sod off, Arthur,” Merlin grumbles, half-asleep and turns away from Arthur. This means Arthur just needs to try harder. 

He shakes Merlin a bit more and his whisper becomes louder and more urgent that calling a whisper may be generous, “It’s important. Stop being a lazy oaf.”

“What could you possibly need this early?” Merlin says letting out a small groan as he sits up to rub his eyes and face Arthur. He narrows a gaze for a moment before a wash of realisation crosses his eyes. “Wait. Are the bandits here?”

“I think there’d be a bit more commotion if we were under attack. Really, Merlin?” Arthur says with a small laugh at the comment. Catching the annoyance with his snark at this hour of the day plastered on Merlin's face, Arthur lightly claps him on the back. “Come now. I need your help acquiring flowers.”

“ Flowers? ” Merlin asks incredulously. Yes, Melin. Loud enough for the entire house. No need to ruin the surprise of beautiful flowers on the morning of a great battle because of chivalry and all that at all. 

“Quiet, will you? You’ll wake everyone,” Arthur whispers back, shoving Merlin’s boots at him so they can get going faster.
“So everyone else gets to sleep and I’m just the lucky one this morning?” Merlin mumbles under his breath as he tries to find a spare change of clothes. Arthur just glares back and gestures at Merlin to be quiet because if he is allowed to not appreciate Arthur’s snark early, Arthur doesn’t have to appreciate his either. 

Once they both have gathered their trappings, the pair leave Aldreda’s home so they can speak properly outside of vague gestures and snide whispers. Arthur gets Merlin to venture into the forest where they crossed paths with Aldreda’s marksmen party, albeit unwillingly, to hunt for wildflowers for Gwen. There’s protest but considering Merlin would rather Arthur not get poisoned by the local flora and fungi it doesn’t last long. He could learn herbology but then he wouldn’t be able to enlist Merlin and where is the fun in that?

It’s a nice respite to be out of the village and away from the commotion of Aldreda’s home and their travelling party. Quiet moments like these with Merlin were common occurrences in Ealdor over hunting outings or meal preparation, but with everything from the bandit raids to travel to Lance’s appearance there hasn’t been time. The sound of the light breeze, falling footsteps, and their idle chatter is a needed calm before the storm of both trying to woo Gwen and fend off the raiders. 

As they meander, Arthur collects a few purple pasque flowers that he adds to the pink bulbs Merlin has acquired in a mediocre-looking bouquet. Still, it’s the noble intention that matters, right? That’s why Gwen likes Lance after all, isn’t it? He’s just so good in a perfect hair, perfect heart, perfect to bring home to your father if he wasn’t gone thanks to Uther sort of way. Trying to not further harm his ego than it already has been of late, Arthur comes across a patch of small white flowers with pretty purple blotching on the stems which seems rather unique and colourful and goes to pick some. 

“I really don’t think hemlock is the best way to express your affection,” Merlin says with a snort as Arthur promptly drops the poisonous flowers back in the grass. As Arthur shoots him a glare, Merlin shrugs and picks up one of the flowers extending the stem out to Arthur. He points at it and says, “You can tell by the blotches, see.”

This is why he needs Merlin with him to give helpful knowledge about flora he never bothered or needed to learn and to make sure he doesn’t make an arse of himself by wooing women with poisonous flowers. And they make a good team. Not that he would tell Merlin that, he certainly doesn’t need to inflate Merlin of all people’s ego, especially when his own is suffering. He knocks the hemlock from Merlin’s hand. “ Really fascinating Mer lin. Are there any non-poisonous flowers you’d recommend?”

“There were some primrose flowers in the glade,” he says, waving Arthur off as he collects some hemlock into a small pouch. He doesn’t want to know what Merlin is planning on using the offending substance for at this point and quite frankly doesn’t want to ask. Following Merlin’s advice, he heads towards the glade, but is stopped by the scent of cooked meat and the voices. As he approaches closer, he is able to make out a large group of about thirty bandits in a clearing. 

They all seem well-equipped and gearing up for what is likely to be the raid on Mountmend, considering it’s the nearest settlement for some time and they killed a few of their men yesterday. Their horses from yesterday look like they thankfully escaped as there are none in sight which is the minor good thing about this whole deal. How a village of peasants are supposed to fight off all these men with only two knights who aren’t technically knights, a few marksmen, and little else is a question for the ages. At least in Ealdor they had some time to train the people to fight against Kanen’s horde. Now, they are out of time. Great.

He quietly moves away from the clearing, careful not to snap any twigs or branches that will lead to an encounter with the group any earlier than necessary. They need to make it back to the village now and Merlin is, of course, still picking flowers which is preposterous considering the urgency of their situation. Grabbing Merlin by his brown overshirt, Arthur whispers, “Come on, Merlin. This is not the time to pick flowers. Are you really that dull?”

“I don’t know, Arthur. Flowers were the whole reason you dragged us out here,” Merlin says in a huff and a bit too loudly. 

Arthur shushes him and retorts in a hushed tone, “The bandits are in the glade, about thirty of them. We need to warn the village.”

“You could have just said that,” Merlin whispers back with an annoyed tone of voice as he fixes his clothes and ensures that he has the pouches of hemlock and whatever other herbs he’d been collecting. He catches up to Arthur as they make their way back to Mountmend, with the bouquet of wildflowers forgotten literally and figuratively. After all, there is a village to save and it is all up to him. 

───── ⋆⋅♔⋅⋆ ─────

The door to Aldreda’s house bursts open, and in strides Arthur, feeling like his uselessness has finally been put to an end. Merlin, of course, follows closely behind, still perhaps a little rattled from seeing how many dastardly foes they might face in the coming day. 

But! No matter. Arthur scans the rooms for Aldreda, and once he finds her sitting on a chair, working on sharpening the arrows she’d used in the attack the other day, Arthur makes a beeline over to her.

“I found the bandits’ camp. They set up in the forest glade,” he boasts, but his tone is more business-like, really. “I can report with honesty that there are roughly thirty men, and many fewer horses than one might expect. I propose that those from the other day did not return to their camp. Nonetheless, the bandits looked as if they were running low on supplies. There were not very many extra possessions lying around.” 

She looks up at him and makes an assenting noise before looking back down and sharpening the sides of the arrowhead she’s working on, and Arthur feels himself deflate at her non-reaction. 

“That’s useful to know,” she says after a moment, the noise of stone on metal filling the silence. “Thank you.” 

Arthur isn’t quite sure what to make of that. She seems dismissive still, but at the same time, she did say thank you. He looks to Merlin, panicked, and Merlin makes a face to him that gives Arthur the impression that he should know what to do next. It takes a moment of scrambling, but he manages to get out, “You’re quite welcome,” in a timely enough manner that she cannot find fault with it. 

The stone skates across the arrowhead a few more times. Arthur isn’t quite ready to leave yet, wanting to hear more about the battle plans upcoming and how the villagers are going to train and what preparations still need to be done, but she does not seem forthcoming in the slightest. It is hard to be in the dark. 

Arthur struggles against the temptation of saying something more, but Arthur's competition is still in the forefront of his mind: Lancelot. Arthur is trying to be a better man than he, and Lancelot would not spit angry words at Aldreada demanding to be let in. No, he would have trust, he would not be pushy, and he would let Aldreda be, seeing as she definitely does not want to talk to him. 

He looks back over to Merlin and jerks his head to the side to convey that they’re leaving now, and Merlin sighs in what looks to be relief as they make their way out the door.

───── ⋆⋅♔⋅⋆ ─────

Aldreda’s rebuff of Arhur’s help continues to sting throughout the day. He starts to see the villagers organising, moving things and assembling debris into a wall at the mouth of the village entrance, but nobody will tell him what’s going on. 

He sees Gwen and Lance disappear into the grain storage together and has to turn away before he can do anything about it. Merlin left to complete some other task, and he saw Morgana training some women in how to weaponize items from their homes a while back. 

The useless feeling returns, slowly, and Arthur doesn’t want to let it take root. He pushes it aside and thinks What would Lancelot do? again, just to give himself a path.

Lancelot would be the bigger man. He would not sit petulantly in the barn with the horses and wallow, like Arthur may or may not be doing right now. However, the conviction to go and find something to do to help is not easily found. 

Arthur is tired of feeling like this. It’s a rotten feeling, consuming and terrible that sucks all of the energy out of his body and makes him want to do nothing. After all, the fall from prince to peasant is not a short one, and Arthur has hit multiple rocks on his way down. It’s all been very awful. 

He looks over to where Merlin’s horse stands in the stall with him. Her name is Maisie, and she is the least temperamental horse out of all of them. Arthur wishes he had a sugar cube to offer her, but knows that’s a far away wish, now. If peasants don’t have enough sugar for good bread, then there’s no way they have any to give horses, of all things. 

Arthur stands up and dusts himself off. There is no use sitting in the barn like he’s good for nothing. Even if Aldreda doesn’t want to give Arthur any credit or assign him any worth, that does not mean that she is right and that he has none. 

He’ll prove her wrong. He has to. 

───── ⋆⋅♔⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur has faced much worse bandits before in Camelot, truth be told. The parties have been larger, the swordsmen more skilled, and the weapons of much better quality. However, he is not in Camelot, and the only other knight up to his standards is Lancelot, who, along with Aldreda, made the battle plan without Arthur’s input. Of course. 

He’s following their plan to the letter, though. Because if Arthur gave Lancelot battle plans, Lancelot would follow them. When in Rome, and what have you. 

Arthur parries another clumsy blow and dispatches the bandit he’s facing easily before the opponent to his left actually drops his sword— the utter incompetence of these men, how did they even survive until now?— which leaves Arthur open to deliver a fatal blow. 

Morgana is to his right, and she’s been keeping pace better than he’d expected her to— not that he’d thought she would do a bad job or anything— but seeing her release some of that inner rage he knows she has is probably a little good for her, to say the least. At least her training with a sword has come in handy. 

Objectively, the plan is being implemented quite well. Lancelot and Aldreda’s funnel idea made it easy for the good fighters to take the brunt of the enemy’s impact so that most of the bandits who made it through the front lines were already injured or tired, and therefore being much less of a threat.

It also gave the opportunity for the marksmen on the roofs to pick off the clamouring men in the back who were waiting to get closer to the thicket of battle, and the bandits’ marksmen had been effectively taken out by the stealth parties led by Lancelot and Aldreda. 

Subjectively, Arthur still clutches on tight to the sense of bitter-determinedness thrumming through his veins. He feels alive; battle always makes his blood thrum and his heartbeat even out in his chest. It is his territory. But today, he is preoccupied still. 

The bandits are unskilled, so much is evidenced by the way yet another one of them literally trips over air , but Arthur is being unnecessarily showy with his swordplay, using flashy moves with the blade that he normally only implements during tournaments to rile up his opponents and get them to make mistakes. Here, when Arthur needs to be at the absolute top of his game, it is perhaps, maybe just a tad arrogant. 

At the very least, it isn’t something Lancelot would do. Arthur stabs his blade forwards with a little more prejudice at the thought and checks on their progress, looking back as far as his eyes can see. 

Arthur incapacitates two more men and lets one with a large gash across his sword arm pass by to the semi-trained peasants behind him before he hears a shrill whistle cut through the air, which is Lancelot’s signal that they’ve finished eliminating the marksmen. 

Okay, so maybe the battle plan was actually kind of good, or what have you. Arthur can appreciate hard work when he sees it in action. He gives the bandit in front of himself a large, over-animated smile that makes the man stumble back in shock and confusion before starting to push forwards, since the bandits’ escape is now covered by Lance and Aldreda’s groups. They will defeat the rest of these men easily. 

Arthur falls into the trance of it now, letting his bigger preoccupations fall away for the final surge. 

It is with great relief when Arthur spots one of the leaders in the crowd and makes his way towards the man eagerly. Bandits are cowards; ending him will end the battle. 

Godwin is a much more skilled swordsman than his followers, and Arthur can tell almost immediately. His footwork is much cleaner, and his blade is held and moved much more fluidly. Arthur shaves off all of his extra movements to get ahead, narrowing his eyes.

After a quick tussle in between themselves that goes nowhere, they both back up to circle for a moment. Arthur hisses, “Why are you here?” 

Godwin isn’t a talkative man, only smiling grimly and offering, “Gold.” 

Arthur thinks of that troll sitting on Camelot’s throne, corrupting his father for the same damned thing, and lunges forwards, taking Godwin by surprise and cutting a thick line through his leather chest armour. He hisses and moves to retaliate against Arthur, but before his blade comes close to connecting, Lancelot stabs him straight through the gut, his sword coming out bloody on the other side. 

Godwin gasps. He drops his sword unceremoniously, his hand reaching down to his wound instead. When Lancelot pulls out his sword, Godwin lets out a pained noise and falls to his knees in the dirt. 

Arthur, who does not feel charitable at all towards Godwin at the moment, elects to now ignore the man and look around. He finds himself pleasantly surprised to see that the remaining bandits are fleeing or being beaten down by the villagers, Morgana, and Gwen. Merlin has disappeared, but he always does so during battle and reappears safe and sound, so Arthur isn’t too worried. 

Satisfied in that regard, he turns to Lance and calls, “I appreciate the assist, Lancelot!” If it’s a little more bitter than it should be, that’s nobody’s business other than his own. 

Lance grins back good naturedly. “I’m always willing to help a friend.” 

The comment makes Arthur feel a little guilty, and so he looks around again to see if anybody needs their help. He takes two steps to the left towards where it looks like Gwen might need some slight assistance when he hears a wordless cry from Lancelot.

Arthur turns around to stare straight into a dagger coming straight towards his chest, and a satisfied sneer slowly fading off of Godwin’s face. There’s no time for Arthur to move or even think; all he has time to do is shut his eyes and wait for the inevitable. 

His heart beats once. Twice. Three times, and yet there is no pain, not even the most quiet lick of it through a sharp blade sinking into skin. 

Tentatively, Arthur opens his eyes. 

Godwin’s dagger is a hair’s breadth away from his forehead. Arthur stumbles back in shock, swearing not-so-politely as he does so, and a second later, the dagger falls to the ground. 

Magic, Arthur thinks, and looks around for the sorcerer in their midst, eyes darting all around the crowd until he sees Aldreda, her hands extended and breathing sharply as if she had just run in full armour. 

Arthur takes another step back in shock, and then raises his sword at her, his mind screaming Danger!  

How dare she? He thinks, shock quickly pooling into rage. Arthur is humiliated. Aldreda hates him and he hates Aldreda and she’s a sorceress who just so happened to save his life? 

Arthur gnashes his teeth. He should have known something like this would happen. The thought of it immobilises him and he is not sure what to do or how to even act as the world suddenly feels suffocatingly small around him. 

A pained groan takes him out of the daze, which upon inspection has come from the now actually disarmed Godwin, whom Lance has taken care of in the midst of the magic confusion. Who knows what they will do to him? Will he be killed or can be interrogated further? At the moment it doesn’t seem to matter, not when there’s a bigger threat in his midst. 

Around him, the villagers put the surviving offenders in makeshift irons and try to start dealing with the aftermath now that the battle is won. But being saved by magic feels like the furthest thing from a victory to Arthur. He cannot lower his blade until all threats are quelled.

Chapter Text

“Aʟᴅʀᴇᴅᴀ,” Arthur calls menacingly at her. There is a sorcerer right in front of him. A sorcerer! 

She glares defiantly back at him, her chin raised, still panting with the effort of stopping the dagger from piercing his skin. 

Danger sparks across his skin, warring with his personal distaste for the woman in front of him. Arthur calculates quickly. 

He thinks of how many steps it would take to get within range of her to strike her through, the force with which he would have to stab through her body to get a killing blow. He thinks of how loud she will scream and how much blood she will spill when he pulls his sword out; the way her eyes will look up at him with hatred as the light bleeds out of them.

But then he thinks of a time not too long ago when his father made him run into camps of Druids and raid them like bandits. He thinks of unmitigated cruelty and chasing Druid boys who have done nothing but exist around Camelot. He thinks of a unicorn, pure and innocent until it died by his hand and his hand alone. He thinks of that ball of friendly light when he went to go and pick the morteaus flower that kept the giant spiders away, and he thinks of Merlin’s friend Will that had taken an arrow for Arthur after saving them from Kanen’s men and then dying for it.

Arthur has seen the evil of magic. But he has also been the evil, and magic did not kill him then, even when he though he might deserve it.

They are not even in Camelot. Arthur is not a prince anymore. He has no authority here, where magic is legal and a woman he hates just used it to save his life after taking him and six strangers into her home.

He’s not, per se, in love with the fact that magic was used to save his life. It’s humiliating, for one. And besides, why would Aldreda do such a thing for him, Arthur Pendragon, the ex-prince who she dislikes immensely and goes out of her way to taunt? It makes no sense. 

So, he asks her.

“Why did you do that?” He doesn’t lower his sword. 

Aldreda looks at him for a moment, and then she laughs. The sound is tinged with bitterness and hysteria in equal measures, and it takes her a moment to sputter out, “You don’t get it? I have this small gift to save. To heal. To fix. I don’t like you, but I don’t want you dead, Arthur Pendragon. Your death on my conscience is a burden I don’t want to bear. And besides, doing good things feels good. Making other people happy makes me happy.” She spreads her arms wide at him, smiling too wide. “If you want to kill me for that, then so be it.” 

He could. He could kill her. But she has a point. And Arthur doesn’t enjoy killing for the sake of killing. He has no real bloodlust, only wanting to engage in swordplay for the thrill of the skill and the responsibility of defending his kingdom. 

She might have magic, and she might be an extremely insufferable woman, but that doesn’t mean he wants her dead. He can see the cracks in her smile growing wider, her arms slowly lowering as he refuses to engage with her.

Arthur lowers his sword slowly before sheathing it, making the decision that feels right in his heart. He turns away and says, “Thank you, then. And your battle plan was effective today.” 

With that, he strides away and begins to help with the after-battle clean-up, thinking smugly that that was exactly what Lancelot would have done. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur finds Merlin carrying firewood into the village and sighs exaggeratedly. “Merlin,” he says, “did you hide out in the forest for the whole battle? Where do you always disappear to for these things?” 

Merlin just rolls his eyes around the wood, continuing to walk to Aldreda’s house to add it to her pile. “If you’d been paying attention, you would have noticed that I was stationed off to the side to deal with any bandits who came around the funnel. Prat.” 

Arthur knocks into Merlin’s side for the insult, but he’s obviously not in any worse shape after the battle if he’s insulting Arthur. Once his worry slides off his shoulders, Arthur feels the urgent need to move to other, more pressing topics that he has an urgent need to discuss. Urgently, he looks around carefully to make sure they’re relatively alone before leaning in and whispering, “Did you know that Aldreda has magic? Did you see her stop Godwin’s dagger from hitting me?” 

Merlin turns to him sharply, the wood clattering to the ground. “Aldreda has magic ?”

Arthur nods, slowly but emphatically. “She does.”

“Gods,” Merlin murmurs, looking uncomfortable for a moment. “What did you do?”

“Well,” Arthur says, shrugging helplessly, “she saved my life. It would have been a poor repayment for me to kill her afterwards, wouldn't it?” Then he reaches down and starts to pick up the wood that Merlin dropped.

“You—” Merlin starts to say, but then stops. “You did nothing?” he whispers, incredulous. 

Arthur winces, but hands the branches he’s picked up back to Merlin. “I know,” he says. “Magic and magic users are dangerous. It corrupts their soul, I’ve heard it all before. But she said that she only does good with it. That she doesn’t want to kill me or anyone, really. She’s probably early days, but I can’t do it.” 

He hands Merlin another bunch of sticks, and the fool isn’t even helping him pick up his own load? Well, he is letting Arthur talk, which is nice he supposes. 

“It’s like you said,” Arthur continues after a beat, “about Will. What if he hadn’t died? Then your best friend would still be alive and he used his magic for good things, right? Not everybody is corrupted by it, perhaps if you do good things with it you get corrupted slower? The Druids, after all, are peaceful, and their people have used magic for ages.” 

Arthur drops the last of the wood into Merlin’s arms and then looks at him questioningly. 

It takes Merlin a moment to respond, but Arthur knows he’s a little thick, so he lets Merlin have his processing time in peace. “Well, I think that would make sense,” Merlin says slowly. “If, you know, good magic was less bad for… your soul.” 

The confirmation of his logic is fantastic to hear, and both of them start heading towards Aldreda’s house again. 

“And as for Will,” Merlin says after a few steps, “I don’t think he was evil at all. I knew him ever since we were kids and he never did anything to harm anyone that was not threatening his life.” He sounds a little choked up and a bit guilty, like he’s blaming himself for his friend’s demise when it had been Kanen’s fault. 

Arthur wants to believe him, he really does, but why would his father hate magic so much otherwise? It is an awful, corrupting force that takes over a person’s soul and twists it into evil madness. That is why sorcerers cannot be trusted. They are capable of good, perhaps at first, but over time they lose that capability. 

If magic truly were a force of good, it would make life so much easier. It would also mean that his father killed thousands upon thousands of people for exactly zero reason. And Uther can be cruel sometimes, but he wouldn't do that . …Right?

Regardless, Arthur feels like he has made the right decision about Aldreda despite his personal dislike of the woman. If he’s in a similar situation, he will choose not to kill the sorcerer in question again, he thinks. Unknowns, he figures, can be a middle ground for now. There’s no way for him to know which sorcerers are corrupt and evil yet, therefore he’ll refrain from killing them so long as they are not harming others with their magic. 

He pats his guilty conscience and feels his questioning urges die down at the decision, at least for now. As for Merlin, Arthur pats his shoulder to show his support. 

“We won’t forget his sacrifice, and thankfully the people of Ealdor have not been attacked again to this day. We brought his legacy here with us, and this time magic saved me, the sorcerer walked away with her life. That is an improvement.” 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Shortly after delivering several more loads of firewood to Aldreda’s house, Arthur and Merlin split up to accomplish a few other tasks, and Arthur bumps into Lancelot. The other man is carrying several cloths and a few whetstones, and Arthur runs over to intercept him.

“Lancelot!” He calls. Arthur, after the shock about the “Aldreda having magic” portion of the day, has decided to be most pleased with his performance. He was useful, contributed in multiple ways to the plan, Godwin died, the bandits fled for good, Aldreda saved him from certain death, and he had enough mercy and grace not to murder her on the spot! Truly a productive time for everyone involved, Arthur thinks. 

“Lancelot!” Arthur calls again, this time managing to get the other man’s attention. “I wanted to say that you did very well during the battle today. I appreciated having you at my side to take down Godwin.” 

Lance’s eyes sparkle. “Thank you, Arthur,” he says in that way of his that seems effortlessly genuine, like he’s touched that Arthur wanted to compliment him and didn’t expect it. “I’m glad that you were in Ealdor and willing to help Mountmend fight off these bandits.” 

 Arthur waves off the praise; the bandits other than Godwin had been easy to defeat. “I’m glad I was able to help. Now, do you need help with what you’re doing? I just finished helping Merlin get Aldreda firewood and find myself newly free.” 

Lancelot claps him on the arm and leads him away to a weapons pile that contains everything that the peasants used to fight off the bandits, including pitchforks, hoes, shovels, trowels, a pan, and a few swords. 

“Clean these with me?” Lance asks, and Arthur supposes that this is a better task to get to focus on than preparing the funeral pyre, so he sits down and picks up a rag.

“It would be my pleasure,” he deadpans, and it’s worthwhile to hear how outrageously Lancelot laughs. 

Thankfully, the time that he spends with Lance cleaning the “weapons” goes by much faster and more cheerfully than he thought it would. Arthur is having a hard time thinking about any negative emotions at the moment because of how much fun he and Lance are having disparaging the bandits’ lack of skill, bemoaning the state of the weapons, and talking about different manoeuvres and past battles and tournaments they’ve been a part of.  

It makes Arthur feel kind of bad about being so devastated when he’d learned Lance and Gwen were getting together. Now, post-battle, Arthur’s early morning thoughts about getting between the two of them and their happiness seem childish and whiny like the actions of a spoilt prince. Guinevere doesn’t owe him anything, and neither does Lancelot. But at the same time, he’s still not over the revelation, heart bruised and battered at the thought of being no one’s first choice recently.  

However, the conversation between them is fun and lively, and Arthur finds himself able to let the hurt soften as he is reminded of why he wanted Lancelot to be a knight for Camelot so badly. The man is smart, meticulous, and has a mind for strategy. He is kind but not softhearted and he is extremely loyal to his friends. 

He would have made a fine, fine knight. Arthur envisions Lancelot with him and Leon, leading Camelot’s forces with their red cloaks swirling around them majestically, and Merlin grinning at them on the side, of course. It feels like an old, worn dream that Arthur fondly tucks under his pillow every night before bed, and it aches just a little bit.

As Lancelot shares another story about trying to track down who stole a man’s goats in one village, Arthur pushes it back down. He laughs when Lancelot reveals that the goats were letting themselves in and out of the pen, and he lets himself be happy.

He deserves it for once, after feeling like utter pigshit for months now. Lancelot deserves to be happy, too, and they’ve just had a victory for both of them, all of them. Mountmend is safe! They’re heroes. 

There could be nothing better to happen tonight, Arthur is sure. Nothing can bring him down from all he way up here, laughing with Lancelot after a battle well-won.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

“Arthur, I need to talk to you,” Morgana says, marching up to him in a huff. From the way she’s tapping her foot on the ground and her hand on her pommel, she doesn’t wish to be kept waiting. It’s typical. As much as Morgana wants to separate herself from Camelot, even more so than he does, Uther’s ward is still in there. Though Morgana can deny it all she wants, she still acts like she runs the place and everyone’s schedules sometimes. Of course, it’s just when Arthur has a moment to himself and is feeling the best he has in months, but he knows it’ll be worse to keep her waiting. 

“You’re here to regale in our victory, I presume?” he says, smirking slightly with his eyebrow cocked. Perhaps a jest will take her out of whatever mood has put that dour look on her face? What can Arthur say, he’s feeling generous, and her mood is certainly not befitting of today’s small glories.

“Adorable,” she says unamused, meaning his plan clearly worked. “While you were peacocking on your little victory tour, I got the information you so desperately wanted from Godwin’s partner Edgar, so I suggest you listen.”

Right. The reminder that Camelot is presumably too destitute to even be raided is enough to sour his mood. Arthur lets out a heavy sigh and motions for Morgana to continue. “Go on.”

Morgana returns the sigh and musters what poise and effortless grace someone delivering a report about the destruction of one’s homeland can have. “By the day, more and more of Camelot begins to starve due to lack of sustenance and supply. It seems the only villages worth raiding are those too far out for those collecting tribute for the capital to care much. The interior, however, is in great peril.”

They hadn’t heard of anything of the sort in Ealdor? Perhaps their trade with Camelot’s border villages is keeping those afloat? They had been in Ealdor for months and neither heard a thing about Camelot nor saw any guards patrolling the borders. He should have taken it as a sign that things in the interior were going far too terribly if things were that quiet. He’s been letting his people down for all this time and had nary a clue until Lancelot arrived. And now this . 

He doesn’t know quite what to say. He could go on to Morgana about how much he feels for Camelot’s denizens at the moment, but the blow of this information has robbed him of what eloquence he wishes he had. Arthur settles with trying to repress the emotions to fully process the implications later. He’s learned that is one of his finer, albeit worrying, traits to have inherited from his father. And it hasn’t colossally failed him yet.

“So it’s worse than we gathered,” Arthur says with a nod. Considering he should also be handling this with the poise of the disinherited prince he is, he tries to lean up against a wall in a put-together fashion despite his mind’s internal mess. “Has nobody done anything about the situation?”

“Kingdom wide bread riots,” Morgana says with a sombre nod before continuing, “The knights have been forced to quell them. Patrols have become so common that the bandits cannot find chances to raid unseen, making it appear such that martial law has been imposed. Edgar also noted the knights seemed more unruly and violent than normal which is deeply troubling.” 

Of course. This is exactly what he needs to hear after having spent the greater part of his adolescence and young adulthood building up the knights of Camelot into the sacred institution he and his father had envisioned. The corruption is running so deep as to make Arthur question if ruffians can simply buy their way into the knighthood now. He wouldn’t put it past Catrina, considering the current lengths they are already imposing on the people for gold. Not so long ago Uther had banished Lancelot for the kingdom for impersonating a noble and wanting to join the knights and now men far less noble in title and heart than he are likely donning the mantle. 

“There’ve been no attempts at policy changes?” Arthur asks with an urgency as the spiral of how this has been allowed to happen spills from his brain and his needling thoughts are given voice. “Other nobles should have pleaded concessions in court. Surely, Agravaine—”

“They’re bandits, Arthur. They only care that there was once money and now it’s gone. I’m lucky to have gathered this much,” Morgana says, halting him in his tracks with a sense of force and practicality. When he goes to interrupt her, she rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head like she would if he were an unruly, naive child. “Some couldn’t wield their own swords, I doubt they’re versed in the delicacies of geopolitics.” 

He would normally have some witty retort in mind to get the last word, but right now that is the furthest thing from his mind on the matter. He needs information. Answers. Anything .  

“Did you receive any information about Father? Anything at all?” He asks, hoping it does not come out like the beg he fears it does. 

“They’re calling him a Mad King,” Morgana says in a matter of fact tone. “Not that it isn’t warranted.”

Of all the things Arthur Pendragon does not want to do today, getting into yet another fight about Father ranks pretty highly. He understands that Morgana has a slew of issues with Uther that she needs to work out but this really is not the time. He would really appreciate it if, for just a moment, she could take things seriously and not make this about her petty vendetta because it’s a bit self-centred. 

If he said that, their conversation would likely turn into a whole separate argument, so he settles on being the bigger person so as to not provoke her further. “Why are you so smug about this? Our home is falling to ruin, Morgana.”

“You’re not dull enough to believe Uther would just break free of Catrina’s spell and fix everything, are you Arthur?” Morgana says with a laugh to herself. 

Arthur just glares at her until she takes notice of the eye contact and realises his already exceedingly apparent unamusement with the situation. When their eyes meet, Morgana buries her face into her palm for a moment before looking back at Arthur. He can tell there isn’t any sort of malice in her eyes, having been on the receiving end of it far too many times to forget. Instead, she has an air of bitterness and resolve around her. 

“I’m not happy,” she huffs, “ I’m just not surprised.” 

Arthur’s glad she’s seeing the seriousness in all of this again, he really is. But sue him if he is being a bit too candid in the midst of a crisis. He steps away from Morgana, pacing to and fro as he runs a hand through his hair. “Great. What am I supposed to do with that information? We’re in exile. It’s not as if we can do much of anything.”

“What you did today— with Aldreda— it’s a start,” Morgana says as she places a firm hand on Arthur’s shoulder and squeezes it in the semblance of some comfort. She smiles upon him kindly with a soft look that, for but a moment, makes him more sure he had done the right thing earlier. “It’s something you and I both know he never would have done.”

Morgana squeezes his shoulder once more as her smile fades into a sombre frown. “He cannot save himself, Arthur. God knows you already tried. But the situation is getting dire and we don’t have time to celebrate playing hero. We need to make haste and find a way to sneak our way into the capital as soon as possible. I recommend we leave before nightfall and make camp to pursue these leads further.”

That is arguably a bit of an exaggeration considering they did just save an entire village. It’s not as if this is what he wishes to be doing when his kingdom is in peril. Still, he wants, nay, needs his little victories when he can have them. Things hadn’t been easy on any of them, least of all himself. He wishes he could have this, but as Morgana has been so kind to remind him once more: Duty always comes first.

That being said, considering all that he has put up with in this conversation, he will take this one opportunity to mess with her. If he can’t “play hero” at least he can try and find little moments of respite in this. Arthur needles, “You’re just a bundle of joy today aren’t you.”

Dripping with sarcasm, she replies, “I’m dearly sorry for being the only one to take things seriously.” 

When Arthur rolls his eyes at her, she lets out a small laugh and lightly elbows him in the side before making her way back to Aldreda’s home. Over her shoulder, she calls, “Besides, I thought you would be thrilled to not have to stay with Aldreda a moment longer.” 

He supposes that’s the one thing they can both agree on. If there is but one certainty in Arthur’s world it is this: He doesn’t wish to deal with sorcerers any more than is absolutely necessary.

Chapter Text

Lᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ Mᴏᴜɴᴛᴍᴇɴᴅ ɪs ᴀ ʀᴇʟɪᴇғ. Well, it’s not as if his stay there was horrible or anything, but at the same time, one can only eat porridge so many times before one also gets tired of pretending it doesn’t make one sick. Also, there’s the whole matter of finding out about Gwen and Lance starting to court and not being able to help in planning for the battle against the bandits. Oh, and of course Arthur would be remiss to forget about everything having to do with Aldreda. And Aldreda’s magic. 

So, perhaps his stay in Mountmend was awful, and it is a relief to be gone. Arthur supposes that he can at least admit as much to himself as they leave the village in their dust. 

The five of them had packed up with haste to move out. After Morgana’s news, Arthur had wanted to leave immediately, and for once he’d gotten his wish, even if only because Aldreda didn’t want to have him around any longer for obvious, magic-related reasons. 

Arthur is in the back of the pack. Merlin is riding up in the front with Lancelot, and Morgana and Gwen are seemingly having a most pleasant time, if their giggles are at all telling. 

On the other hand, Arthur feels rather more worried and slightly numb. As good as it is to leave Mountmend behind, they are now on their way to face bigger problems that are closer to Arthur’s heart. 

He’s missed Camelot. Of course he has. Of course he does, every day, just like he misses his father. His life . He misses his big bedroom with the giant bed and his wardrobe full of nice clothes and things. He misses the armoury and its loud ambiance full of knights sharpening blades and telling tall tales. He misses Cook, who did have a right temper according to Merlin, but he never saw it. He misses the hustle and bustle of the city square, the stall that sells small sweets that he used to frequent as a child, and the Rising Sun. 

Camelot is his. It always has been. And whether or not Arthur is physically present there, it still will be, even if his claim to it is now defunct. Morgana revived that feeling in him that had before dimmed under all of the negativity he’s been facing recently. 

But the fire burns bright, now, and Arthur focuses on that feeling in his chest so that he does not have to think about all of the other ones floating around in the back of his head.  

He wonders about his people. Will the baker still have enough coin to make his special flavours, or will they go away in favour of the more cost-effective plain? Do the people in the Lower Town still have a broken water pump on the east side? The farmlands to Camelot’s south; was their harvest plentiful enough to last them through everything? And what of the castle servants having to deal with Catrina? Would they quit? Have they quit? 

Arthur cannot help a slight chuckle at the thought of a servant being so repulsed by the woman that they resign, and having to come up with plausible excuses, all the while telling their friends with the utmost irony that “That woman is an utter troll !” 

Shortly, they take a quick break to water the horses and eat some of the supplies they were able to take. Arthur is very pleased to note that some of the smoked rabbit in his pouch probably came from what he was able to provide for the group. 

When they resume their journey, the order switches to Gwen riding with Lancelot while Morgana rides by her lonesome in the middle, and thankfully Merlin trots Maisie right next to him. It always feels right to ride beside Merlin. Not that the lout is very skilled at it, but Arthur had become used to his quibbling a while back, which makes hearing it again a little bit nice. 

He almost feels like they could be back in Camelot’s woods for a moment when Merlin looks over at him and smiles, big and wide and, maybe Arthur’s imagining it, but it’s even just a little brighter than he usually does. The effect is clear in his eyes, somehow.

“A good day to go back to Cenred’s border, isn’t it?”

Arthur wants to smile back at him, but he still feels a little morose. They aren’t in Camelot’s woods, that much is clear. And there’s something about Merlin, these days, that seems different. A little bit lighter, he thinks. As if Camelot was a weight that he felt on his shoulders, sometimes, even though Merlin was just a servant, and a terrible one at that. Arthur would say that it was that he’d missed Hunith, perhaps, but that doesn’t quite ring true. 

Arthur drops the line of thought abruptly. There’s no need to over-analyze Merlin of all people, after all. He’s just a simpleton.

“A fair one, at least,” Arthur agrees after much longer than a moment. He’s ruined it, ruined the air of the past lingering around them. Talk of the weather? God, he’s hopeless as Merlin, sometimes. 

Like a fool, he adds, “It isn’t raining.” Instead of dwelling on the poor, poor, words leaving his mouth, Arthur looks forwards, hoping for something to take his focus away from this. 

Immediately, he wishes that he hadn’t. Talk of anything with Merlin would be preferable to what he bears witness to in front of him, no matter if Merlin decides to give him a full and complete rundown of how it feels to clean out Gaius’s leech tank. 

Guinevere and Lancelot are holding hands. On horseback . While riding.  

Arthur almost pulls up his own horse’s reins in disgust. The negligence in safety alone! 

“—pretty awful, I suppose,” Merlin says, teasing. “I didn’t realise that you would prefer the rain to the sun, does it have you confused? Is the small talk fiddling with your brain?” 

Not having managed to tear his eyes away, Arthur watches with disdain as Gwen looks over at Lancelot and smiles a soft, mushy smile that does make her look rather pretty, if not a little barmy. Arthur has the distinct pleasure of watching Lancelot catch the smile and then return it to her dopily. 

He supposes that they are courting, but there really is no need to flaunt such information in polite company. Or, well, he supposes they aren’t too polite, but still. They are clearly visible, and holding hands while riding horses is not only unsafe, but it’s slow. 

They are in a hurry. 

“Arthur? That was supposed to be an insult and you didn’t even call me an idiot in retaliation, you know,” Merlin says, this time actually getting through to Arthur. “Not that I mind, but—”

“Merlin,” he hisses, leaning in towards the other man, “Look at them!” He jerks his head in the direction of Gwen and Lance furiously. 

“Aw,” Merlin simpers, because of course he does. How could Arthur forget how much of a girl’s petticoat he can be? 

“No, not ‘aw,’ Merlin. They are holding hands while riding horses! They’re not supposed to do that! It’s extremely unsafe and it’s incredibly slow and it’s demonstrative ,” Arthur whispers indignantly. 

Merlin just rolls his eyes. “Of course not, sire . Everyone must govern themselves with your standards of decorum at all times.” 

“Merlin!” Arthur insists. 

This time, Merlin sighs quietly and leans over towards Arthur a little bit. His eyes are sad when he says, “Just let them be, Arthur. We have so little left. Let them have this one.” 

The comment only makes Arthur feel like pigshit, because whose fault is it that they have so little now? Ah, yes. Him. 

The rest of the ride is silent, and Arthur stews in equal parts petty anger and self-hatred, thinking that it had been too optimistic of himself by far to believe that things would certainly get better with Mountmend behind them. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Setting up camp is normally a group experience, as in a singular group experience. Everyone shares the duties, pitches the tents, stokes the fires, and converses in jovial ribbing and repartee. Today there are three groups— and that’s pushing it, considering one of said groups is Arthur. By himself . He’s trying to make his peace with Gwen and Lance’s budding relationship, he really is. Arthur expects that enough time on the road with them acting like besotted teenagers on the road back to Camelot will help him adjust, if he ever does, to their arrangement. Still , he expected to at least have Merlin and Morgana there to distract him from the pangs of lost true love so he doesn’t soil one of the few relationships he has with his own insolence. And it’s just his bloody luck that they too are clearly besotted.

Morgana has been lecturing him incessantly about how it's time for duty and all that practical rubbish that she is so keen to remind him of, as if she is some royal scribe. She, of all people, should have understood that it is not time for romance when all of Camelot is at stake. But no, it’s perfectly acceptable for her to go giddily run off with Merlin now whenever she pleases and leave Arthur away from whatever clandestine conversations they are having behind closed doors, or in this case, trees. 

The signs have been there for ages, and Arthur is now mentally flogging himself for never truly picking up on them. Perhaps ever since Merlin had brought Morgana flowers one time all those months ago, his former servant must have been carrying a metaphorical torch for her. And honestly, who wouldn’t? Morgana, though he’d never admit it, is wise, beautiful, fiercely loyal, and passionately dedicated to her beliefs. Considering Merlin shares some of said traits, it seems only natural that the two of them compliment one another so well, though he despises the thought. But, he should have expected as such. With the way his life has been going as of late, this comedy of errors could only end with his best friend running off with his foster sister and his other friend running away with his heart’s desire, leaving him completely and utterly alone. 

Arthur wonders how long this has truly been going on and why they haven’t told him about said affairs of the heart. It’s not like he would tell Father about it, considering he would be the main obstacle to such affections. Still, Morgana isn’t Camelot’s heir so if she was courted by a commoner it would be much less of a fuss. It would still cause problems and it would likely still be forbidden, but not as dramatic as his own affections for Gwen, which could never be fully realised back home under Uther’s reign of hearth and homeland. He supposes being away from Camelot means they can pursue their affections without restraint, but still, why must it be such a secret? It’s not as if Gwen and Lance are trying to be demure about things in the slightest. They are comparatively destitute and all living in close quarters and there’s no reason to cause any more dramatics than what has already befallen. Do they not trust him after all this time?

He would rather not answer that question, he thinks, as he tries to sink a crossbow bolt into a wandering rabbit. It misses, because of course it does, leaving Arthur without game despite it being his duty tonight. It would have been easier if Merlin had tagged along to help spot and reload, but instead he is still by himself. Hunting for sport in Camelot and for survival in Ealdor had become so natural to him and Merlin. Through much trial and effort, they developed a rhythm and plan of attack for their outings that made them both efficient and enjoyable. He can still hunt alone, but he would prefer not to. 

Besides, one would think that when making camp in unfamiliar territory that food is the priority. Apparently, it isn’t though. The world must stop because Morgana wants to get firewood with Merlin and won’t be diverted from her course. He’s perturbed how she could just waltz right up and take his modicum of purpose in the group and his best friend and nobody has even batted an eyelash, least of all Merlin. Whose job for years, need Arthur remind him, has centred around loyalty to Arthur. Not Morgana. Arthur . 

Morgana even suggested that they go search for herbs together, and that crosses several lines in Arthur’s book. That is his and Merlin’s shared job. It always has been. It seems as if nothing is sacred anymore, least of all the bond between a servant-turned-peasant and their former employer when pretty women are at play. Alas, so much for loyalty.

He would complain about Morgana’s newfound perceived entitlement to Merlin’s time to Gwen and Lance. However, to his extreme delight, he cannot because they are probably too busy reciting poetry and basking in the firelight in a lovestruck stupor that would inspire many a bard’s tale. So there is nobody for Arthur to turn to, except perhaps his horse, but that would go extremely poorly should anyone find him. Maybe when they get back to Ealdor, Hunith will ensnare him in conversation. At least she might give him the time of day unlike everyone else. 

He hears laughter and sees a small flash of light emanating from the glade behind him where they are making camp, meaning that Morgana and Merlin must have undoubtedly gotten the fire going. When he approaches he sees the two of them sitting next to one another and gesticulating in a, dare he admit it, uncomfortable proximity that propriety does not exactly warrant. Upon Arthur’s less than stealthy approach they seem to stiffen up and try to busy themselves elsewhere, as if they can delude themselves into believing he is that dull or blind to the nature of the clandestine affair he has just witnessed.  

“You’re back awfully early,” Morgana says, smoothing down her tunic in a manner that’s far too suspicious for his own liking. 

Arthur leans up against a tree, trying to seem as nonchalant as he can be with this much weighing on his mind. “Well, as you have collected the firewood in record time, especially for Merlin, I came to entreat your assistance with hunting as my efforts have been fruitless thus far.” He places his free hand on his hip and sends them both a pointed look and continues, “Unless you both are otherwise occupied?”

Arthur sincerely hopes they are not otherwise occupied. They were just tending to the fire. That’s all. There is nothing remotely romantic about that, he platonically tends to fires with Merlin all the time. This is just normal. It’s just normal. He does not have the mental capacity to deal with it being otherwise. Gwen and Lance are already enough.

“We are not,” Morgana says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Splendid!” Arthur replies with altogether too much urgency, “Shall we then, Merlin?”

“I think I’ll come with you, Arthur. It’s been quite some time since I’ve joined you hunting and Merlin seems rather beat after all this travelling,” Morgana says with a small smile before looking at Merlin pointedly, “Right, Merlin?”

Merlin seems to take whatever secret meaning of Morgana’s because he is all too compliant with her wishes. If he didn’t know Merlin’s kindness well enough he would have sworn he is under some spell with her. “Of course. I’m utterly exhausted. You two have fun and try to kill game as opposed to each other,” he says, waving the two of them off. 

Arthur had wanted to go hunting with Merlin to try and soothe over the nonsense from earlier and find some reprieve once more. However, as of late, it seems that what Arthur wants and Arthur gets are always polar opposites. Lucky him.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur and Morgana have been hunting for the better part of an hour and the one squirrel they’ve collected is more than he expected going into this affair. He would hazard to say they are not a terrible team. They certainly aren’t better than he and Merlin are, but he supposes it’s something. They’ve been making some small talk, but he’s hesitating to tread any real ground with her in case she decides to give him another lecture he does not have the care or mind to hear this evening. 

In his lethargy, he’s allowed Morgana to try her hand at his crossbow this evening which she seems to be enjoying far more than he is. After some time, she sinks a bolt into a rabbit needed to hold their travelling party over until they next make camp. Of course, she catches the larger game this evening. When they collect it, she throws him a smirk, “You should have allowed me on your outings back home more often. I would have been quite the asset.”

Arthur shrugs it off as he dislodges the bolt from the rabbit to see if it can be reused instead of giving into her attempts at ribbing him. 

When he doesn’t respond, Morgana eyes in slight exasperation, “You’re readily agreeing with me without contestation, Arthur. Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

He applauds her on noticing what must be exceedingly apparent. Practically a psychic, isn’t she? He, of course, neglects to reply, but soon after realises he should answer as she’s only going to continue her relentless questioning. 

“Please do not tell me you’ve taken our discussion in Mountmend all too personally,” she says, trying to fish the cause of his misery out of him. Their heated discussion is part of the much larger and rather overwhelming whole of things muddying his thoughts, so she isn’t entirely right, but she also isn’t entirely wrong. Thus, Arthur is at a loss for how to even start responding without it becoming a tad disastrous. 

Morgana frowns. “For all that I am, Arthur, I am not coldhearted. You know that. In fact, I fear I feel things too deeply.” He hears her feet scuffle against the ground for a moment, dried leaves brushing against dirt. When he looks up at her, she smiles wryly. “You know how Uther and I fight. That is something I don’t think I’ll ever miss about Camelot.” 

Arthur concedes that he doesn’t miss having to sit through tirades from both her and Father at the dinner table. “I wouldn’t think you did,” he says. 

She snorts at his comment, but then her tone returns to serious. “What I am trying to say is that I miss Camelot too, Arthur. I think of the things and the people there just like you do. I have not condemned the people in my heart for the sins of their ruler. I want to do better for them.” 

Arthur blinks over at her, unsure what to do with the candid statements she’s shared. They don’t do this. The two of them have always been actions, not conversations. It’s I’ll help bust the Druid boy out of Camelot and you’ll cover with Father for me when I want to get away, not tell me about your feelings and reminisce with me.  

Somehow, he manages to choke out, “I want to do better for them, too.” 

“I know you do,” she says so sincerely that Arthur wonders just for a moment if she has been enchanted. 

“And we will oust that troll Catrina,” she smooths over the confession with bluster. “I’m not sure even Uther deserves that kind of a marriage.” She says the line with enough lilt that it’s funny, and Arthur laughs for a moment before he can’t anymore, wondering if his father is okay, somewhere under two tonnes of magic, if he even knows at all if something is wrong.

They walk for a bit in silence, then, with only the sounds of their rustling footsteps and nature surrounding them. Arthur supposes that he doesn’t want to know, not really, not if he’s all the way out in Cenred’s kingdom, alone without being alone. 

“Are you sure that’s all that’s bothering you? Nothing else taking up more than its due space in your tiny little brain?” Morgana asks a moment later, and he can hear her tone faltering in the first question before she covers it up in the second. She always did obfuscate with barbs. 

But Arthur doesn’t want to talk to her any further, not tonight. She’s tried, and he’s appreciated it, but there is too much more on his mind than what she’ll understand. 

“Of course not Morgana,” he assures, lying readily. “And my brain is perfectly normal sized, I assure you.” 

She hums disbelievingly for a moment, adding, “So you mean to tell me that you feel perfectly neutral— no, you are delighted— to see the budding romance between Guinevere and Lancelot?”  

Of course. Morgana is fantastic at poking sleeping bears with sticks and she can’t leave this topic well enough alone. Arthur, however, is not inclined to indulge her in the slightest, no matter how surprisingly nice their conversation beforehand had been. 

“The weather has been good for riding today, hasn’t it? I do hope it continues not to rain while we are travelling,” Arthur says loudly. “But today! Only a few clouds in sight, the ground drying out so as not to muck up our horses’ shoes, the long-lasting sunlight. This is quite an ideal time for travel!”

Morgana huffs, whacking one of Arthur’s arms petulantly before stalking ahead of him back to camp. Arthur, who is holding both the rabbit and the squirrel while also contending with the crossbow slung across his back, sighs slightly. 

Well. At least he’s avoided that conversation for the time being.

Chapter Text

Aғᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴏᴄʀᴇ ᴅɪɴɴᴇʀ of rabbit and squirrel, Arthur finds himself restless and only slightly affronted. When he’d seen the meagre amount of wood that Gwen and Lance had collected (he was almost certain they’d spent the time doing activities other than collecting firewood), Arthur volunteered hastily to finish the job by himself, setting out while the others cleaned up from dinner and prepared the bedrolls for the night. 

He actually is glad that the weather is fair now, for all of the meaningless conversation he’s had about it recently. The sun is barely suspended in the sky, its last rays alighting on the trees’ leaves and casting everything in a soft, muted orange glow. Arthur has a big stack of wood he’s been piling up, and it’s almost time to take the pile back in bunches to camp, but Arthur isn’t sure he wants to go. 

His restlessness manifests in his willingness to keep moving through the night towards Camelot. Arthur needs to get there as soon as possible to fulfil his duty to the throne and stop the tyranny of that troll Catrina, literally . His people are suffering, and his heart burns at the thought of it. He itches to draw his sword and fight. 

But for now they draw their way through the edges of Cenred’s kingdom, slinking like cats through the shadows. It is infuriating. 

And what’s even more infuriating is how all of his friends have paired off. Arthur had watched them all over dinner, Gwen and Lance in a little bubble of their own creation, whispering to each other and giggling as if they had no care for anything in the world other than each other, and then Morgana and Merlin, across the fire from him, whispering rather more solemnly but with no less intent. 

It left Arthur in a bitter mood to be so ignored. And there were other things too, problems left swirling in the back of his mind that he still tries not to think about, like the specificity of Aldreda and magic and good versus evil and taxes in Camelot and money and bandits and how Leon fares and his father’s mental state and legacy and abandonment and trust and worthiness. 

So, Arthur hums determinedly as he does his work without thinking a single minute. As Merlin would say, it wouldn’t do to hurt himself having so many thoughts. 

The wood pile is large enough for several nights anyhow, and the sun has dipped beyond the distant mountains. The light will be almost gone soon, so Arthur gathers the wood on top and begins to trek back to camp, the small woodcutting axe placed firmly in his belt for the time being. 

He will just go straight to sleep when his task is done. That should be enough, he thinks. To continue distracting himself, Arthur practises his best hunter’s walk, seeing how quiet he can make his footfalls while holding an enormous stack of wood in his arms. 

Arthur is decently pleased when he can barely hear anything beneath him, and the sounds of the forest do not quiet either. He draws near to camp quickly, and idly hopes that he can draw at least one other person into helping him cart the wood back and forth. He really did gather a bit too much. 

There are two figures by the fire, and with the light as low as it is, Arthur can barely make them out. It’s a couple, though, of that much he is certain in the way the two of them are leaning into each other, merging their shadows together behind them. The woman has curly hair, that much Arthur can tell, but it’s not enough for him to distinguish if it’s Morgana or Guinevere since both of them have hair that isn’t straight. 

Dread pools in his stomach, but Arthur continues to creep forwards, looking around his pile of wood. He doesn’t want to know who it is. He needs to know who it is. He gets closer, and his insides twist as the figures begin to kiss, one of the woman’s hands resting on the man’s cheek. 

Arthur doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen while the figures’ shadows dance together in front of him, stretching out long behind them while Arthur gazes at their backs, the twilight making everything indeterminate and hazy. In his inattention, the woodpile slips, and one of Arthur’s branches clatters to the ground. 

The man’s figure draws back. “Morgana…” He says, out of breath, the word lilting up at the end. Arthur feels suddenly very sick. Who else would kiss Morgana but Merlin? His blood is thrumming in his ears, his heartbeat so loud he’s surprised the new couple in front of him hasn’t heard it. 

“Shhhh,” the woman who can only be Morgana says, leaning forward and putting a finger on Merlin’s lips to stop him from speaking again. 

Their bodies look intimate and familiar like this, leaning in to each other like there is a pull between them. They must be heavily infatuated with each other. The information registers, but Arthur cannot begin to process it right now, nor can he stay any longer if he longs to survive.

Arthur turns away and walks, silent as a deer, all the way back to his woodpile, and then sits by himself until it gets dark, not letting even a single thought cross his mind.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur tried to sleep yesterday evening, he really tried. However, the combined combination and revelation that Merlin is courting Morgana made things rather difficult. He’s not exactly sure why it stings the way it does. He supposes it’s the secrecy and lack of trust from both parties about the whole deal, which is a good enough explanation. That must be it. It has to be. 

When he gets up from his bedroll, he finds Merlin awake and tending to the fire before them that is burning exceptionally well for this early in the morning. Then again, Merlin is suspiciously good at lighting fires so it must just be his head messing with him this morning to convince him otherwise. The confusion seems rather rational, considering the shock of the previous evening. He doesn’t understand how Merlin can just sit yawning next to him as if nothing is wrong when Arthur is still so bereft over it all. 

“Late night, I take it?” Arthur asks Merlin pointedly while doing up his boots to prepare for the day ahead. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Merlin says with a shrug that would have been unassuming were it not for the fact that Morgana, who has been insistent on getting up early and back to Camelot, is still fast asleep.

“It seems like it was for Morgana. She’s usually scolding us by now,” Arthur says offhandedly hoping to get a rise out of Merlin and is disappointed to find that it doesn’t. “You should know, shouldn’t you? You two have been rather close lately.”

“Yes. She’s been rather helpful,” Merlin says contently as he nibbles on what little meat they have remaining for breakfast this morning. He really does not wish to know if ‘ helpful’ is supposed to be a euphemism for something.

“Oh. Is she?” Arthur asks pointedly, raising an eyebrow at Merlin.

Merlin retorts, “Well, things do get done faster with someone who doesn’t complain.”

Ah, yes. Now it needs to be personal. He just wanted information, not an attack. Merlin’s being defensive and if that means he needs to be on the offensive more to preserve his pride, so be it. “And I’m sure you have delightful conversations as well with all that spare time.”  

“We do in fact. Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Arthur. You know that’s unbecoming on you,” Merlin says with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. 

First of all, he is a very becoming person at all times, jealousy has absolutely nothing to do with his appearance if he was even jealous, which he isn’t. Also, he is taken aback by the absolute audacity of Merlin to even suggest such a thing to him, especially when holding such a secret over his head like bait. This smugness on Merlin is actually what is ‘unbecoming.’  

He goes to try and say something to Merlin in contestation but he cannot find the words with Merlin’s eyes fixed upon him as such, seemingly knowing he has won. Thankfully, when he hears Gwen wake up, he fixates upon her as his unsuspecting saviour.  

“Good morning, Gwen. Merlin and I were just discussing Morgana’s recent bout of cordiality. It’s only slightly disconcerting for her, one would think she’s been enchanted,” Arthur says in an offhand way to Gwen while taking momentary glances at Merlin to see if there’s any tells. There are none. Great. 

He supposes if Merlin will give him nothing, he can try and pull something out of Gwen. Everyone’s been hiding things from Arthur; it wouldn’t surprise him if Gwen and Lance already knew about the other budding relationship in their travelling party. “Have you been subjected to such things of late? You’ve always been rather close.”

Merlin clears his throat, as he gets up from his spot around the fire. “I need to collect more herbs of the medicinal variety. I don’t wish us to be unprepared in case we run across another patrol.” 

“Unusually good thinking, Merlin. Don’t sully our approval by getting lost, will you?” Arthur says, narrowing an eyebrow at Merlin’s weirdly sudden flight. As Merlin takes one last swig from his water canteen and turns to leave Arthur adds, “If you’re actually running off to see her, you do know she isn’t awake.”

Merlin looks upon Arthur full of confusion before leaving their camp. There’s surprisingly no flush rushing to the other man’s face of embarrassment at Arthur’s accusation, which pegs him as strange considering he knows Merlin is prone to that sort of thing when flustered. Merlin must have gotten much better at acting because the man is unphased by the ribbing. It sickens him that Merlin would go so far as to wear this mask and hide these affections for Morgana instead of just telling him. But it’s neither as if he needs protection nor that he even cares about the arrangement. Just like with Gwen and Lance. It doesn’t affect him. Why would it? 

As Merlin goes, Arthur watches with a look on his face that he expects has betrayed him because he feels Gwen’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to his senses.

“Arthur, are you alright? You’ve been rather distracted lately,” Gwen says kindly as she looks upon him as she would a brother, as opposed to the true love he was supposed to be for her. 

Before he can think better of it, the bitter words “Oh really? I’m surprised you’ve noticed someone other than Lance,” fall from his lips. Gwen lightly whacks him with the back of her hand as her concerned gaze contorts into a frown. He lets out a sigh and mutters, “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did,” Gwen says with resolve before softening his gaze upon him once more.  “Come now, though. What’s troubling you?” When he doesn’t respond to her inquiry, she lightly nudges him with her elbow and smiles, adding, “You know you’ve been moping so much lately, we could have mistaken you for Merlin.” 

“Insulting me isn’t the best form of comfort, Gwen,” Arthur says with a small laugh as he runs a hand through his hair. He does suppose that he and Merlin have swapped demeanors lately, and while he’s suffering he doesn’t altogether mind too much. A smile looks better on Merlin than himself. 

“Perhaps you should learn your own lesson then, Arthur,” Gwen says as she narrows her gaze at him, causing them both to break out in a laugh. It’s nice, talking like this again without all the awkwardness and Gwen there to keep him on his toes. He’s missed this a lot in favour of being bereft which seems like a retrospectively poor decision. 

Gwen places a hand on Arthur’s forearm and speaks in a more serious cadence. “Are you still upset about Lance and I?” 

And there’s the golden question: He is, but then again he isn’t. There is a sense of finality in Gwen and Lancelot’s relationship; they do not seem intent on separating from each other at any point in the coming future. They are, in fact, very much in love— even if he doesn’t wish to admit so— and while Gwen’s decision hurts, it is after all her decision. He’s not sure that the sting will ever fully leave him, especially now, knowing that they could have not been barred apart by Uther’s decrees and societal expectations. However, there is not much he can do, and he is slowly coming to terms with accepting it.

It’s also become exceedingly easier now that this disastrous Morgana and Merlin situation has come about that is altogether more disturbing for reasons he cannot place. This more surprising crisis, when combined with Camelot’s woes, has occupied his mind so much that Gwen spurning his love is one of his more remote thoughts. Gwen and Lancelot’s love feels like an inevitability as opposed to the mystery of Morgana and Merlin’s that he needs to solve. 

“I will not lie and say I do not feel slighted by the rejection, but I’m glad you are both content with the decision,” Arthur says with a bit more formality than necessary for a dear friend to try and not let his emotions derail him from what duty demands. 

“Thank you for your candour,” Gwen says with a nod. “You’re a good man, Arthur. I hope you know that this was never personal and I did not intend to make you feel it was such.”

It feels personal, but hearing that it isn’t helps marginally. He wants to ask a question that he simultaneously does not wish to know the answer to but also needs to. Letting out a sigh and trying to muster his strength he looks upon Gwen. “And Lance is a great one. Do you think you could have come to love me if I was one such as he?”

“Perhaps, if things had turned out differently. You are by no means unlovable Arthur, and seeing how you’ve begrudgingly matured into a more humble and honourable man over the past few months tells me as such. While you can be a prick, you are an endearing one,” she says with a smile and giving his forearm a light squeeze. “Though it cannot be me in the manner you wanted, I am sure there will be others who will give you what you deserve and may perchance be closer than you realise.” 

Gwen’s words are disappointing and a dash cryptic but it is good at least to know he isn’t a complete and utter lost cause. It’s not the sort of closure he wanted nor what he expected, but it is something. He places a hand on Gwen’s and tries to force a smile. “I suppose it is my turn to thank you for the candour.”

“That would be wise,” she says, rolling her eyes, before she gets up from their spot by the fire. Arthur follows in suit as Gwen starts to pack up camp so they can ride once more. He helps, trying to feel a little less useless as the two of them work in a comfortable silence. 

After a few minutes, he hears Lancelot call Gwen’s name from another clearing and Gwen politely dismisses herself to leave. Before she can, Arthur actually thanks her for their discussion and then smiles at her, urging her to go find him. When she smiles back it seems at least, for but a moment, one aspect of his scattered life is falling back into place. If only he can put together the ultimately more distressing other pieces at play, then he could perhaps finally have some semblance of peace of mind. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur decides, after another day of uselessness and many more hours of riding by himself in the back of his group, that he needs nobody other than himself to solve his problems. He is confident. He is capable. He is worthy of trust and respect and affection, just as Gwen had said. Obviously. 

So what if Merlin is desperate to pretend like nothing is going on and Gwen still thinks that her and Lancelot being together is the worst of his problems? That just leaves Arthur to do all of the heavy lifting all by himself. Which he is fine with doing. 

All he needs is to possess a little cunning, and he has plenty. The plan practically falls into his lap, after all, which means his predictions and plots will all work out today the way he intends for them to. 

Upon the place where they agree to stop for the night, Gwen and Lance offer to set up camp. Fantastic. Arthur stays silent. 

Merlin suggests that he’d be willing to gather firewood, and Morgana jumps in very quickly to say she’ll help. Arthur’s eye twitches, but he stays silent. 

“I suppose that leaves me on hunting duty, then,” he says with false cheer, going to gather the crossbow. His plan is this: hunt something quickly, drop it off at camp, then say he’s going to scout the area and catch Merlin and Morgana in a passionate embrace. When he stumbles upon them it will be a complete accident, of course, and then he can be appropriately hurt and betrayed that his friends did not trust him enough to tell him about their intent to court.

Something about the idea of the two of them still does not sit right with Arthur, no matter how much he drives the information into his brain, but he shoves the piece into place with force. Arthur can keep a secret and he has no right to take away anything from either of them who have sacrificed so much for him. 

Arthur is lucky to catch a fox unawares, although he is caught off guard about as much as the fox is, considering that the sun still shines bright in the sky. However, he doesn’t discount his good fortune and takes the meat back to camp after cleaning it, dropping off the crossbow while he’s there. 

Then he is off once more, using the tracking skills he has honed for most of his life to follow the footsteps of Morgana and Merlin. Thank goodness that Merlin is just about the most clumsy oaf in all of Albion, because he leaves a massive trail that is incredibly easy for Arthur to follow. If it had just been Morgana, he might have not been able to do this. 

Since that is not the case, Arthur traces the path and ends up approaching a clearing, in which he can see Morgana and Merlin stacking a big pile of firewood. It seems like they have a lot more than they should, but Arthur did the same recently, so he refrains from judgement.  

There is another pile of wood, a smaller one in the middle of the clearing, and Morgana and Merlin stand around it. Arthur is weary, but he came into the clearing the opposite way that they did and is able to find himself a good vantage point behind a cluster of trees easily. 

Now, all he has to do is wait. 

There is some murmuring between the two of them that Arthur can’t quite hear, but Morgana seems a little nervous, and Merlin pats her back in reassurance before she widens her stance and extends a hand towards the woodpile. 

Arthur has little time to wonder what the hell she’s doing before Morgana calls “Forbærne!” Her eyes flash gold. A fire erupts from within. 

Arthur stops breathing. A weight sinks onto him, heavy and burdensome. Moments flash through his mind at a rapid pace: Morgana having odd dreams; Morgana begging for him to not do certain things he always came home from injured; Morgana’s affinity for the Druid boy; Morgana’s window shattering without explanation; the candle in Morgana’s room being alight after Gwen promised she’d put it out. 

Morgana LeFay is a sorceress. 

Arthur starts breathing again, letting one breath shudder in and out before he regains focus, pushing away the tears that threaten and burn behind his eyes. A betrayal. A betrayal. And now, another betrayal. 

Arthur clenches his teeth. Reaches for his sword in his scabbard as Morgana celebrates her fire with a smile and then Merlin is there right beside her, throwing his arms around her in a hug. 

Arthur’s hand falls away from his side to grip at the tree in front of him. He needs something to hold on to. 

And then. Merlin pulls away. Gestures excitedly as he laughs. Says, “Watch this!” And then waves his hands. His eyes, too, flash that sickly shade of gold. 

The smoke in the air ripples. It comes together into a ball, and then it grows a head, arms and legs, wings. Merlin crafts the smoke into a dragon that beats its wings and lets out a little fire of embers before it dissolves. 

Arthur sinks to his knees, paralyzed. It was one thing for Aldreda to have magic. It is another for the woman he considers a sister and the man who is probably his best friend to have it. 

But Arthur cannot draw his sword. He cannot rush into the clearing and fight them, nor confront them. He has not the power to be angry. He is only shocked and numb and betrayed. He sits, rendered dumb as the two of them perform more tricks. Nothing harmful. 

Merlin grows flowers at will from the ground. Morgana practises making the fire into an orb. Merlin twists his hands to release a butterfly. Morgana blows wind off her palm to make a slight breeze. 

And then they leave, coming out of the clearing the way they came in, leaving Arthur behind, torn open of perfidy.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴅʀᴀɢs ʜɪᴍsᴇʟғ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀᴍᴘ much too late and takes first watch, ushering Lance to sleep. He sits through the night, not sleeping, just starting into the fire unblinkingly. He feels tense and frozen and nervous, five different voices in the back of his mind screaming over each other, yet he cannot move. 

The first insists that he draw his sword and slay Morgana and Merlin both for possessing magic and using it so blatantly.

The next insists that neither of them harmed anyone or did anything with it that was dangerous, that they don’t deserve a penalty when he isn’t even sure what magic does, really.

Another yet protests that magic is the very thing that killed his mother. It is what his father has dedicated his life’s mission to eradicate from this earth. It would be a betrayal to both of his parents if he lets them survive. Magic corrupts, his father always said. It latches onto your soul and makes it dark and black and twisted until there’s no humanity left.

Voice number four just feels hurt. That part of Arthur feels like a purple bruise that he cannot stop poking, tender and raw. Did they not trust me? It screams, washing between blistering anger and deep sorrow. 

And the last part of Arthur, the smallest portion of him, is a little bit awed. Scared, stunned, surprised; but also the spells they’d performed had been almost beautiful, in a nature-defying way. It had reminded Arthur of the bit with the unicorn. The creature had felt distinctly other , just like Merlin and Morgana’s magic, but not in a bad, evil way. Just different . 

He’s curious. He’s incensed. He’s injured. He’s despairing. He’s numb. He’s tearing up, he’s clenching his jaw. He’s looking into the fire and thinking about letting them burn. He’s closing his eyes and promising that if they’re ever up on the pyre, he’ll cut them down himself. 

After all, it’s Morgana and Merlin. The woman who is practically Arthur’s sister and the man that is his best friend. He can’t condemn them to death, can he? They’ve not done anything to warrant it—

But magic warrants it. 

But only in Camelot, and they’re in Cenred’s kingdom right now. 

He didn’t kill Aldreda, after all, and she used magic in a much more blatant way in front of him. It had been to save his life and all, but he didn’t want to dwell on that. 

Arthur stares down into his hands, lost. This revelation changes everything. 

It changes nothing. Morgana and Merlin are Morgana and Merlin. They followed Arthur through everything, packed up their things and followed him after his disinheritance and banishment when they didn’t have to and could have left Arthur on his own. 

What if both of them only picked up magic because of him? What if they saw how dangerous things were on the road and they’re trying to make sure they can do something like what Aldreda did for him in times of crisis? On that line of thought, when did they start learning magic? And how? From Aldreda?  

Arthur frowns, more questions flooding his mind as possibilities spiral out in front of him. Then, he tosses the inquiries aside for anger. 

They are not in Camelot. Why didn’t they tell Arthur? Did they think him not trustworthy? Not enough of a friend? 

The blood in his veins freezes. What if, Arthur thinks slowly, the flames of the fire dancing in front of him, I was right, and they are courting each other? 

Arthur imagines magic courting rituals, Merlin sprouting up special out-of-season flowers for a bouquet and handing them to Morgana shyly while she conjures up a fully completed embroidery piece and gives it to him in return.  

Something shrinks back in Arthur at the thought of them doing magic and having their eyes glow gold and kissing all at the same time, like he’s pulling up a nightmare he didn’t know existed from the recesses of his mind. 

Somehow, this thought is more disturbing than all of the ones that have come before it, a prevailing sense of wrongness to the whole idea almost making Arthur nauseous. Two couples, one magical and one not, one made up of his sister and his manservant-turned-best friend and the other of the woman he was supposed to have true love with and the most annoyingly perfect man he’s ever met. And then himself, the ex-prince of Camelot. Alone. Untrusted. Unloved. 

Arthur leans back onto his hands with a sigh. He’s so tired of this, of all of this. He scoffs and whispers to himself, “I am a jester in court being hit by a shit pie.” 

Arthur cannot help himself, then, in the middle of the night, but he starts to laugh just a little bit. It’s not funny. God, it’s not fucking funny, but Arthur’s life has gone to the dogs and somehow it just keeps getting worse. It’s absurd .

It’s the middle of the night hysteria, and Arthur knows he cannot wake anyone up, so needing to be quiet doesn’t make things any better. 

It takes him longer than it should to get a hold of himself, a few more hushed giggles falling out of his mouth as he thinks, Why shouldn’t Merlin and Morgana be courting and be sorcerers? It’d only make sense after everything. 

He sees tiny little magic babies floating through the air in his mind and loses it again for just a moment. God. Merlin and Morgana getting magical married. Having sorcerous spawn. He crawls away from the fire a good distance so that he can take a minute and breathe, tears falling from his eyes.

What a disaster. What a fucking mess. 

Arthur uses the corner of his tunic to wipe away tears from his face, and then exhaustion creeps back in. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore. Arthur really needs to do something about this, doesn’t he? 

Grimacing, he walks carefully back to the fire and sits down again. The thing is, Arthur doesn’t know what he can do. He is certain about one thing: Morgana and Merlin do not deserve to die. He can’t stomach killing them himself when he’s seen no evidence of actual evil from either of them. 

Ultimately, Arthur decides he’ll keep an eye out. Watch them, and see what happens. If they use their magic in an evil manner, he will act. However, until then, he’ll let things be. 

Lips pressed together, he goes and wakes Gwen for the second watch much later than he should have, and then tries to sleep as best he can, thoughts still swirling in his brain. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

What Arthur wants, more than anything at the moment, is the time to process the fact that the two people dearest to him are sorcerers. He’s been trying on the road, he really has, but it’s not exactly easy when he is the one in charge of this crusade back to Camelot and has to worry about survival. He used to despise when Father had forced him to sit idly in court, left with only his thoughts to occupy him. Now, he wishes for it more than anything. 

But what does Arthur get ? Ambushed by one of Cenred’s patrols again. That’s what. Fate is already conspiring against him, as he cannot escape from the magic that duty has urged him to destroy his youth. Fate also apparently is conspiring to ensure he cannot take back his birthright as every single time they head towards Camelot’s borders it is one step closer and two steps back. 

These patrols aren’t even skilled. They fall to the party’s blades within no time, so it’s not even a challenge on some noble quest he’s meant to undertake. They are just minor annoyances in his way and quite frankly, he is displeased with the consistently poor hand he’s been dealt of late. Any one of his woes is more than enough, let alone this mixed pot of horse shit and conflicted feelings. 

Having dispatched the previous patrol, it is likely another would come to take its place to find the missing party, meaning all of them have to hide out until the way is safe once more. The small glade they had found would be too obvious, but upon further venturing into the woods, they happened upon a deep cave hidden amidst a smattering of trees. 

Now, Arthur is stuck tending the fire and setting up camp as Morgana and Merlin ensure that the inner sanctum does not harbour any more unwelcome surprises. And frankly, he’s only a little peeved about being stuck with this duty. Does he really need to sit here and ensure the fire is fed when apparently Merlin and Morgana can conjure one out of thin air? 

No .

This is a legitimately pointless task that he has to do while they keep their little secret when their lives would have been infinitesimally more efficient with this knowledge. Albeit, it would put them in danger, but still, at least something like collecting wood and game isn’t replaceable with a finger snap. 

When he hears an unfamiliar feminine voice coming from the cave’s inner sanctum, Arthur readies his blade to face whatever monster must be lurking within. Noticing the absence of Merlin and Morgana’s voices, he wonders if they have perished within to this mystery beast. Before he can try to even imagine how he would feel if that were the case, he hears a cacophony of giggling that he would recognize anywhere, as the light sound of Merlin and Morgana’s laughter has always been a source of joy and comfort. Or had been, Arthur supposes, now that the memories of their betrayal have that as their tune. 

When they emerge, it is alongside a young brunette girl who dons a tattered red dress and more dirt than makes up the floor beneath his feet. Her ratty hair bounces as she walks in sync with the pair of sorcerers who seem to be at total ease with Cave Girl, who is a stranger and apparently lives in a rock. He would try to step in and protect them, but if Merlin and Morgana are mighty and powerful wizards, they can probably defend themselves. So, upon assuming that things seem to be safe, Arthur sheaths his sword and returns to his useless fire watching duty to mope, for his express benefit only and not to attract any attention whatsoever, as the party approaches. 

“Arthur, we’d like you to meet Freya. She’s hiding out here as well,” Merlin says, clapping an overenthusiastic hand on Arthur’s shoulder. With a sigh, Arthur turns back around to see the girl extending a hand and he tries not to grimace as he takes notice of her insanely dirty fingernails. Helping a struggling village is one thing; helping absolutely charity cases when they themselves are charity cases is another thing. 

Arthur bites his tongue before he can ask, Lovely, and are you a sorcerer on the run as well or do you have another magical secret to share with the party, Cave Girl? 

Too soon?

Instead he opts for, “Right. And what brings you to this humble abode?” It’s a valiant attempt at breaking the ice and redirecting the conversation so he doesn’t end up sharing the secret about said other secret.

He catches Morgana rolling her eyes as the comment and sees Merlin shake his head to stifle a snort. He’s glad magic hasn’t altered their humour, if nothing else. Cave Girl smiles a bit and quietly mentions how she’s been on the run from Cenred’s patrol as well, having run away from her village because of troubles there. He honestly cannot see why being a cave dweller could qualify as an escape, but then again he isn’t one to talk at the moment. 

Arthur acknowledges her response before curling back into his own solitude as Morgana, Merlin, and Cave Girl fall into conversation with one another. He honestly wishes he would have gone hunting with Gwen and Lance right now; it would have been preferable to hearing them all giggle like girls, Merlin included. 

Arthur steals a few glances at Merlin, whose eyes are glowing in the normal way as he animatedly speaks with the two women. It’s altogether a bit infuriating. They are ridiculously discussing the misuse of herbs in a conversation he isn’t invited to despite having acquired a basic education of them from the other man. But of course, by all means should Merlin talk about herbs with Cave Girl . 

“To be completely candid, Gaius never specified why one cannot use that much Lemon Balm,” Merlin says with a lightness in his voice, as if he’s trying to keep himself from laughing more. “Besides, I retrieved enough honey for the brew.” 

“And you were stung how many times?” Morgana asks in a deadpan manner, before allowing the smirk she’s veiling to show. 

Merlin doesn’t answer which indicates it had been a decent amount, which he’s shocked he never heard about, being Merlin’s best friend and all. Freya shakes her head quickly, swishing her nest of hair as she does so, and places a hand on Merlin’s forearm. “We’ll need to show you how to properly attract bees tomorrow. There’s a good number of hives in the area.” 

That’s not all Merlin seems to be attracting. Now all the girls seem to love Merlin, and for what reason? Arthur hasn’t the foggiest why, especially now that it is clear Merlin is harbouring dangerous magical potential. But perhaps that is what is making him so interesting? Merlin has always been incredibly dull. Arthur wonders for a moment if it was all an act before promptly shoving the thought aside, because nobody could be that convincingly useless at all times.

Still, even if Merlin is an utter dunce, he’s still Arthur’s best friend. Not Morgana’s best friend or Cave Girl’s best friend. Arthur’s best friend. And Merlin doesn’t seem to want anything to do with him right now because he seems to find these women infinitely more interesting, which has been disturbingly out of character of late. Merlin never showed any real interest in girls before that he’s seen outside of Morgana, and now he’s suddenly chasing petticoats. Arthur would warrant that Merlin is under some sort of spell, like those times Arthur had found himself as such, but considering he’s apparently some all-powerful magic man who’d been masquerading as his manservant, Merlin likely could have stopped it. This distressingly means that this is all genuinely Merlin’s infatuation and genuinely women’s infatuation with Merlin, which will give him another bout of last night’s nausea if he thinks about it too much longer.

“Would you like to stay in camp with us tonight?” Merlin asks Freya excitedly, as he offers her his water canteen and some bits of dried meat they still had left. Arthur isn’t sure why Morgana isn’t jealous about this whole deal, considering the man courting her apparently is also getting close with the cave dweller. If he were in the same situation he surely would be a little concerned. But that’s Morgana’s problem, not his. She’s the one courting and contributing to the rift between him and Merlin, after all. 

“I think it’s better that I find a new dwelling for the evening. I don’t wish it to be too cramped here,” Freya replies meekly.  

Merlin shakes his head. “Really Freya, it's no trouble. We have more than enough space and food to go around, especially when Gwen and Lance return.”

Morgana lightly nudges Freya with her arm. “Besides, Merlin’s education has been stalled since leaving Camelot and he should properly learn to use Lemon Balm.” 

The comment makes Cave Girl laugh and earns Morgana a lighthearted scowl from the offended party. Okay, Morgana. Take his role of witty repartee and jests in conversing with Merlin as well. 

After the moment passes, Freya frowns and shakes her head at them. “The patrols have been tracking me for weeks and have been getting closer. I don’t wish you to be caught in the crossfire should they find us,” she says with sincerity, and this is the first time he has been pro-Cave Girl. If she wants to leave, they should just let her leave. It’s no skin off their noses and everyone can go their own merry way. But apparently, Merlin and Morgana think otherwise.

“If they do come, we’ll have strength in numbers and can protect you,” Merlin says firmly. “Please. We’ll do better knowing you’re safe with us and can help you to the next village.”

Freya seems to hesitate again, but finally gives in and nods her head in defeat. When she does, Merlin throws an excited arm around Freya’s shoulder to pull her into a side hug. Arthur notices that there must be a draft in this cave because the fire doesn’t seem to warm him as much as it should at the moment. If only he could be magically warmer. Right. He could if his friends didn’t keep things from him like this.

When Merlin and Morgana go to help Cave Girl get adjusted Arthur doesn’t bother hiding the grimace on his face while they go. It’s not likely they can see it and just not as likely that they probably care. So it’s him and his meagre excuse for a fire once more, but now he has even more to process and is in even less of a mood to do so.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴡᴀᴋᴇs ᴜᴘ from his troubled sleep with a jolt to the sound of stifled yells and heavy panting. He’s on his feet before he’s fully awake, reaching for a sword that is not on his belt.

Morgana’s there— it had been her watch. He’d thought she’d be fine; the cave is small and fairly sheltered, but there are deep claw gashes in her leg, the cloth around soaked red. Urgently, Arthur’s eyes flick about for where he’d placed his weapon when he sees it.

Before them stands what should be a bear but by all means is not. Instead, a winged feline whose coat is black as midnight tries to take another slash at Morgana who is trying to stay the bleeding with one of her arms and ward off the fiend with the other. She holds a hand out and  murmurs something under her breath, seemingly unaware that she is not alone or is too frightened for her life to care. As Arthur finally locates and reaches down for his blade, he catches Morgana’s eyes flickering gold for but a moment until— Snap.

The sound of Morgana’s scream echoes through every corner of the cavern when her outstretched arm is clamped within the beast’s jaw. Arthur lunges forwards, slashing at the feline’s throat while it is exposed to try and wrest the arm free. The creature’s elicited yelp gives Arthur enough time to knock Morgana out of the way and onto her bedroll so she cannot be hurt further. The sound of her collision with the ground makes him wince; he prays it isn’t her head but knows the thinking is too wishful. Still, he’d prefer her injured to dead, which she might be if she loses more blood. Thankfully, the rustling of bags and clanking of metal is enough to tell him that he at least has backup now.

Arthur slashes at the beast and tries to redirect its attention from the bloodied trophy before it and thankfully, considering Arthur drew blood that is now matting the beast’s fur, he seems to be its intended target. Of course, this also means he is now the beast’s intended target. 

Amidst the commotion, Arthur’s head floods with the sounds of his crossbow clicking, Morgana’s pained groans, and Gwen’s worried bemoaning as she fusses over her. Glancing to the side, he sees Merlin levying the crossbow at the beast and side-steps when it whizzes by, allowing it to sink into the beast. Arthur surmises that the bolt didn’t hit any vitals as it doesn’t seem to fell the creature. Arthur prays Merlin’s a better shot next time as he’s backed farther into a corner with the beast.

Another bolt whirs too close for comfort as it misses the beast altogether, just grazing past Arthur’s shoulder. Merlin shouts some form of apology or another and Arthur would honestly prefer the man to just use magic accurately and instead of using a crossbow and potentially killing Arthur in the process. The beast raises another paw at him and Arthur braces for the pain as he goes to parry it. Thankfully, it doesn’t come. 

The beast cries out as Lancelot’s longsword comes in contact with its hind leg and whips around to try and respond to the onslaught. Its quick movement means that Arthur’s arm is now where the beast’s neck has ceased to spatially be, meaning a different, singular, stinging pain comes. He’s too worried about not getting mauled by the winged panther to know if he’s bleeding out as well in the arm now, no thanks to Merlin. It doesn’t matter. What matters is driving the beast from this place. 

As the feline turns to strike Lance, Arthur slashes at the beast’s already wounded leg once more to draw blood again. He and Lance encroach on the beast whose head darts between them, seemingly trying to assess the larger threat. While it does so, Merlin finally sinks a bolt into the leg, which the beast is now limping on. For a moment, the massive threat seems vulnerable, as its eyes read something of fear as opposed to blind aggression. 

Lancelot goes to strike at the exposed neck but the beast knocks him out of the way with its paws before fleeing into one of the outlets within the cave. Arthur motions Merlin to grab a torch as he and Lance pursue deeper into the cavern so they can track and disparage the foul beast while it is at its lowest. However, the torch lighting the way does not fare well, as the cave forks into a number of routes and the blood trailed by the beast does not leave a distinct enough path. It soon becomes all too apparent that there is no use in trying to follow the feline, only preventing another attack and tending to their wounds. 

The three men wordlessly make their way back to camp and Arthur rushes to Morgana’s side to take her limp hand in his. The slow beat of her pulse seems to be the only indicator that she is still with them physically after being mauled by whatever that was. 

“Will she be alright?” Arthur murmurs under his breath to nobody in particular. He and Morgana did not survive hectic life in Camelot and exile only for her to be lost in a freak attack by an otherworldly creature. He can’t lose her, not now. 

Arthur would bitterly laugh at the irony of it all if he could find it in himself right now. Only a few days prior had the thought crossed his mind to condemn Morgana to death for her sorcery when he learned of her secret, and now fate seemingly wanted to make it so. 

“We’ll do what we can.” Gwen says as she moves out of the way so Merlin can inspect Morgana’s injuries. As Gaius’s apprentice, Merlin is no doubt well suited to this sort of thing, but Arthur is still anxious if it’ll be enough, especially considering the lack of equipment they have to deal with injuries this grave. While Merlin appraises the situation, Gwen gently squeezes Arthur’s shoulder with a hand that leaves another small bloodstain on his dirtied tunic. 

When Arthur turns to offer a pained smile to Gwen in thanks, he is reminded of his own wound which fled his mind amidst the situation’s gravity. Not wanting to disturb Merlin with something so minor, Arthur dislodges the bolt and wraps his arm with a bit of the fabric on the ground beneath them in a makeshift bandage. Thankfully, the scratch is nothing to write home about, unlike what has befallen the sorceress.   

If Morgana was not potentially dying out in front of them, Arthur might have commended Merlin’s command of the cave-turned-clinic. With determination and urgency, Merlin orders Lance to sift through what wood to find the proper pieces for a splint while wrapping Morgana’s wounds with makeshift dressings. As he works, the physician’s apprentice works with both precision and tenderness that helps quell Arthur’s worst fears of the night’s outcome, which is a seemingly impossible feat in and of itself. Arthur doesn’t know how he’ll be able to repay this debt, but is also aware Merlin, being the good-hearted man he is, would never ask that of anyone. 

As everyone is currently tending to Morgana, Arthur tries to make himself useful by trying to determine what exactly the beast was and how it ended up in their cave. Arthur brushes his fingers against the walls as he surveys the cave’s mouth which doesn’t seem large enough for the beast to have entered through. Its small opening indicated that it would have been somewhat of a struggle for it to enter, meaning Morgana should have heard it approaching. He would ask Morgana if she was awake, but since she isn’t Arthur can only assume. From the state of her mauling, it is asinine to even surmise it wasn’t a surprise attack.

His theory is confirmed by the light of the torch revealing no tracks in the mud outside of the cave, meaning the beast must have come from within. But from where? The beast seemingly knows its way through the labyrinth of tunnels within, but why come across and attack their camp? Their little remaining stores of dried meat are unscathed, as are most of their things that were not in the feline’s destructive path. All that remains is a spattering of blood and a mess of torn red cloth they had been using as bandages.  

Wasn’t Cave Girl wearing— Shit.  

“Where is the Cave Girl?” Arthur asks urgently, gripping the fabric in his fingers.

“She has a name you know,” Merlin hums petulantly as he continues to dress Morgana’s leg. 

“Fine. Where’s Freya ?” Arthur says as he places a hand to his temple as he mulls over the fact he hasn’t seen her since the attack. The girl seemed familiar with the caverns so she must know of the existence of magical beings in the woods like whatever that was, so despite her intention to do so, it would have been foolish to flee in the night— Unless she had a reason to.

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh before saying, “I believe she might be the key to whatever attacked us?” Off of Merlin’s raised eyebrow, Arthur continues. “Come now. Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious for her to completely disappear and for that beast to magically appear?”

“I don’t mean to doubt you but that seems a bit far-fetched, Arthur,” Gwen offers. “She was nothing but kind to us.”

“A shapeshifter is far-fetched but the troll queen and goblin physician isn’t?” Arthur says flippantly while pacing back and forth. “You know it’s not out of the question.”

“No. I think Arthur may be right. I’ve heard tales of sorcerers laying curses such as these upon people, and the winged beast belongs more in a bestiary than it does the world of the living.” Lancelot shakes his head solemnly. “Freya expressed discomfort with staying with us tonight, perhaps this was why she insisted.” 

Knowing Lance has reached a similar conclusion is comforting to Arthur as they all try to piece together themselves and this mystery. After some hesitance, everyone decides to proceed as if that theory is true unless Freya’s return proves otherwise. As the last of the wounds is attended to, they decide to make way to the nearest village come morning to bring Morgana to safety and to double the watch until then. Arthur knows it is going to be a long evening when it has barely begun and there’s blood on all of their hands. He doubts he’ll be able to sleep tonight but that seems to be the rule rather than the exception lately, so help him. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur gets shaken awake by Lancelot in the middle of the night. Frankly, he’s surprised that he was able to sleep at all, considering how awful he’d felt and how disturbed he’d been following the attack of the beast-that-had-been-Freya. 

However, he’s awake now, and he takes only a moment more of lying down before he gets up to join Merlin near their small fire. 

They greet each other with small, tired smiles, and then Arthur can’t help but ask as he sits down, worry coating the words, “How is Morgana doing? Gwen give you any updates?” 

Merlin shakes his head grimly. “No change,” he whispers back. “She lost quite a lot of blood from the beast’s claw marks, her head wound is still tender, and her broken arm has been immobilised, but I fear my training did not cover such large wounds from creatures of magic. Gwen and I are doing what we can for her with what we have, but I fear it is not enough.” 

Arthur exhales long and slow, closing his eyes for a moment. Regret flows through his body; it was stupid to agree to Morgana having a single watch. Absolutely preposterous, especially with a girl that they did not know joining them. 

He has always been a man of action, and finds that sitting still is now becoming unbearable. Arthur needs to do something. He needs to help Morgana, somehow. 

Decision made, he stands and paces over to where she lays, eyes closed but face pinched like she’s in pain, her skin pale and wan. Her arm is tied to a piece of firewood that Merlin turned into a splint, and her leg is wrapped in what little clean cloth they had that could be used for rags. There are some dark spots that he can see already, and he knows that blood continues to leak out of Morgana’s injuries. 

Her hair isn’t even brushed. What parts of it stick out from her bandaged head form a massive mess of a halo around her head, and Arthur cannot recall the last time she looked so out-of-place. It feels distinctly wrong, and something in Arthur’s chest twinges and then twists. 

His eyes narrow, and he spins on his heel before marching back over to Merlin. 

“I,” he declares quietly, “am going to go pick some herbs for Morgana so that you have more resources to help her heal.” 

Merlin looks up at him from where he’s seated on the log, his tired face painted with confusion in the fire’s light. “What?” He asks.

Arthur lifts his chin and repeats himself. “I’m going to get Morgana some healing herbs. Tell me what you need and I’ll go find it.” 

The look that Merlin gives him this time seems softer, a little less confused but a little more pitying than Arthur was hoping for. “Arthur,” Merlin says softly, “it’s the middle of the night. You aren’t good enough at plant identification to gather herbs under the moonlight. And besides, do you really want to leave me on watch by myself after what happened to Morgana?” 

Arthur’s shoulders slump. “I can’t just sit here, Merlin.” 

Oddly enough, the other man smiles at that. It’s a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s a private and just for Arthur. It only takes another moment for Arthur to  recognize it as Merlin’s You’re a dollopheaded prat but in the best way possible smile. 

He pats the log, and Arthur takes no time to plop down beside Merlin on it. 

“You’re doing enough,” Merlin tells him after a beat of silence. 

Arthur snorts. “Am I really, though?” It doesn’t feel like it. It hasn’t felt like Arthur has measured up to anything or anyone since he was disinherited. He stares into the fire’s dancing flames as he contemplates it. It’s awful, really, and he’s fucking sick of feeling like an unimportant peasant. “I’m nothing. Nobody.” 

“Hey!” Merlin says, perhaps a little too loud. “Don’t say that about yourself.” Arthur feels a hand on his knee, and looks up to Merlin, whose face is devoted and determined, staring right into Arthur’s eyes.

Merlin’s blue irises flicker gold from the light of the fire, but Arthur doesn’t flinch. He knows, somehow, that Merlin wouldn’t hurt him. Not now, not like this. Not when he looks simultaneously like a child and an old man, shadows playing over his face as he continues to speak. 

“We will get back to Camelot. Your people will need you, and you are destined to be king. Disinheritance? Exile? They are temporary, Arthur. Temporary. There is too much of an honourable man, too much of a good man inside of you to ever allow Camelot to go to ruins. We are going to fix this.” 

It’s times like these that Merlin steals the breath from Arthur’s lungs. He forgets, largely, that Merlin can do this, can spew out the most loyal speech from the depths of his soul like he is made of pure belief in Arthur and his ability. His devotion has humbled Arthur before, back when he was no more than a servant. But Merlin doesn’t owe Arthur this, now. 

He is saying this because he believes in it, in him. In what he has yet to do that Merlin is somehow so confident that he will achieve. 

“When did you get so eloquent?” Arthur deflects, looking away. He doesn’t feel quite worthy of the faith the other man has put in him. 

Merlin pats his knee and then withdraws his hand. For once, he seems to have gained a little tact, for he teases back, “I have always been well-spoken. Would you like to remind me who wrote your last three speeches before we left the castle?” 

Arthur concedes the point to him with a roll of his eyes, but then is left to his thoughts again. He thinks of the way that Morgana looked out in that field, doing magic with a joyful smile on her face, laughing and sharing her accomplishments with Merlin. She’d never looked that carefree in Camelot. 

Arthur steals a quick glance at Merlin to find him looking pensively into the fire. He’s been thinking about magic, still. How he doesn’t really know anything about it, after he tries to dig up everything Father had told him about it.

The substance of the matter is actually quite small. Before, Arthur never had a reason to ask questions about the way that magic worked, because it was evil. He was never going to use it, after all he didn’t want to corrupt his soul. So all he really knows is the following:

1. Magic corrupted one’s soul and twisted it into irreparable darkness. 
2. Magic could be used as a weapon to kill.
3. Many sorcerers targeted his family (but was this because of the Purge?).
4. The Druids managed to be a peaceful magic group, somehow.
5. Apparently, magic could be used for small nature-defying acts, both criminal and seemingly harmless. 

Honestly, that is it. He feels almost… bad about his lack of knowledge. He has no idea where the slippery slope of soul-corruption lies, and how far you can go before you cannot come back. Were he still in Camelot, he would consult the vaults and the restricted section of the library, but out here in Cenred’s kingdom, all he can do is wonder. 

And Merlin has not changed, at least not yet. Arthur knows. He’s been keeping out a very watchful eye. Neither has Morgana; as far as he can tell she has been her annoying self all the way up until the attack earlier. 

And now, Merlin has just given another one of his rare bouts of wisdom. Maybe Arthur is out of his head, but he realises that he trusts Merlin. Of course, he is still very, very upset that Merlin is doing magic and has not told him about any of it. Merlin is a fool and a dullard and he is going to get himself killed one of these days. 

But Merlin, Arthur knows, would never purposefully hurt him. And he was apprenticed under Gaius, who Arthur knows used to practise magic before the Purge. It would make an almost eerie sort of sense if Merlin had gotten the idea of magic from Gaius himself. Maybe he stole an old book Gaius had forgotten to get rid of, or something. 

Therefore, it is quite probable that Merlin knows something of the healing arts with magic. Arthur wrestles with himself for a moment more, but then recalls how Morgana still likely looks, pale and sallow and in pain. 

He stands up again, mind made up. “If I can’t get Morgana any herbs, I’ll go get her flowers,” he babbles, coming up with the first excuse he can cobble together. “She likes those, doesn’t she? She liked the ones you got her anyway, and hell, we can tell her you picked them for all I care.” And here is where Arthur looks at Merlin, putting all of the emphasis and hidden meaning that he dares into his tone. “Do… something. Tend to her while I am away, please , do whatever it takes to help her.” 

Merlin blinks at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, but when Arthur keeps looking at him beseechingly he nods his head once. 

“Of course, Arthur.” 

Thank God. He takes a few extra logs and stokes up the fire, grabbing a couple of waterskins before he goes to replenish their supply as well. And then, he heads out into the night, fearful but hoping that Merlin is able to work some miracle before he returns without crippling the bright soul Arthur knows he carries with him. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur had been too foolish and too hasty by far the night before. Truly, he hasn’t the foggiest idea what had overtaken him, but it must have been something , because he had actually picked flowers like some sort of girl, and he had trusted Merlin— Merlin, of all people— to use magic in a responsible and irreproachable manner. 

However, when he’d returned near dawn with a mismatched bouquet of flowers in his hand and five full waterskins, Morgana did not look any better than when he had left. 

Yes. Arthur had been enchanted last night by the fireside in that moment he thought he’d seen Merlin’s eyes glow gold. He truly was half-witted. 

And now, he is taking loads to and from the caves, packing things on the horses with haste so that their small company can try and find a healer at a nearby village to actually help Morgana. In the daylight, Merlin and Gwen had admitted defeat, and worry had overtaken them all when Morgana had not awoken to such a degree that it was essential they made haste. 

Arthur quickly ties the last bundle to Merlin’s horse Maisie before making his way back to the entrance of the cave, where he meets Lancelot. 

“Are they almost ready to move Morgana?” He asks, ready to get away from the cave system, unwilling to meet Freya’s beast form again. 

Lance grimaces. “No. Merlin has decided that he wants to make a few teas for Morgana to drink before we leave. He’ll have to use the last of the poppy from his herb supply, but it’ll be needed to suppress her pain. There were a couple more as well, but I wasn’t listening to the details. Also, since Morgana still hasn’t woken up, we’re going to have to wait a while before we can leave; Gwen says they’ll have to coax the teas down her throat.” 

Well. At least it sounds like Merlin is doing something useful with his herb knowledge, if not his magic knowledge. Apprenticeships with Gaius apparently do have their perks, then. 

Arthur is still a bit reluctant to hear that they cannot quite leave yet, but he’s willing to wait if it means that some of Morgana’s ailments might lessen in that time. 

“I suppose we should go back in, then,” Arthur starts, but Lance cuts him off. 

“Actually, Guinevere asked me if we would stay out here. I was thinking it might be nice for us to spar, as we have not had the chance to do so in quite some time, which is a true shame, my friend.” 

Arthur huffs out a breath at the unexpected invitation. He has not wielded his sword in a friendly spar in quite some time; Lancelot is right about the tragedy of that statement. Besides, Arthur is very aware that he cannot do anything about Morgana’s predicament at the current moment, and he does not desire to think any more than he has recently. So he puts it out of his mind and decides to allow himself this one thing.

Readily, enthusiastically, Arthur tells Lancelot he would love to, and the two of them move closer to the nearby river where there is a little bit of clear space for them to start. 

“Warm-up first?” Arthur questions. 

Lance laughs. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I think the two of us both need it after being cold for so long! Lead me in the ones you do in Camelot?” 

At the deference, Arthur can’t help but preen a little bit. It might have been a while, but he is still a fantastic swordsman. The two of them run around the clearing a few times to get their blood flowing, and then Arthur leads Lancelot through the familiar strains of his usual warm-up for the knights’ training, wincing as some of the more complicated manoeuvres show him where his body has weakened. 

Lancelot is obviously skilled as well, and keeps up fantastically with Arthur’s drills for someone who only did them for less than a week when he’d had that fabricated noble crest. 

Soon enough, Arthur feels warm and loose-limbed, ready and limber enough to fight. Energy dances off of his skin, radiating out into the air around him like the buzzing of a bee’s wings. 

When he and Lancelot draw their swords, Arthur sinks into his friendly fight mindset with relish, using his eyes to scan Lance’s body and shifting his weight back and forth in his favourite manner that makes switching movements seamless. 

He spins his sword flashily in his hands, waiting for Lancelot to make the first move. When he finally does, Arthur gets swept up into the match, parrying and slashing every move. Lancelot is not an easy opponent, but that just makes Arthur even more gleeful, pulling out every little trick he knows in order to get the upper hand. 

Lancelot backs away for a moment, a retreat to regain his breath, and Arthur can’t help the grin that overtakes his face. He advances forwards and engages Lancelot again, but this time his opponent is more prepared and bats away his strikes. 

Neither of them are aiming to hurt each other, so the spar feels more like a dance than anything else, the two of them giving and taking, showing each other tricks that get thrown back and forth, reiterated and improved on based on circumstance and skill. 

It is refreshing. Arthur hadn’t realised how much he missed this, not really. They go on for a good while under the sun until Arthur disarms Lancelot and the other man laughs good-naturedly and they both take off their shoes and socks to put their feet in the river for a little while to cool off. 

“Great spar,” Lance offers, leaning back on his hands. 

It is without hesitation that Arthur agrees, “Absolutely. You are more skilled than most with a sword Lancelot. I would like to reiterate what I said before, when we first met: you should be a knight.” 

At the compliment, Lancelot looks away bashfully. “Thank you, Arthur. That means a lot to me.” 

“I am glad to have you here with us, Lance,” Arthur continues, not knowing exactly why he’s saying all of this, but feeling like the words are needed between them. “You are an asset to our party. Guinevere, for one, would be devastated if you were gone.” 

Lancelot blushes, but does not offer up an immediate reply other than kicking his feet in the stream to create a small wake. 

Arthur lets him have his silence, turning his face skyward and taking in the breeze and the sunlight. His chest aches for Morgana, his heart still feeling too big for his chest, but at least he can breathe now. He has faith, for whatever reason, that they will get her to be well. They must, and Arthur knows that whatever he will have to do to ensure so, he will do.

“I am glad you think so,” Lancelot finally says, drawing Arthur out of his thoughts. “I had feared that Guinevere and I courting would lead to trouble between us. It gladdens my heart to see that it has not.” 

Arthur turns his head back to Lancelot in surprise. Honestly, he hasn’t thought much about Gwen and Lance since they left Mountmend, he’s been inundated with so many other problems. Oddly enough, he realises that he isn’t very bothered by their courting anymore. Sure, their giggling gets on his nerves, but he’s not angry when he sees them together. There’s not that awful sense of wrongness about their relationship that Merlin and Morgana’s has. 

“It is better to be happy for my friends than resentful,” Arthur says after thinking his answer through, and Lance appears to be satisfied. 

They take only another minute before cleaning up after themselves and preparing to leave again, coaxing the horses into getting another drink before Merlin comes out and requests their help getting Morgana onto a horse before they begin to make their way once more.

Chapter Text

Tʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ. Again. Although this time it’s more of a partially paved forest jaunt considering Cenred’s taxes are going to army upkeep and not necessities such as infrastructure like the buffoon of a ruler he is. Arthur could do better if he were king, which he still is trying to earn back, but detours keep getting in the way which is great . Albeit this detour is a bit more pressing, considering Morgana only just is recovering to the point where she is on death’s staircase as opposed to its door. Still, would it kill the town of Steynbourne to have a decent physician? 

Instead of going where it is convenient, they need to haul themselves to the obscure village of Plenarm to find the panacea of healers, Alice, who really better be all she is made out to be. Who they need is Gaius, who has treated Morgana since she was a girl for those nightmares which makes suspiciously more sense with the recent discovery his faux sister is a sorceress. Gaius would know the proper treatments and dosages of poppy’s milk and other suppressants to ensure she was well taken care of. What they instead have is a road trip and Gaius’s dolt of an apprentice who can magic everything but Morgana better and doesn’t have the full training he needs to deal with such severe injuries. Arthur just prays that she is still alive by the time they make it to whatever backwater village that this ‘miraculous’ healer lives in.

As they travel, things are oddly silent as everyone walks on metaphorical eggshells considering the gravity of the situation. Morgana has been in and out of consciousness and hasn’t been able to throw the barbs which he would be remiss not to miss as they go forth. Her cavalling is one of the few things that remind him of home in this god-forsaken place. Even if things are slightly terse between them because of the whole magic deal— which they haven’t technically discussed yet and likely never will, or at least not for a long while— she is one of the most cherished ports in the hell of a storm that is his life. They’d been through almost everything together and the thought of them not doing so— of not facing Uther together as they try to reclaim the throne, of her not at his side for his coronation, or her not as one of his most esteemed advisors— is too much to bear the thought of. 

“If this Alice is so wonderful, why isn’t she peddling her trade in the city? Living in the middle of nowhere is rather inconvenient when people are, well, dying,” Arthur retorts, trying to get a laugh and perhaps a conversation out of someone so he can ignore the fact he is being dreadfully sentimental about Morgana. 

“Perhaps the city is too expensive or high profile?” Gwen suggests as she trots her horse alongside his, holding one hand on the reins and the other on Morgana to stabilise her. 

“Surely she makes enough coin, though? Do you think there’s another reason? They did say she is miraculous ,” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Merlin snorts, looking back at Arthur with a glimmer in his eyes, “Somehow I doubt this Alice is some wood witch. No need to be a paranoid dollophead when you haven’t so much as met the woman.”

Ah right. No need to worry about another magic user hiding in their midst when he’s learnt of three in the span of a week, including the two people he’s closest to. This, of course, coming from one of the perpetrators himself. But everyone seems to agree with Merlin and he’s probably right, he tends to have a brain about these sorts of things, as much as Arthur hates to admit it.

It’s an obscure border village. Only so much can happen within such a tiny population, and what matters most is Morgana’s health. If this Alice is not up to the task, they just might need to hightail it to the capital and have Merlin go un-goblin Gaius before anticipated to protect her. He prays it won’t come to that. 

Knowing his luck, it probably will.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Alice is an older woman, her fingers slightly knobbed and hair freshly braided. Upon seeing Morgana’s slumped form over her horse, she had invited them into her house almost immediately. She and Merlin trade information rapidly about injuries and herbs as Arthur watches. 

Every emotion except worry drains away as he and Lancelot work together to get Morgana down and carry her into Alice’s house, placing her on a thin bed meant for patients. 

“Describe the creature to me again,” Alice orders as she peels away the dressing Merlin and Gwen had put on. 

Arthur can’t resist jumping in. “It was a panther, black, with wings. It was unnaturally large. We think it was a creature of magic, possibly a girl turned into it, too.”

Thankfully, Alice is nodding like this makes sense. “A bastet,” she murmurs. “Poor girl.” 

The wrapping comes off, the wound on Morgana’s leg uncovered. Arthur can barely hold back a gasp at the sight. It looks horrible and deep, all the way down to the bone which is visible in the flash of white he gets. Arthur has seen wounds like this before. It has almost never ended well for those on the receiving end. 

The group is tense and silent, watching as Alice assesses the damage carefully. A moment later, she nods tersely. “I can fix this,” she says. 

There is a pause, and Arthur’s patience thins. “What exactly are you waiting for, pray tell?” He snaps. 

“I’m trying to recall the right words. It’s not every day I have to heal a bone-deep wound inflicted by a creature of curse magic. And as I recall, this is only the most severe of the many wounds this poor woman has sustained,” Alice snarks back. 

Alright then. Message received. Arthur backs up a pace or two and raises his hands, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Alice can have her space if she must, excuse him for wanting Morgana to be treated as soon as possible. 

Wait. Did Alice say… “right words ”? Suspicion creeps up over Arthur, narrowing his gaze to where Alice’s hands have raised over the wound.

“Ahlúttre þá séocnes. Þurhhæle bræd,” she says in the tongue of the Old Religion, and her eyes flash that sickly gold that Arthur is tired, tired, tired of seeing. He fucking knew something like this would happen. Magic is a plague, and it is everywhere .

He draws his sword and levels it at her. “How do I know you’ve not killed her?” Arthur snarls, staring Alice down. It is one thing for Morgana and Merlin to use magic when he knows they have not been corrupted by it yet. It is another altogether for a woman that he does not know to wield it against his poor, hurt sister. 

“Arthur!” Gwen exclaims in shock, but he ignores her. 

The older woman blinks at him and then raises an eyebrow so reminiscent of Gaius that Arthur flinches. “Because her leg is healed?” She asks dryly and gestures towards Morgana. 

Arthur turns his head and sees unmarred flesh. 

“I am a healer ,” Alice says, and she lifts her head up, high and strong. “You must be from Camelot, but we do not share that prejudice here.” 

Arthur scowls. Prejudice. How can she say that when the very magic she wields will one day turn her heart black? Or, maybe, like he’s been thinking, perhaps her healing magic doesn’t trigger the corruption? …Is she exempt?

Regardless, Alice is not attacking them, and she has just saved Morgana. He lowers his sword. 

Merlin elbows his side and gives him a look full of intent. 

Arthur’s scowl deepens, but he grinds out, “My apologies, Alice. We are in your debt.” 

“You should be in his debt as well,” Alice says, gesturing to Merlin. “You did a good job of keeping it clean and not making it worse. Without that, I wouldn’t have been able to save her.”

Merlin bows his head sheepishly as he receives the compliment and tries to formulate a response. When it takes him a moment, Arthur lightly ribs him back to prompt the other man’s humble response. Merlin nods, “I owe that to all my training with Camelot’s physician. I only regret that I did not learn more from him.”

“More of Gaius’s training would have certainly helped,” Arthur mumbles under his breath earning him the reciprocal elbow which he should have expected. He smirks upon receiving the glare from Merlin. Some days that nonliteral fire in his eyes upon defending himself suits the sorcerer better than the endless humility. He is more talented than he takes credit for and Arthur is glad he is at least endeavouring to defend against his baiting.  

He is pulled from the unwanted thoughts by Alice whose jaw seemingly drops at the mention of the name. “You mean to say Gaius is still Camelot’s physician?” Alice asks in a mixture of what seems to be both surprise and relief. 

“He has been since I was a boy,” Arthur responds, cocking his eyebrow in curiosity on how she remotely knows or cares.

Alice wrings her hands and wipes them on her apron, “And he is alive and well?” 

“Alive? As far as we know. Well? Yes, if goblin possession warrants an affirmative answer to your inquiry,” Arthur says a bit too smugly.

Alice’s eyes widen at the latter explanation, prompting Merlin to try and soothe her before Arthur can get another word in. “We are planning to disenchant him once we reach the capital if that is any solace.”

“He chose you well,” she tells Merlin with the ghost of a smile on her face before shaking her head and letting out a small chuckle. “I always told him things like this would happen if stayed in Camelot for too long, it was only a matter of time.”

“You knew him well?” Merlin inquires with genuine curiosity in his voice about his mentor’s relations.

“Knew him? I was engaged to the old fool,” she says with a wistful look before penning something down with a quill. She hands the paper to Merlin, which he can make out to be the instructions for dispossession, and clasps his hand in between hers. “Get him out of trouble once more for me, will you? And let him know I put you up to it,” she earnestly asks.

“It would be my honour,” Merlin says with a resolved nod and a smile peeking at the corners of his lips. 

“Well let’s see if we cannot do something about the aiding along her wrist’s recovery so I can ensure you all make it back to Camelot,” Alice says mirroring Merlin’s resolve on her visage. Maybe it’s a sorcerer thing? Arthur tries to convince himself whatever it is doesn’t matter. Morgana is alive, albeit saved by Alice’s magic, just as he is alive, albeit by Aldreda’s— and he would hazard Merlin's—magic. The facts were these and he must try and live with them. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Alice corners Arthur while Merlin is out getting herbs and Gwen and Lancelot are fetching water from the well which is unfortunately across the city from her home. He hadn’t wanted to stay with her alone, but he refused for Alice to be left in the same room as Morgana unsupervised, no matter that she is Gaius’s ex-fiance. 

They’re exes for a reason, after all. 

“Prince Arthur Pendragon,” she says, and the three words pin Arthur down like three tonnes of weight. 

“That is not who I am anymore,” he counters tiredly, looking up at her from where he sits at Morgana’s bedside. 

She smiles, a small secretive little thing. “On the contrary, I believe you are closer to being him than you ever were before,” she corrects, and seriously? 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Arthur tracks Alice as she moves, content to busy herself with jars and vials instead of answering his question. It’s frustrating and annoying, but Arthur has patience. He can wait her out. 

He lasts through her humming two songs before his will dissolves. “What did you mean?” He asks again, but quieter this time, more serious. 

Her face is kind, round and old and really, she looks so harmless. How is it that this woman wields such power and yet still lives so humbly? 

“There,” she says. “That is what I mean. I’ve heard things about you. They have been both good and bad. But you are different now, I think, than you were when you were banished.” 

“Of course I’m different. I’ve been living as a peasant. It’s been a humbling experience,” Arthur says, suspicious. 

Alice begins to chop a few herbs and nods. “So, knowing what peasant life is like, what would you change about Camelot?” 

Arthur is taken aback. He has thought well and hard about returning to Camelot endlessly, but his fantasies and thoughts and questions had never specifically gone out thinking about how he might return to his home and see flaws there. 

But, now that Alice has pointed it out, several epiphanies happen. “Well, while the nobility remains comfortable, the peasantry remains malnourished if not starving despite being the ones producing the food. Placing limitations on how much the liege lords are levying could ensure baseline protections for all citizens. And one could do better, by using a portion of the crown’s taxes to encourage the building of wells to provide readily accessible water as opposed to adding further extravagancies to already luxurious diplomatic functions.” 

Alice dusts the herbs into a vial and pours boiling water over them before turning back to Arthur. 

“Look at that,” she muses. “Those are all things I’m sure would bring prosperity to Camelot.” There’s something in her tone that sets Arthur off, though. It’s… sad. Perhaps even wistful or a little heartsick with nostalgia. 

“Why did you leave?” Arthur blurts suddenly, overcome by the need to know. 

Her face twists. “Why do you think?” She asks bitterly. “I could not stay once the Great Purge began.” 

Oh. Arthur feels a little stupid at that, but then thinks about it and decides to prod further. She’d been engaged to Gaius, there had to be alternate factors in her decision. He, for one, would not leave the person he’d been courting if there were a wedding in the books. Especially if he were marrying them for love. Arthur will never give that up, once he finds it. 

“But you could have given up magic and stayed,” he protests. “Didn’t you love Gaius? And besides, magic corrupts your soul. Didn’t you ever worry about using a wrong spell and ending up darkened?”

The vial in her hand slips out and shatters on the ground. Arthur jerks to standing, looking to Alice’s eyes for a flash of magic, but seeing none. 

Instead, her face is full of horror and indignation in equal turns. 

“‘Magic corrupts your soul’? Oh child, is that what poisonous lies Uther has been dripping into your ears?” She shakes her head once, twice, and then rushes to stand opposite of him, Morgana still laying asleep and still between them. 

“Magic does not corrupt any more than any other kind of power,” Alice fervently explains. “It is a tool, a talent, a gift . If those who have it misuse it for personal gain, that is on them, not on magic.” 

Arthur isn’t sure whether to say anything in response to that or not, seeing as how much emotion Alice seems to have in her. He wants to believe her, oh yes he does. It would make his life so much easier right now if she were telling the truth, but a part of Arthur still clings to that which his father told him. 

If Uther lied about this, after all, then what had been the point of the Purge in the first place?

Alice’s eyes, instead of boring into him, grow distant with memories. “You really have no idea, do you? Things used to be so different.” She blinks away the mistiness until she is present again. “The world is made of magic,” she starts, and Arthur really should stop her but he knows nothing about magic. He has to take what he can get, right?

“It runs through everything, every leaf and stream, every stone and animal. It runs through you and me, too. Every person has the ability to do magic.”

Arthur makes a noise of protest at that, and Alice clicks her tongue at him.

“Ah! I said every person has the ability, not that every person has the aptitude. Some are born with a strong connection, a power that manifests at birth. Those are warlocks. Others that have an inclination may manifest their magic any time later in life, usually in or after adolescence. The rest of us must fight for it and learn magic the old-fashioned way.” 

Against his every will, Arthur is fascinated by this. And horrified. 

“You’re telling me some people are born with magic? They have no choice? And those that manifest their power later in life, do they not get a choice either?” 

Alice makes an unamused smile at his questions. “Precisely, Arthur Pendragon.”

He doesn’t think she’s lying about this. The look on her face says it all, and Arthur feels ill. He sits back down heavily on the bench and clutches at the wood. What if Morgana had been born with magic? What if Merlin —? 

“And they would be powerful, too,” Alice continues in a cold, impersonal tone. “Impossible to hide. Uther’s men would hear about them.” 

Arthur remembers being fifteen, wanting to prove himself, wanting to please his father who never seemed to be able to look him in the eyes for too long for the ghosts that haunted him there. He recalls riding out, scared, afraid, overcompensating, and projecting confidence for a mission he did not want to lead. He remembers every detail of watching Camelot’s finest knights, the ones that he sat and ate dinner with, the ones that helped him train, the ones he hated and that mocked him; they all swung their swords into the screaming, fleeing Druids. 

And Arthur had done nothing. Had watched as the knights— his knights — killed people that were innocent. That might have been born or forced into a life they did not choose for themself. 

Shame. All Arthur can feel is shame, rushing over him like a flood. He has known that this blood is on his hands. He has known it was wrong. 

But this feels like being back there and watching it all over again, the revelation of extra innocence washing over his back like winter rain. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers, the only words that he can get out past his choked-up throat. 

Alice shakes her head. “You do not need to say those words to me. I lived. Take them to those that need to hear instead.” Her eyes drag over him, and then she adds, more gently, “You will not be free of your guilt until you do.” 

Arthur nods in agreement. The Druids. He’s been avoiding them his whole life, despite his singular interaction with one of them in the whole Druid boy fiasco. He hadn’t said anything back then, too much of a coward to face what he’d done. 

But Alice is right. As much as Arthur would love to head right back to his home, he needs to do this as well. 

“Arthur, are you crying for me?” A voice croaks. “Aw, how sweet.” 

Hastily, Arthur wipes his eyes and turns his gaze to the bed, where Morgana’s eyes are fluttering open and shut, a lazy grin on her face. 

He laughs breathlessly, forgetting about magic and the Druids with ease. “You wish,” he retorts, and it feels so very good to look at her and talk to her and think that maybe, perhaps just maybe, the magic she has won’t have her end up power-crazed and mad and devoid of morals.

Just butterflies in the field. 

“No, I don’t have to wish, I can see it true as day,” she banters with him, and Arthur knows right then and there he would do anything to keep her here like this, no matter that she has magic running through her veins.

Apparently, after all, so does he.

Chapter Text

Tʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴅᴀʏs Arthur wishes that his travelling companions weren’t such good people. Don’t get him wrong; Morgana, Merlin, Gwen, and Lancelot are lovely magical and non-magical human beings, but they can be too kind for their own good. Considering Alice had the instructions to find the camp of the nomadic Druid people, Arthur figured they’d stop by and he’d make his peace with the sorcerers and they would be on their merry way. 

This is not the case. 

It just so happens that Alice informed them that the Druids could cure the enchantment that just so happens to be placed on the bastet who mauled Morgana— who everyone just so happens to want to find. His talk with Alice had tempered some of his views on the arcane, but by no means is he now an avid supporter of the art itself. Least of all is he thrilled to be the escort for the being that almost killed Morgana, as that activity is not ranked highly on his bucket list for this little adventure in exile. But, no, all his good friends want to help the charity case and delay their return to Camelot. 

Thankfully, cornering Cave Girl in the early morning only takes a few hours as opposed to the days that Arthur both expected and dreaded. The journey to the Druid encampment is then relatively uneventful and absent of winged panthers. It’s arguably bearable, if not for the fact he is taking point and Merlin wanted to take up the rear so he could tend to Morgana if she needed care, and the two of them were getting along swimmingly with Freya once more. He doesn’t mind the soft laughter elicited from his travelling companion, as it is even on occasion rather pleasant, but he does mind that he’s not the one helping draw it forth. 

Arthur wants to be included in these clandestine conversations happening in hushed whispers that are probably about the magical things they doubt he’ll ever understand. Sure, he might not right now, but if the past few weeks have proved anything, it’s that he’s willing to try if they’ll let him. And they certainly aren’t ready to open up to him yet for whatever reason, but every so often when Merlin catches him glancing and grins stupidly at him, he thinks that maybe someday they will be. He just needs to be patient and prove that he is both internally and externally accepting of the art he has been conditioned to hate and fear from his very birth to earn the trust they have not placed in him yet. Easy, yes?

Arthur won’t admit outside his own mind that the upcoming visit to the Druid camp is the slightest bit self-serving in that manner. He is also here to act upon the promise he made to Alice to make the apology for his ignorance to the magical nomads who owe their transience to his father’s policy that he has executed for as long as he can remember. He knows that mere words will never undo the mounds of dead left by the encampment raids and provide the closure the Druids seek; only action can do that. However, with what power he has now as a prince-turned-peasant, he hopes the words will suffice and predate the action he can put into place should he free his father from Catrina’s hold. 

Thankfully, he has a few more hours to agonise over preparing said words on the road. This is especially aided by the fact Merlin isn’t giving him the time of day, despite being much better at this whole speech thing than he is. He debates placing himself in faux danger and accidentally falling from his horse to draw Merlin’s attention so the sorcerer can rush over and fuss as he always does. If the baiting works so Arthur can have the other man, he might make some headway on the verbiage. However, Arthur thinks better of it upon realising a missed landing might end in another broken leg and an inexplicably embarrassing return trip to Alice’s.  His own writing skills will just have to do. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

After a few hours of travel, they happen upon the encampment which nicely is exactly where Alice had directed them to. When a trio of scouts cautiously approach, the entire party lays down any and all weapons attached to their horses to put the Druids more at ease. Arthur levies a hand up in a halt as he dismounts, calling, “We come in peace, seeking assistance and sanctuary.”

He feels the penetrative gaze of a young brunette Druid girl wash over him as she studies Arthur and his travelling companions with resolve. Her steely eyes soften on Merlin and Morgana before the girl breaks into a smile upon seeing Cave Girl of all people. “Freya?” She asks in disbelief as she approaches the cursed woman. 

With a smile Freya utters, “Sefa!” which he can only assume is some sort of name before pulling the Druid girl into a tight hug.

“They brought you home?” Sefa asks, pulling back from the embrace. Off of Freya’s nod, the Druid girl takes Freya’s wrist. “We must tell Iseldir immediately.”

Arthur clears his throat and tries to muster the knowledge of every lecture in proper diplomacy that he’d only listened to half-mindedly to aid him now. “I don’t wish to break off your joyous reunion, but we seek an audience with your chieftain as well. May we enter your grounds?” 

“If Freya has trusted your company, then I can vouch for your entry. We do not have much in the way of resources, but knowing our leader’s heart, we can do what is in our means,” Sefa says with a nod, motioning the other scouts to continue their patrol before urging Arthur and the party to follow her into the encampment’s inner sanctum. 

As Arthur leads his horse through the hodgepodge of tents and temporary shelters of the Druid people, he cannot help but feel remorse for that which he did not understand all those years ago. As he watches children zip to and fro, playfully fighting with water conjured from their fingertips alongside the elders passing on tradition to the bright-eyed young adolescents, Arthur wonders why Camelot ever thought to disturb such a people. Where magic is being utilised, it seems purely restorative and practical as opposed to destructive and irrational. 

These are the same people he was taught to kill from the second he could hold a sword. These are the hypothetical targets in the war games they played in training and the literal ones they pursued on duty. With every step he takes further into the sanctum, Arthur tries to brush aside the needling thought that maybe they were the monsters. 

He is pulled from such musings when Sefa brings them face to face with the chieftain Iseldir who asks, “What brings you to our encampment? Your travels bring you far from Camelot.” 

Arthur chooses to believe that Iseldir knows they are from Camelot by virtue of magic and not memory of what he did, but is sure he’s wrong with how things are going lately. Even though Arthur is clearly leading the party, Iseldir seems to look to Merlin for a response— which is ridiculous, because it is Merlin of all people. Merlin’s brows furrow a bit at the seemingly knowing look, so Arthur tries to take the focus off him by answering the chieftain’s inquiry.

“We are making our way back to the capital and wished for your assistance in curing one of your own from her ailment. She is a bastet, which we witnessed firsthand and a healer, Alice, confirmed,” Arthur states cordially, motioning to Freya and the recovering Morgana.

“We thank you and your party for bringing Freya back to us, but she could have found her way on her own in time,” he says with a nod. “I surmise you are seeking additional guidance if you are going so far out of your way, Arthur Pendragon?”

Is mind reading a thing now? Because if it is, that really isn’t a fair thing for magical people to just have in their back pocket. Iseldir could also just be old and wise and the like, but Arthur has seen enough shit out of old wives’ tales in his life to rule out psychic powers completely. 

“I do wish to seek your counsel in private, if you would do me the honour,” Arthur entreats, bowing his head to the chieftain and considering the irony of being on the other side of said act. He feels the gazes of his companions surround him at the request, almost positive that they are baffled by his request for a slew of reasons. Arthur cannot quite make out what he sees in Merlin’s expressions as the other man’s eyes dart between Arthur and Iseldir. Iseldir merely nods and motions Arthur to follow. 

“I will grant you as much,” the chieftain states. “While we are gone the healers can tend to Freya, Lady Morgana, and any of your companions who may be in need of respite. Come now.” Arthur follows into the large tent at the encampment’s heart, where Iseldir’s eyes flash that familiar shade of gold as the fire pit at the tent’s centre lights up the space. Iseldir sits on one of the furs beside the fire and Artthur follows in suit.

“What can I do for you, child?” Iseldir asks with the sincerity Arthur would expect of a grandparent if he had ever gotten to know his own. 

Arthur takes a deep breath to try and find the words that he had spent hours rehearsing in his head but seem to be failing him now that the moment is upon him. “I am not seeking help so much as I am offering my condolences and remorse.”

Arthur pauses and scans Iseldir’s eyes for some sort of animosity he is not finding, so he continues, “When I led raids against your people a mere few years ago I was young, ignorant, and far too eager to prove myself. I know this is not an excuse or reason to forgive my irreconcilable wrongdoings towards the Druids. Over the past few months, however, I’ve been aided in my exile by a number of magical people whom I have learned from and contrast that which I was conditioned to believe by my father and tutors.”

Arthur pauses once again, trying to find his words once more. Thankfully, Iseldir prompts him with, “What has changed?”

“Far too much to count,” Arthur says with a forced laugh. “But, the realisation that magic can be an inherent trait as opposed to an amoral choice, the kindness of those who wield the arcane and the discovery that those closest to me do as well has put a number of things into perspective…  Including, what I understand to now be, one-sided atrocities committed by men under my command in service of the crown against your people.”   

Arthur lets out a sigh and looks at Iseldir imploringly. “I am not seeking your forgiveness. I solely wish to apologise on behalf of myself and my people to yours for the harm I have done. If I could undo the actions of the past, I would. However, all I can offer are words at this moment. I only wish I could do more.” 

Upon the admission, he cannot meet Iseldir’s eyes anymore and stares into the fire, hoping it will warm him in some way but knowing it will not fill the void cast by his past wrongs. 

After a few moments of silence, the chieftain breaks it. “I had not expected an apology from the son of Uther Pendragon, but it is befitting of the Once and Future King. I thank you for the candour that brings some hope for my people and Albion’s future.”

Arthur isn’t exactly sure if Iseldir has received the memo that he is not remotely a future king; disinheritance will kind of do that to you. He knows that they probably consider him the lesser of two evils in comparison to his father, but that doesn’t change the fact he will likely never be in the position to do as much. 

So, shaking his head, Arthur tells him, “I admit I am not in position to be king of anything at the moment, but should fate smile upon me, I hope I can offer reparations and sanctuary to your people as you have my travelling party.”

“Time will tell, Arthur Pendragon. You have returned two of our own back to us already, which is promising enough that you may not yet be your father’s son,” Iseldir says with another cryptic nod. Arthur just stares into the fire once more. If he is not his father’s son and he does not know his mother well enough to know if he is hers, then how should he know what to be? 

Who is Arthur Pendragon? He is — was— the prince of Camelot. He still might technically be a knight sword to protect his homeland from those who seek to threaten its borders, be it foreign kings or the dangers of magic. 

Wait . Is that to change as well? Did it already change?

As much as his gut instinct is to believe otherwise, there is some virtue in magic, which has medicinal capabilities beyond normal means. It can save lives in combat as much as it does to take them, which he supposes is like a sword or any other weapon in that manner. It has latent potential for both good and evil and it is up to the sorcerer what they do with the power that is given to them. And the actions of one evil person should not mark an entire people for death, especially if magic is not a choice to begin with for some. Alice had said that, which he wants to believe is true as nobody should choose such a fate for oneself as being a mage in Camelot. But is it true?

Arthur forces a small laugh again to break the silence, “May I ask your guidance on one matter?” When Iseldir affirmatively nods, Arthur continues, “I seek confirmation on something: do magical people choose to pursue the arcane arts or are they born with the inherent potential to harness it?”

“Did Uther teach you nothing?” Iseldir says, shaking his head, but the look on his face thankfully reads resignation more so than anger at Arthur’s ignorance. “No matter. You are correct; people both choose magic and magic chooses people. For some, it is not a question of if, but when . For those blessed with the Triple Goddess’s gift, their choice is in how they will use it. The belief of your people suggests, however, we are evil for the virtue of being born, but I surmise you are now learning that is not the case.”

“I am. It is what brought me to you today,” Arthur confirms.

“Good. I hope that it brings you back to us again when the time comes and for years to come, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur smiles at Iseldir and expresses his gratitude for the counsel. He doubts that, if he has any more revelations about the nature of magic, he will have the capacity to even leave this place to return in the prophesied future the chieftain speaks of. He is just trying to get through the day if he’s being honest, but he’s making progress. Talking to the Druids and trying to right his wrongs will make him a better man, friend, and— if the cryptic man is right— king. It is the least he can do now to help these people for revolutionising the worldview that he so desperately needed to change. It is, he thinks with a modicum of quiet pride in himself, progress.  

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

It is odd to sit in a Druid camp and watch the people around him go about their business as usual. It heals something Arthur didn’t know was broken in his chest that they are like this, now. They’ve come to an agreement and have forgiven him. There is, at least for now, peace. 

It’s also odd to note how much and how little magic these people use in their daily lives. A lot of the tricks are small, not flashy. It’s not very much like watching Morgana and Merlin in the field that one night had been at all. It isn’t even like Alice, not really, because she had just cured each of Morgana’s injuries with one spell. Instead, Arthur sees magic used to start fires, mend tears in clothes, clean a pot, and in one instance make a rotten apple become ripe again. 

Thankfully, the Druids had been able to lift the curse on Cave Girl. It would have been awful had she turned into a beast again and mauled someone for the second time, especially after Arthur had worked so hard to ease tensions between himself and the Druids. Now, she is spending time with that Sefa girl, as well as Morgana and a few other Druid women. 

Figures. Magic people group together, and all that. 

And Arthur didn’t even want to think about what Gwen and Lance were getting up to.

“Hello Arthur!” He looks up, surprised to see Gwen looking down at him. Perhaps, then, she and Lancelot did not gallivant off on some romantic picnic. Not that Arthur would have minded if they had, he just didn’t necessarily need to be there for it.

She flashes Arthur a smile, but it doesn’t reach all the way up through her eyes; Arthur would know Guinevere’s true smile anywhere and this is not it.  

He pats the space on the log next to him and gestures for her to sit, saying, “Guinevere, what brings you to my portion of the camp?” 

She sits with grace and bites her bottom lip, looking at Arthur with intensity that makes him extremely curious. 

“It’s odd to see so much magic, isn’t it?” She comments. There is something in her tone that Arthur can’t quite place, but he pushes it aside. The question is welcome after all. Nobody else here is probably in as much shock as he is besides Gwen. 

Arthur nods. “Seeing it used for such everyday tasks out in the open is quite a change,” he agrees.

Gwen exhales loudly like Arthur has said the right thing and blurts, “I keep seeing someone using it out of the corner of my eye and I get so scared for a moment, thinking they’re using magic in Camelot’s square and the Camelot guards are going to arrest them. It’s horrible, Arthur.”  

Something inside Arthur sinks. He’s already heard how much the Druids hate Uther today, he does not want to hear it from Gwen as well. And he’s starting to really think that his father had been mistaken about something with the Purge. The pieces he’s been given don’t all line up, and it scares Arthur a little bit. He doesn’t want to think about any of that right now. 

“We’re far away from Camelot now,” he reminds Gwen instead, steering the topic in a safer direction. “No need to worry about any of that happening.” 

She looks at him again, her face unreadable. “It seems like magic is everywhere, out here.” 

He smiles at her, his mind racing at the statement’s implications. “What do you mean?” 

“Since we left Ealdor, we’ve encountered magic at almost every turn. No, even before that; in Camelot things started being magical in nature as well. The goblin, the troll, Aldreda, Freya, Alice, and now the Druids. It’s just so much, knowing that all of these people exist and they have lives and all of them, if they only lived in Camelot, would face the same fate as my father did.” 

Arthur presses his lips together. He has not forgotten about Tom the Blacksmith, nor has he forgotten about his father’s too-strict policy on those that deal with magic objects or users unknowingly. 

“We have run into much magic,” Arthur agrees. “Do you find yourself worried?” 

Gwen hesitates, but ultimately shakes her head. “No actually, I don’t. I was worried at first, but it seems like, sometimes, magic really is okay.” 

“Yes. Only when the people behind the magic don’t have bad intentions. Creatures on the other hand? We have not a single grain of sand’s worth of luck when dealing with them.”

Arthur knows not if she is going to berate him or agree when Merlin interrupts their conversation.

“Hey! Arthur, do you have a moment?” He jogs towards them like a knight going on his first quest, determination blazened in his eyes. Apparently, he has no regard for manners, as usual, and Arthur sees Gwen’s face shift to mild annoyance before she yanks her expression back to neutrality.

“I suppose Arthur and I can speak again at a later date,” Gwen says diplomatically, rising from her seat next to Arthur while Merlin quickly takes her place and waves goodbye at her. 

Arthur isn’t going to put up a fuss about this. Merlin is voluntarily choosing his company out of everyone? Well, after how he’s been practically attached to Morgana’s hip recently, Arthur is more than surprised at this turn of events. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and he decides right then and there that he isn’t about to make this easy for the other man. Oh absolutely not. “Might I ask why, exactly, you’ve come running to me oh-so-urgently? Did you do something stupid again?” 

In an uncharacteristic display of seriousness, Merlin doesn’t even reply to the taunt. Instead, he says with more intensity and feeling than any one word has the right to contain: “Arthur.” 

The world stops. 

This happens, sometimes, with Merlin. When he has those wise speeches, when he’d done that magic in the glade, when he smiles just right. There is something about Merlin. Something that gives him this gravitas in certain moments that comes and goes like a late summer rain. 

And, every time, Arthur is paralysed by it. He laughs it off when he can, but the certainty and resolution he can see in Merlin’s eyes has never left him. If there were anybody to have magic and never, not once, misuse it… 

Arthur would place his bets on Merlin. All of them. 

“I just talked to Iseldir,” Merlin continues. It has been both a million years and an instant. “He and I actually had a little bit of an argument about a few things, but that isn’t relevant. I wanted to ask, what do you think of magic?” 

If Arthur could get away with never talking about magic again in his life, he would do it. No hesitations. The spell of Merlin’s aura is broken just enough for Arthur to lean back on one hand. He gathers his resolution and casts his gaze to the leafy branches above.

Right. Not making this easy. 

“It exists,” he replies loftily. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, but this time it’s a little more like Gaius used to say it when he was a child; a sort of warning not to push buttons or play games. 

Arthur sighs, but admits, “I do not know what to think, not anymore.” 

He hears a quiet gasp from the other man and returns his gaze to Merlin’s face, which is breaking into an expression of hope.

“What do you mean?”

Arthur looks away again, back out into the Druids’ camp, watching as they live their lives. “Magic is just a thing, isn’t it?” He gestures out. “The Druids live their lives with it. Look, there. She has no flint, watch closely.”  

The two of them sit side by side, Arthur still leaning away onto his hand, and watch a Druid woman use one hand and an incantation to make the logs burst into flame. He is too far away to watch her eyes, but finds that he doesn’t mind missing that part of the spell casting all that much.

“There is no virtue or evil in that,” Arthur says dully. “It is just another way to start a fire.”

He waits a moment. The Druid woman looks pleased with herself for the accomplishment for just a moment, and then she turns to start another chore. In turn, Arthur looks back at Merlin again, whose gaze has solidified again.

“Iseldir said that you apologised to him.” 

Arthur froze. He’d asked for that audience to be private for a reason, why had Iseldir broken his confidence in such an egregious manner? 

“And that is what I meant, when I said you were a good man. You are. The Purge wasn’t even your fault, and yet…” 

Simultaneously, Arthur feels relief that Merlin does not know of the raids he led and guilt that Merlin has come to the wrong conclusion about the motivation behind Arthur’s actions. 

“There is something that I wanted to tell you,” Merlin says, and Arthur tenses again, looking at Merlin incredulously. Is Merlin about to tell him he has magic? 

Arthur is not prepared for this. Shit. He has no idea what he is going to say, but his body braces itself for impact.

“I— I’m. I, uh…” Merlin’s eyes dart to the ground in panic. “You see, I might have, sort of, perhaps even accidentally —”

Merlin jerks, his head snapping away from Arthur across camp and his entire demeanour changing in an instant. There is a group of people staring at them. Or, maybe perhaps just at Merlin, because they grin and wave at him when they realise he’s caught on to their staring. 

There is a huge sigh to Arthur’s left, and the group starts to approach, made up of Lancelot, Gwen, Freya, Sefa, Morgana, and a little boy. 

Irritation and confusion spike through Arthur. What great timing for his second interruption of the day, when Merlin was just about to reveal a very important secret to him. The secret, perhaps. But on the other hand, Arthur isn’t sure he wouldn’t have had a breakdown right here and now if Merlin actually had confessed. 

“What were you saying, Merlin?” He asks anyway, knowing that Merlin will brush it off.

There is a twist to one side of his friend’s mouth. “Nothing that will not hold,” he murmurs sourly.

So, Arthur turns his attention back to the group. Now that they’re closer, Arthur realises that the little boy is actually that Druid boy he’d helped Morgana and Merlin sneak out of the castle. 

He should have known, based on the way that Morgana is holding his hand, but Arthur will give himself some slack, after all it has been almost a year since they had last seen the boy.

“Merlin!” Morgana calls, “Look who wanted to see you!” 

“Yes, hello Mordred,” Merlin replies, waving at the boy, who smiles back at him. 

“Will you come watch me do magic? I can make butterflies!” There is something about the way that his eyes look so big that isn’t right, Arthur thinks. Distinctly not natural. This child must be a warlock and he is using his magic to get his way.

Arthur wonders for a moment how Mordred knows Merlin will take that kind of offer well, but then is hit with realisation: Mordred must know about Merlin’s magic. 

He bets Morgana was the one to tell the impudent child.

“Of course!” Merlin says, and begins to stand. 

…Is Merlin going to ditch Arthur for this child? 

“What about me?” He asks. Does he really want to go watch this child perform parlour tricks? No. But damn if he is going to be left out of something again. For goodness’ sake, even this eight year old child knows about Merlin’s magic and yet the man cannot even confess so to Arthur when given multitudes of opportunities every day. And Arthur isn’t even going to bring up what had just occurred. 

Lancelot and Merlin exchange a glance laden with meaning, and then Lance lets out a chuckle, walking towards Arthur with a firmly affixed smile. 

“How about you spar with me? After last time, it was evident how much I’ve been getting rusty. You are a great partner to train with.” 

It takes Arthur one moment, then two. In the third, his eyes narrow. Lancelot is trying to distract him? What for? 

Oh. Oh no. 

So, an eight year old and Lancelot both were told about Merlin’s magic before Arthur had done. He looks over to Gwen and thinks back to their conversation. Does she know too? Had she been trying to tell him somehow? 

“That sounds like a splendid idea, Lancelot,” Arthur grinds out. 

Mordred reaches out and clings to Merlin’s hand so he’s squished between him and Morgana and— God. Arthur feels something small and mean twist in his stomach at the picture the three of them make, all magical and dark-haired and light-eyed. Freya’s even there with Sefa, looking on like two adoring fans. Gwen looks a bit more reserved, but better, like she’s figured out a few things even since their talk.

The group walks away, and Arthur turns to Lance. “Let’s find somewhere away from the camp,” he suggests, and Lancelot agrees readily, like he isn’t aiding Merlin in lying to him.

And if he goes on to treat Lancelot like he treated Merlin back in Camelot during personal training? Then that is his business and his business alone.

Chapter Text

Tʜᴇ Dʀᴜɪᴅs’ ᴄᴀᴍᴘ ʜᴀᴅ, of course, only been yet another temporary stop on what feels like Arthur’s single longest trip of his life. He hadn’t signed up for a full and complete tour of Essetir, but he is getting it nonetheless. By this point, Arthur may be able to start to say with confidence that he knows the woods here almost as well as Camelot’s! Just wonderful. It is just wonderful.

They’d stayed two days with the Druids. It had been… nice, Arthur supposed. They’d gotten to help cook, and thank goodness that the Druids had real seasonings on hand, and much better established kitchens than anything Arthur’s travelling group had on the road. He’d been more than happy to make something out of the several fresh fish handed to him from the nearby river. 

Of course, there is the issue of Merlin, who has still not tried to confess his magic secrets again. Or, for all Arthur knows, Merlin could have other secrets to confess as well that he doesn’t know about. Maybe Merlin had been trying to confess something else, like being a snake-whisperer or something. Anyhow, no matter, because Merlin had kept his mouth shut.

About secrets, that is, because Arthur hadn’t been able to stop Merlin when he’d been seeking him out to cook those fish, especially when Merlin came to him with brilliant flavour ideas. The fish had turned out utterly delicious and cooked to perfection, of course. 

If not for everything, Arthur thinks that maybe they could have stayed there. Not forever, but a bit longer than two days. It might have been okay. For Merlin and Morgana, anyway. And they’d have people like them there, even if it meant that they didn’t need Arthur anymore, but the two of them and their magical-couple picture-perfect everything were getting closer and closer to that each day without the Druids’ help.

So it hadn’t been hard for him to leave. He’s glad the Druids are doing well. He’s glad that the boy he’d liberated from his Camelot death sentence is alive. But even though apologies had been exchanged and Arthur maybe thinks that magic is alright now, there had still been something not quite sitting right with the Druid’s… tolerance? Acceptance? Reverence? Disdain? Of him.

Arthur doesn’t know a suitable word for it, but they really had not acted normally around him— or Merlin, for that matter— and it had been odd. They’d stared at him and whispered, as if spreading courtly gossip, but nobody there knew him well enough for that. 

So, it hadn’t been any hardship to leave, every member of the group feeling reenergized, their food and clothing supplies very graciously restocked, and Arthur finally liking his odds of getting back to Camelot in one piece. 

Predictably, the odds beat him again. Now, Cenred’s somehow competent guard patrols are on their tail. He swears, Camelot’s guards never seemed to run into foreign unwanted travelling parties with the same frequency of Cenred’s men. Arthur has no clue how they do it, but he urges his horse Llamrei to gallop faster in a probably futile attempt to outrun them.

“I don’t think Maisie can keep up this pace!” Arthur hears Merlin yell from behind him, and risks a glance over his shoulder to see Merlin more than twenty paces behind him, falling off the back of the group. 

“We have to lose them fast!” Arthur yells up to everyone in lieu of a response. They cannot afford to take injuries fighting Cenred’s men, not right after Morgana has been healed. Arthur does not want to have to come crawling back to Alice for another miracle cure, especially because the village she lives in is in the opposite direction that they’ve been heading in since they left it. 

Everyone pushes along a little farther, Arthur taking the time to glance at Merlin and Maisie behind him to make sure they are not falling too far behind as well as to check on the patrol that, thankfully, isn’t gaining on them. 

“River!” Hisses Gwen back to him, her eyes frantic. 

Arthur picks up on what her message is immediately, carried back from Lancelot, who is leading the party currently. He nods, and though it would be better to inform Merlin, he doesn’t want to alert the patrol of their plan. 

He sees Gwen ahead of him flash her right fingers in the air: three, two, one. All of them turn and veer to the right immediately, Merlin taking Maisie in a more diagonal line to meet up with them. At the river, which is thankfully shallow, they cross quickly. 

“Where to now?” Morgana asks, looking around. 

“There!” Arthur points at a sharp bend in the river. “We need to get out of view, then find somewhere to hide if possible.” 

There is no more time for discussion, adrenaline still pumping loudly in Arthur’s ears, so he takes up Llamrei’s reigns and gives her a kick to get her into a trot that won’t be as loud as the gallop, but still fast enough to take them out of view as soon as possible. 

The five of them spend some time trotting up the riverbank. After about an hour, nobody is overly worried about the patrol anymore and a break is taken to water the horses, eat a small meal, and refill their waterskins, before they get back on the road. Cenred’s men will report the incident and scour that area of the woods for them, so it is best to be as far away as possible from the encounter’s location as they can get.

Thankfully, not too much further after midday, Morgana gestures ahead where the river flows out of a cave. “We can stop and hide in here for a night?” She suggests. 

As much as Arthur hates the added delay, there is nothing he can do about this, and it might be nice to sleep somewhere with wind and rain protection, if needed. At the very least, the heat of the fire will be more trapped in than usual. 

Hearing no dissent, Morgana grins and says, “Onwards!” before continuing to lead the party to the mouth of the cave, where everyone dismounts cautiously. Despite the unlikeliness of encountering anyone or anything inside, they just have to be careful.

Lessons have been learned since meeting Freya. 

Nodding to Lance, both he and Arthur draw their swords, creeping into the mouth of the cave warily. They don’t have torches, but the ambient sunlight provides enough light to see with. He and Lance advance slowly, covering each other while they creep forwards slowly. 

“Clear,” Lance whispers. 

Arthur nods, locking eyes with him briefly before they continue on, ultimately finding the outermost cavern to be empty of all inhabitants. 

It’s not long before everyone begins to make camp, tying up the horses a short distance away. Arthur and Gwen gather firewood without much conversation while Merlin and Morgana set out their supplies, and Lancelot decides to see if he can set up any fishing lines in the river with the materials the Druids had given them. 

Four rounds of wood are carried in before Arthur swears he hears something while out collecting his fifth. He freezes, straining his ears for the noise to happen again to make sure he isn’t just imagining things, waiting for one second, two, four, until… there!

The sound is closer now, and it sounds like… a goat? No, wait, several goats, and they’re bleating. Arthur didn’t know that goats dwell out here, damn. He should have brought the crossbow to bring one down for a meal. 

Then Arthur hears what sounds like a voice calling. He doesn’t recognize the low, masculine timbre, and the pieces click together fast: someone probably does live in that cave, and he is the owner of goats. Arthur takes the wood he has in his arms and hurries back to camp to warn the others of their impending visitor. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

There’s not much they can do about taking over the man’s cave at this point. All of their things have been laid out, the four and a bit piles of wood are neatly stacked, the horses are tied up not too far away, and Merlin even has a fire blazing already. So, when Arthur delivers his news, the consensus they come to is to just wait for the man to arrive and see what happens. 

They wait for a while, after which Arthur hopes the man decides to come back soon as he watches the sun inching its way down the sky fast. Gwen already has bundled up in one of those Druid cloaks packed into their supplies to ward off the chill along with Merlin, since they’re the two skinniest. 

“There he comes,” Gwen says and points outwards. 

Everyone turns and watches the man approach, his goats running ahead and then looping back to return to him. He’s wearing clothes that look rough and homespun and he has a most impressive beard, but other than that, he looks quite normal. 

Of course, Arthur’s experience with supposed “normal” strangers of late has been utterly abysmal, but one should have hope about these things. 

The man notices the horses first, probably. Arthur can tell when he does, because his posture changes, becoming much more alert, scanning the area. Arthur figures there is no more point to keeping up the pretence, and gets up to emerge from the cave, Morgana and Gwen right behind him. 

Gwen, the sweetheart that she is, waves at the man as he approaches, but as his features get closer it is very easy to tell that he is not pleased with this situation, and Arthur finds himself empathising. He’s not happy about this either, but they will just have to work something out. 

“Hello, who are you?” Morgana asks once the man is close enough to speak to.

“Who am I?” The man asks, narrowing his eyes. “I think you should be telling me who you are, seeing as you are in my cave .” 

“Your cave?” Arthur repeats. He thought the man might live here, but it truly makes no sense. Why would anyone live so far away from civilisation of any kind? 

“We’re travellers, just trying to get back home,” Merlin says, jumping in before Arthur can question the man. “We didn’t know this cave was your dwelling, we just wanted a roof over our heads for one night.” 

The man’s face twitches in what Arthur reads as annoyance. “You did not see any of my belongings inside?” 

Everyone throws around accusatory looks, but nobody steps up to take the blame. Arthur, for one, does not recall seeing anything of the man’s. Lancelot, bless him, is the first one to speak, offering, “We didn’t venture very far back, just kept to the outermost cavern on the right side of the riverbank.” 

The man sighs. He is older, but there is a strength to him that reminds Arthur of his father, like maybe he has not fought in some time but he could, and if it came down to it, he would win. Arthur shifts his weight from side to side, readying himself for anything. 

“I don’t want to share my space and my home with strangers,” he huffs. 

Arthur can understand that, but he also does not want to sleep outside tonight for once. He also wants to be safe in case Cenred’s patrol decides to do a thorough sweep for their presence, as they should do. 

“Please, can you just allow us this one night?” Gwen pleads. 

“We can give you something as compensation?” Morgana tries, grasping at straws. 

“I don’t need anything from you,” the man says, “other than the removal of your presence from the cave.” 

Oddly enough, this sentence is the one to get Merlin— Merlin, of all people— to break. “Sir, look, you cannot kick us out of this cave! Our things are already set up inside, we have collected firewood, and my friend here has set a passive fishing line in the river. We would just like one night of good rest so we can avoid being waylaid yet again on our way to Ealdor!” 

“Ealdor?” The man prompts. 

“I need to return to my mother,” Merlin snaps. 

Arthur wishes Hunith were here now, actually. She would know what to say to this stubborn stranger to make him concede to their stay. 

“Your mother,” Balinor repeats again, and alright, he’s staring at Merlin almost like how the Druids had been and Arthur has had enough.

“Yes, her name is Hunith? Lovely woman,” Arthur says, putting on one of his most important tones. “Anyhow, she is expecting us to make haste, but she told us to prioritise our safety above all else, and I am certain your cave is the best spot. What harm is there in—”

“Boy, your mother is Hunith of Ealdor?” The man interrupts Arthur, his eyes now boring into Merlin even more heavily than before, searching for something, his expression unreadable but Arthur would guess for panic and stress and maybe even hope. 

“Yes,” Merlin confirms, and he says it the way he used to in Camelot when he thought that Arthur had asked him a question to which the answer was obvious. 

“And you are, what? Twenty summers? Nineteen, perhaps?” 

“...Yes?” Merlin confirms sceptically.

The man lets out a breath. “Triple Goddess among us. If you aren’t lying, then… I am your father.” 

Arthur blinks incredulously. Seriously. Can he not run into one normal stranger? Goodness.

“But my father…” Merlin trails off. Arthur can see Merlin warring with something inside, and he thinks he might understand that, at least a little. 

After all, Merlin’s not the only one with an absent parent. If someone popped into his life and claimed to be Ygraine, Arthur doesn’t know what he’d do. So, he takes a step closer to Merlin to offer his support and gives the still strange man a glare. 

The man seems to realise how absolutely unbelievable his story is, because his tone turns a little frantic, and he begins, “My name is Balinor. I used to live in Camelot, not in the citadel but nearby on my family’s land. My life was good, full of laughter and love until the Great Purge.” 

Arthur knows what is coming next. He knows what this speech is about to contain, and he swears when he hears the word magic he is going to wage war.

“I had to flee due to my magic,” Balinor continues, and Arthur takes a steadying breath, because he really should have known from the moment he heard the voice among those damn goats. “And I only barely made it out with the help of a trusted friend. I fled to Ealdor, where I met Hunith. She is the kindest, bravest woman I have ever met. We fell in love so quickly; I adored her vibrancy with all that I was. When I heard Uther’s men were still after me, I knew I had to leave if I wanted to keep her safe. So I left. I had no idea, no idea, that she was with child. How could I?” 

The man, Balinor, reaches out a hand towards Merlin, who leans into Arthur’s side. 

Balinor’s hand drops. “I swear I didn’t know about you.” 

Merlin swallows audibly, but he straightens up into his own space with confidence. “I believe you,” he says. 

Arthur, oddly enough, agrees with Merlin about this. He looks closer at Balinor and sees the too-blue of his eyes, the kind that he’s seen nowhere else but in Merlin’s face and catalogues it along with the dark hair and the nose and the cheekbones that peek out of the top of Balinor’s beard. And there’s that quiet confidence that Balinor has too, the one that Arthur had seen when he’d stumbled upon Merlin and Morgana in the field doing magic. 

Of course, Balinor can do magic as well. Another point in the “relation” category. 

“Well,” Lancelot breaks, “if Merlin believes you, that’s enough for me. Everyone?” 

There are noises of assent, and then Morgana offers, “Come inside and sit with us around our fire to talk. I’m sure there’s plenty for us to converse about.” 

Balinor huffs out a laugh. His eyes deviate to look at the others, but they are quick to come back to Merlin. “Yes, yes,” he agrees readily. “Just let me corral my goats first. I would love to hear about your time with the Druids as well?” Balinor hedges, and Arthur curses Merlin and Gwen for wearing those cloaks. 

It is not too long after that they settle down around the fire and begin to tell their tales, making introductions that stick to first names only. Arthur doesn’t feel like it would be a good idea to say he’s a Pendragon right now, after Balinor admitted to having magic and being affected by the Great Purge. He’s been in those situations before, and he’d prefer for a night without a revenge murder if at all possible.

Thankfully, the subject of Arthur’s entire life, existence, and disinheritance/banishment is glossed over entirely. The main topic of conversation, instead, is Hunith.

To be fair, Hunith is a fantastic topic of conversation. She is a lovely woman who had easily endeared her way into Arthur’s heart. She’s Merlin’s mother, after all, so how could he not enjoy her company? 

Everyone speaks of her hospitality, her generosity, her frankness and her boldness. Stories are shared from Merlin about his childhood, and Arthur finds himself wishing that he could have been there to witness Merlin learning how to plant seeds or climbing up onto the roof of his home with Will only to have Hunith scream at them to get down. 

Everyone else shares their stories about Hunith too, the more recent ones full of Arthur and Merlin cooking together, Morgana and Gwen splitting up chores and all of them crowded around the table after a long hard day of work. Lance doesn’t contribute much, but he seems to like the stories, and that is enough.

Balinor speaks a little bit, too. He tells how they met at Ealdor’s well, and how he knew that she was someone he wanted to know right away. He explains that his contact in Camelot had sent him to her home specifically to escape, and how she took him in and taught him everything she knew about living as a peasant. 

It explains a bit about why she’d been so good at handling Arthur, anyway. 

“Why don’t you come back with us?” Merlin asks after hearing a story about Balinor gifting her a whole basket of apples. He looks like he regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth.

Balinor’s face, previously open and smiling, shutters closed. “No, Merlin, I don’t think I should.” 

“Why not?” Arthur challenges. He knows how fathers look when they are in love with women they can no longer have, and the expression on Balinor’s face looks all too much like Uther’s for Arthur to be comfortable. 

“It’s been much too long,” Balinor mutters, staring down into the fire. 

“You still love her,” Morgana accuses, but it isn’t cruel.

Balinor smiles bitterly, reaching down to grab a dry stick and poking into the fire with it. “Of course I do,” he says. 

“Then come home,” Merlin pleads. “Come home with us, Father. She loves you still, I know it.” 

Arthur fills with ache. Merlin gets his family back together, and Arthur’s family is shattered still. He shoves the feeling aside, not wanting to compare the situations any longer.

“You really think she does?” Balinor asks, sceptical. “It’s been so many years…” 

Gwen smiles at Balinor from across the fire. “I think that you should at least try,” she tells him. 

And so the man relents: “Fine. But I’ll only stay if she wants me to be there.” 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

It seems that being the long lost son of the local forest forager can, in fact, provide both shelter for the evening and a rather unexpected family reunion. Since Balinor is to return with them to Ealdor, the party has been making additional preparations for the journey and Merlin has not left the man’s side. It’s as if the two of them are trying to make up decades’ time in merely a few hours. Arthur hasn’t seen this much joy on Merlin’s countenance in ages.

Once the sun finishes setting, they are supposed to turn in early to be ready for the coming journey. However, everyone except Merlin and his father are following suit. Whether Arthur is doing the same, is, of course, irrelevant. It’s weird to even say ‘Merlin and his father .’ Balinor just magically sprung up out of the forest and back into the life of the son he never knew he had with frankly alarming ease. 

Arthur’s happy for Merlin, but there’s a bittersweet taste to it all. They’ve only known Balinor for several hours, yet he has proven himself to be a more outwardly doting father than Uther ever had been for all these years. It makes it rather difficult to sleep, hence the eavesdropping on his dearest friend and said friend’s newfound father. They seem to think he is asleep and if they both cannot use magic well enough to tell he’s awake, then that’s their own fault. 

He pulls the tattered blanket and bedroll up around so that he can just peek his eyes through and catch the way that the firelight dances softly across Merlin’s visage. Arthur chastises himself for focusing on how the little flickers of light are akin to that gold flicker instead of the words exchanged in hushed whispers. 

“Did your mother or tutor ever speak to you of the Dragonlords?” Balinor asks Merlin as he whittles away at a small block of wood they hadn’t tossed into the fire.

“Sadly not. Even if they wished to, I doubt they would have in fear of being charged with the aiding and abetting of magical persons,” Merlin says with a sigh.

Balinor halts his whittling to look his son in the eyes with a grave look on his face as Merlin listens while fiddling with a small ball of light in his palms. “Have things not improved in Camelot?” 

“They get worse by the day, but we will help when we return,” Merlin utters with a sense of certainty that Arthur wishes he could have in himself. Merlin’s high opinion would be almost charming if the thought of that duty wasn’t weighing heavy on his mind. Still, in a world where they have been making nothing but missteps lately, Merlin’s trust in how they’ll successfully complete their mission is a comfort he didn’t expect to warm him so. 

“It will be easier with your aid, I’m certain,” Balinor says with resolve before a smug grin crosses his face. “You’re her son and a Dragonlord after all.”

Arthur stifles a laugh when the light ball in the young sorcerer’s hands immediately dissipates and a look of shock crosses his face. “I beg your pardon.”

With the casual tone one would give to reciting the almanack or local gossip, Balinor states, “You can commune with and tame dragonkind as I can and my father before me could, Merlin.”

Well, shit. 

First, Merlin is a sorcerer, then he’s the Druids’ literal and figurative golden boy, and now he’s a dragon tamer? The snake charmer theory wasn’t even that far off in retrospect. Arthur hates his life. 

“Is that why Kilgharrah never let me have a moment’s respite?” Merlin asks incredulously.

“The old bastard is still alive?” Balinor asks with eyes alight in anticipation.

“He’s alive,” Merlin says with a huff. “And well enough to summon me to the vaults at odd hours, only to provide cryptic riddles and meaningless metaphors.” 

At the response, Balinor beams with a hearty chuckle that is potentially loud enough to stir the party. And, really, Merlin’s dad? People are clearly trying to sleep. Balinor picks up the wood and whittles away once more, looking questioningly at Merlin. “How did nobody notice?” 

With an amused smile on his face, Merlin says, “People in Camelot are rather dense. I’ve been with Arthur for years and he still hasn’t picked up on the whole magic deal. I doubt he or anyone else would expect my communion with our capital’s resident dragon.”

Okay. If it weren’t for the potential to utterly ruin his relationship with Merlin by revealing his location and espionage via defending himself, he would. Because there are several concerning points in Merlin’s last claim, starting with the fact that Arthur has picked up on the ‘whole magic deal.’ Albeit, he probably should have earlier, but he does know now, Mer lin. And Arthur knows he is not ‘dense.’ He had just expected better than being lied to by his manservant and dearest companion with whom he shared everything with, which isn’t too much to ask, all things considered. 

Something else is frankly appalling, namely Camelot’s resident dragon . Arthur has an inkling that housing an all powerful magical creature who can wreak havoc upon the kingdom and bring it to its knees in minutes is something he should have been informed of perchance the dragon does something so trivial, as say, getting loose. But, no. Apparently, neither his father nor Merlin felt that this little tidbit of information would be helpful to ensure the protection of his dominion. By God, weren’t they preparing him well for the crown?  

Balinor smiles upon his son with the affection Arthur wishes from his own father. “I’m proud, son. Not many would be able to pull off such reckless stunts. Although, in time, I believe you and Kilgharrah may be on better terms once your powers are fully realised.” 

Hearing how remarkable his seemingly dull best friend is has become an increasingly frequent occurrence, so Arthur doesn’t really pay full attention to Balinor’s whole spiel. The man laments a bit on the history of the Dragonlords and claims Merlin must prove himself worthy of the sacred duty before he can come into the power borne by the mantle. He knows there is something or another about the patrilineal nature of the power through all living in the last surviving bloodline, which is at that point just Merlin and his father.

Still, nothing seems to have concerned Arthur so much as hearing words I’m proud, son, that echo in his head even minutes past their utterance. He wonders if Merlin feels it too, hearing those sacred words for the first time and warmed by them far more than the fire ever could. There’s no doubt Balinor should be proud; Merlin, even if he is an idiot, is still a remarkable young man with a kind heart that any father would be lucky to call his own. Still, Merlin’s newfound father is giving those three words freely, as if they were insignificant trinkets as opposed to cherished jewels. 

He hasn’t heard those words in some time now and Arthur is unsure if he ever will again. One of the last times they were said was when Arthur returned from raiding the Druids’ camps all those years ago. Now, Arthur knows that what he once stood as a hallmark of his father’s pride and by proxy a testament to his confidence and worth as both son and heir was wrong. ‘I’m proud, son’ only ever seemed to be uttered when he did Uther’s bidding, largely at the expense of both innocent and guilty magical persons to protect the realm. They were about duty, honour, sacrifice, and service, not as an amused remark about one’s mischief; that’s what scoldings were for. 

Yet for Balinor, despite not having met his son before, seems to care for Merlin in a way remiss of conditions or heavy expectations. There is love for the sake of it where good company, idle conversation, and handmade gifts are enough. Arthur always expected mothers to be like this, which Hunith was clear proof of. But he didn’t have much in the way of expecting how fathers could be, considering most of his friends were fatherless by circumstances that may or may not have been related to his own father. He thought they were all like Uther: somewhat distant, righteous, and calculating. Apparently his false assumptions about magic and the peasantry aren’t all he is learning from his disinheritance.

As Merlin and his father lightly chat around the homemade cave hearth, Arthur tries not to ask himself if he’s ever had one such talk with his father. However, thoughts of how Merlin is some dragon tamer on top of everything else who is probably far too important for the likes of him, fare the former prince no better. Arthur forces his eyes shut so he can try and sleep before the morning comes, trying to focus on the soft lilt of Merlin’s voice to ground him against the spiral within. If Merlin has some God-forsaken quest as the last Dragonlord, Arthur isn’t sure how much longer he’ll have the time to, anyway.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Travelling takes slightly longer than anticipated because, on top of being a disinherited prince set on reclaiming his rightful place as king, Arthur has earned the coveted title of goat wrangler for their friendly neighbourhood hermit and forgotten father. While Balinor and Lancelot scout ahead in the front, he is stuck with the goats and Merlin. He would normally make some sort of joke about not knowing which of the two are more dull to get Merlin’s attention, but he isn’t quite in the mood to do so after last night. He has so many questions for Merlin and for Balinor about magic, Dragonlords, and the being that lurks beneath the castle, but as always he is left only with secrets to hide instead of the answers he seeks.  

As they ride, every so often, Arthur tries to steal a glance at his riding companion who is lost in thought. The wistful smile on Merlin’s face thankfully suggests all good things and it is a welcome look on his countenance as opposed to the more disagreeable masks of fear and frustration that Merlin sometimes wears. The comfortable silence is fine for riding, but Arthur would much prefer to talk, especially on the off-chance they continue the conversation from the Druid encampment that Mordred had so rudely interrupted. 

“Bit rude of you to get your father back before me, isn’t it, Merlin?” Arthur remarks, which elicits a small laugh from Merlin. It is, at the moment, going all according to plan.

“That’s an unfair accusation. I didn't know he was lost to begin with,” Merlin says as he rolls his eyes amusedly. “Mother is going to be awfully surprised.”

Arthur glances over at him and smirks. “I would inquire how you’re taking it, but you’ve been beaming like a besotted maiden.” 

“As if you’ve ever acted differently when Uther gives you a moment of attention,” Merlin retorts with a pointed look. Arthur holds up a finger to speak, but realises he is without a parry. Merlin has him there, but he doesn’t need to be so blunt about it. 

Still, with Balinor’s revelation about the Great Purge compounding with everything he’s learned from Alice and the Druids, Arthur isn’t sure if his reaction would be quite the same. He’d likely take any sort of fatherly affection in his stride, but as long as his actions were not the reprehensible things he had been praised for in the past. It all comes back to the question of magic, of course, and Arthur knows he would have an easier way of discerning his feelings surrounding his father’s actions if he could speak freely about the arcane. 

Arthur lets out a faux yawn and tries to bait Merlin. “You seem to be getting on well enough. It was almost impossible to fall asleep last night with your squawking. What were you on about all night?”

Merlin visibly stiffens at the remark, meaning Arthur has indeed checked the tell he is seeking. He wonders how it took him so long to notice these little moments where the sorcerer reacts suspiciously to moments that could expose his secret. Now that Arthur knows, he’s picked up on it an egregious number of times that makes him question how he survived so long in plain sight of the most magic-averse family in the realm. 

“He recounted a few legends and old wives tales from the fiefdom he was raised in that he would have told to me as a boy. I believe he just wishes to make up for the years lost,” Merlin says with an affirmative nod. The comment isn’t entirely untruthful, but it certainly isn’t the entire truth. Merlin being an all-powerful communer of dragons certainly is not any legend he’s heard about, nor would he want to. It would be absurd. 

“So he was telling his adult son bedtime stories? Adorable,” Arthur teases. “Well, what was it this time? Merfolk? Centaurs? Dragons ?” 

“How to dispose of incorrigible clotpoles like yourself, actually,” Merlin grumbles in a poor attempt to change the subject. 

Arthur tries to smile at Merlin, who is avoiding his gaze and trying to focus on the road. He remains quiet, this time with his eyebrows furrowed as they ride. As his line of questioning does not seem like it’ll be getting him anywhere, the least Arthur can do is try and at least try cheer Merlin, considering this abhorrent pouting is his own fault. After a few more moments of silence, Arthur says, “I’m happy for you, for the record.”

“Thank you.” Merlin’s face turns at the comment, easing into the smile Arthur was trying to beckon out once more. Arthur stares at him until Merlin glances over, and Arthur tears his gaze away, embarrassed to be caught, only for Merlin to call out a moment later, causing Arthur to turn his head back. 

“We’ll get him back too, Arthur,” Merlin assures, and there he goes again, always being too kind and outwardly focused for his own good. The sorcerer would find a way to make a conversation about his own happiness into one that comforts another. He is just good that way, in the most genuine sense of the word. It’s almost enough to make him forget about Uther, about Camelot, for but a moment. But Arthur is well aware it is only the calm before the storm. 

If anyone deserves such a happiness in these fleeting moments of respite, it is Merlin. He will get his turn soon enough, but it cannot come until Camelot is retaken, and it still feels like a distant dream as they trek across this foreign nation, hopefully for the last time. 

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ʜᴀs ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ᴀ ғᴇᴡ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜɪᴍsᴇʟғ in the last two days of travel, which has made for a most enlightening experience. He has learned that he does not like goats and therefore will never, ever be a goat herder. 

Additionally, now that he’s looking for it actively, Arthur sees Merlin using magic all of the time and he doesn’t know how he used to not notice it. Merlin uses magic to light fires. He uses it to chop big branches for firewood that he’s too lazy to use an axe for. He uses it to show off in front of Balinor when he thinks everybody is asleep. He even uses it to clean the pots down by the riverside when he thinks he’s alone. Arthur sincerely hopes that him practising magic is a post-Camelot only measure, because if Merlin had been acting like this while living in Camelot then it’s a miracle that he is still alive.

Arthur would also be blind not to notice how Balinor, a known Dragonlord, becomes continually more nervous the closer they draw to Ealdor. One would think that talking to dragons would eliminate all capabilities to experience fear in a person, but evidently that is not the case when faced with reuniting with one’s true love. Or, at least Arthur thinks that Balinor and Hunith are a true love match based on all of the stories he’s heard. 

And also, did Arthur mention that he would not take all the coin in the world to take care of these bastard goats for one more day? Thank god they’re almost to Ealdor, if they try to eat his very limited supply of good shirts one more time he is going to lose it. This is the fifth time today and peasants don’t have the same quality dye for their red cloth. They just don’t. 

He swats away the damn goats for the umpteenth time with his left foot while sitting high on Llamrei. Merlin is a big help in deterring the goats as well, but after seeing Balinor discard five different whittling project attempts while taking his turn riding Maisie, he had given Arthur a sheepish smile and scampered off ahead to talk Balinor down. 

And so here Arthur is. Resorting to threats of kicking goats and listening to what he can hear of Merlin and Balinor’s conversation over the ruckus of Lance, Gwen, and Morgana talking to each other in the front of their party. 

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, son,” Balinor is saying, and Arthur cannot find it within himself to disagree with the statement, although Arthur might be applying the words to Balinor’s decision to take every single last goat he owned with him to Ealdor instead of reuniting with Hunith. 

“Father,” Merlin scolds fondly, a tone that Arthur is used to hearing directed at himself. “Don’t say that! I’ve told you already, Mother never remarried and she brushed off every suitor that came her way. Believe me, there were more than a few when I was younger but she had no interest in any of them.”

Arthur notes the way that Balinor’s hand on Maisie’s lead tightens at that news, and wonders idly if it’s jealousy or more nerves. 

He sees Balinor bow his head and mumble something, but he can’t quite hear what it is, since Merlin and Balinor are on the ground as well as twenty paces in front of him. 

“Well, yes, I actually asked her why once. She said it was because she fell in love with my father and that no man was ever going to replace him,” Merlin says, triumph infused into every syllable. 

To be honest, it’s fun to watch Merlin try and take somebody else down a peg, but only as a spectator sport. It beats solely watching goats, anyhow.   

Balinor, however, is not fully convinced. “And she’s made no mention of changing her mind since then?”

Merlin scoffs loudly. “Absolutely not, Father. She stares into the fire sometimes, or out into the forest, and I know she’s thinking of you because she will just look so sad. You have nothing to worry about. She misses you. She loves you.” 

Balinor swings an arm around Merlin’s shoulders and pulls him close. “I’ll need her to tell me that before I believe it. But thank you, Merlin. I just hope this is the right choice.” 

“It is,” Merlin assures, and somehow Arthur knows that he’s right. “Everything will be fine.” 

Arthur feels a nip at his ankle and looks down, only to see another blasted goat trying to tear into his clothes pack dangling from Llamrei’s load yet again and gives it another warning kick and a glare. 

They cannot arrive at Hunith’s home fast enough, for both Arthur and Balinor’s sake. When they do, it becomes abundantly clear that he will need to take the lead in this, seeing Merlin fret over his anxious father. It comes to Arthur’s attention that they should ease Hunith into the surprise of seeing the former lover, who was presumably gone forever, for the first time in almost two decades. Arthur plans to initially make introductions with Gwen and Lancelot, so when Merlin, Morgana, and Balinor are out of sight, tacking up the horses and acclimating the little bastards to the farm, he knocks on the door. 

After a moment, Hunith opens the door warmly and immediately pulls each of them into a tight embrace. “It’s so good to see you all,” she says kindly before looking over them once more. She narrows her gaze and her breath hitches slightly as she asks, “Where’s Merlin? And your sister?”

Arthur places a hand on her shoulder and smiles upon her, “They are more than well, I assure you. Tacking up the horses as we speak, but we wanted to split up so as to not overwhelm you.” Feeling a sharp elbow collide with his stomach, Arthur becomes both increasingly aware how suspicious that must have sounded and why he should not be in charge of distractions in the coming future. 

“You know I welcome your arrival, dear. It’s not disruptive in the least,” Hunith says with a smile as she ushers them inside. “You just make yourselves comfortable and I’ll put a kettle on for when the other two return.” Ah, yes. They should wait for the other two human beings that most definitely aren’t accompanying a herd of goats and a third notable human being’s return.

After removing their outerwear, the trio sit at the table as Hunith gets mismatched cups down from one of the shelves. Placing a loaf of slightly stale bread on the table before them, she says, “I hadn’t expected you back so soon.” 

“We hadn’t either, but circumstances in Camelot have gotten worse and we had a number of unanticipated but not unpleasant encounters that led us back here,” Lancelot says cooly, with much more tact than Arthur could have delivered, given the situation.

Gwen places a hand on Lance’s forearm and looks to Hunith, “Someone did end up tagging along with us; we hope it isn’t too much of an inconvenience for you.”

“Ah, this must be why Arthur was trying so hard at indiscretion,” Hunith says, cracking a small smile. For the record, there’s a reason he helped captain the guard and not the kingdom’s intelligence officers and this is it. “But, of course they are welcome. What is one more?” 

Hunith pats Arthur on the shoulder as she gets up to pour the tea, first grabbing another cup down from the shelf for the anonymous visitor. It’s in the small actions such as these ones that remind Arthur where Merlin has gotten his kind heart from. 

From the doorway, Merlin calls, “Mother, I’m home!”

“Yes, dear,” Hunith calls back, turned away from him as she pours the tea. She remarks, “I hear you’ve brought along another companion,” before turning to face Merlin and immediately stopping when presented with who is there in addition to her son. 

Silence lingers in the air for a few moments, until Merlin gives his father a nudge. “Yes,” Balinor states, shifting his weight in place and waiting on bated breath. “Is there room for one more?”

“Balinor?” Hunith breathes, looking like she can barely believe the scene in front of her. 

Merlin’s father nods his head, looking equally like words are failing him, hands clutching tightly onto his bag. 

“Balinor,” Hunith says again, but this time it’s a confirmation. She takes a step away from the extra tea cups she’d set out a moment ago and begins to approach the man in question. 

There is a grin on Merlin’s face that widens with every passing second until it hurts to look at him, and Arthur sees him not-so-subtly jam his elbow into his father’s side to spur him into action. 

Balinor lowers his bag to the ground and takes a step towards Hunith, and that is all it takes for her hesitance to break. She rushes forwards and wraps her arms around Balinor, who clutches her in return. 

“Balinor, I can’t believe that you’re here, that you’re alive !” Hunith says, and Arthur’s heart clenches at her words. “How did you—”

Balinor presses a kiss to her hair before looking upon her kindly.  “Our son,” he says, gesturing his head towards Merlin, who sheepishly waves at them, seemingly unable to contain his excitement.

“Of course,” Hunith says, stifling a small laugh and shaking her head, “my miracle child would bring me yet another impossible happiness.” 

She extends a hand out to her son, who takes it readily, pulling him into their shared first embrace as a family. Arthur knows, watching them, that Merlin was right after all. He cannot imagine that things will go poorly for them from here on out.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur has seen couples in love before. Of course he has. He’s lived with Gwen and Lance, after all. And then there is whatever is happening with Merlin and Morgana. But seeing Merlin’s parents, together after so many years and in love even through their time apart, wrenches something in Arthur. 

He covets that warm, family experience and there is part of him that is bitterly jealous of Merlin, who has been soaking in the affection like a sponge, blissfully happy and warm and smiling as if he is not living a life that Arthur used to dream about. 

He’s happy for Merlin, of course. He’s happy for Hunith too, and sure, happy for Balinor even though the man is a Dragonlord which Arthur is still trying desperately to wrap his head around. 

But it hurts to watch them all interact. It hurts to watch Balinor and Hunith relearn each other and engage in witty banter and play off of each other’s strengths. 

It’s why Arthur is very glad that he recalls the farm’s routine, because it is very easy to shove himself back into a farmer’s role. Arthur gathers firewood. He makes the necessary trips to get milk. He carries water from the well back to the house. He tends to the crops that need it. He fixes the newest hole in Hunith’s roof. He takes care of the horses— though, he does leave the bastard goats for somebody else to manage.

Basically, Arthur keeps himself as busy as possible while he wars with his own bitter resentment. Merlin has a family now, a father who used to have a title and some land, both of his parents together, and apparently he’s some sort of Dragonlord-heir on top of having magic. It seems unfair, especially since Arthur was disinherited and banished, his father has been enchanted for months to be in love with a troll, his mother is a forever absent hole in his heart, and he has practically no blood relations left, seeing as how most are so distant that Arthur has not seen them in years, like Agravaine. 

Arthur feels as if Merlin has gained practically everything that he has lost, and though he knows the thought to be irrational, it does not make any of his feelings about the situation go away. 

So, instead of dwelling on all of that while his hands busy themselves away, Arthur turns his focus to one of his larger, more long-term problems: Merlin having magic and not trusting him enough to tell him. He watches Merlin out of the corner of his eyes when the other man is in his vicinity, taking in his abundant energy and thinking What is the best way to get him to tell me?

Of course, Arthur, as a paragon of strategy, decides that an ambush is his methodology of choice. Elegant, poised, careful, and practised: that is how he will be. He can take Merlin aside somewhere, sit him down, preface about how he’s thought about magic and that now he’s fine with it and then attack and just let Merlin know that Arthur knows and he doesn’t have to hide it anymore. Wave away Merlin’s gobsmacked expression— Arthur can picture the exact one— and elaborate on his magical education via Alice and Iseldir as well as coming to terms with things through the actions of others, like the Druid boy and Aldreda and, yes, Merlin himself.  

Merlin, of course, will be in awe and then be perfectly ashamed of himself for thinking so very poorly of him, after which he will confess that he has never had a better friend and then turn that blinding bright smile to Arthur for once. 

Plan in hand and weeding finally finished, Arthur dusts off his trousers and heads back to Hunith’s home. He knows how he’s going to do it: it’s high time that he and Merlin went to gather herbs again for their upcoming last meal in Ealdor, after all. 

It takes very little effort to prise Merlin off his fire-tending duties before they grab a bag or two to carry whatever they find and head out on the familiar path. 

“So Merlin,” Arthur starts conversationally, “how do you feel about returning to Camelot soon?” 

Merlin glances over at Arthur, replying, “Well, I hate to be leaving my parents, but we do need to be doing something about the situation in the city. Uther’s possession as well as Gaius’s…” He trails off and shakes his head, looking down to the ground. “I keep thinking about how everyone is faring and hoping that they’re okay.” 

“Me too,” Arthur admits readily. It is nice to hear that Merlin feels slightly responsible, although that might just be Arthur’s tendencies showing up in Merlin’s behaviour. 

“Do you think we could get Alice to come visit?” Arthur asks after a moment, looking for  a good segue into speaking about magic. 

Merlin splutters. “Alice? You mean, the woman who used to be Gaius’s intended Alice?” 

Arthur thought that much was quite obvious, but he is well acquainted with Merlin’s thick head, and so agrees, “Yes, that Alice. I believe that it would be nice for Gaius to see her. Of course, if we could free him from that awful goblin’s possession first, that would probably be most beneficial.” 

Merlin seems to consider this for a few steps, and the trees rustle between them as he keeps quiet. After a minute, he questions softly, “Would she be allowed in Camelot? Alice is a sorceress, in fact she is one of considerable power if she could heal such an advanced wound as Morgana’s.”  

Yes. Here it is; Arthur’s time approaches. Only a few more questions and carefully drawn out leading statements before Arthur can make his grand reveal! 

Arthur pretends to consider Merlin’s words for a moment, taking them in. “I suppose you’re right,” he concedes. “However, she saved Morgana. And we would ask Gaius if he thought her trustworthy and wanted her there before extending an invitation, of course. She would just have to promise not to use magic while in Camelot.” 

They take a couple more steps, Arthur trying hard to contain his grin when he peeks over at Merlin, whose expression is flitting between shock, nervousness, hope, and fear. 

“You would… harbour a sorceress in Camelot just— just to make Gaius happy?” Merlin asks. 

And, well. Why did Merlin have to go and put it like that? Arthur is not a simpering girl’s petticoat, and Alice isn’t even the point of the conversation. She’s just a point of reference. A figure of speech. An allegorical figure for magic at large, or what have you. 

“It’s all hypothetical, Merlin, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Arthur replies, defensive. 

“Well I think that’s sweet,” Merlin coos, and it’s frankly worrying how much he sounds like Guinevere when he does that. 

Arthur huffs and pointedly turns his gaze away from Merlin.  

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, and this time his tone is more hesitant. “I’m sorry.” 

Okay, now Arthur is confused, because unless Merlin now has secret mind reading capabilities in addition to regular magic and Dragonlord powers, what could he be apologising for? 

“For what?”

Arthur glances over at Merlin, who shrugs. “I appreciate that you’re trying to find ways to put back together everyone’s family that you can. I’m sorry that I can’t help to get back yours.” 

The astute statement knocks the breath out of Arthur’s chest more heavily than a kick to the lungs and the self-assured confidence he’d brought into this conversation dissipates with it. He takes back everything he said about Merlin being thick-headed, because truly, what the fuck.  

“Who said anything about my family?” Arthur blusters, searching for something, anything he can use to move the conversation away from the tender spot but coming up with nothing other than Merlin’s magic, which even he can tell would be a bad thing to bring up right now. The control he thought he had over the conversation has been utterly snatched away by Merlin, who huffs out a breath. 

“Clotpole. You didn’t have to say anything about your own family. I’ve seen you looking at me the past four days. And besides, I’ve spent all of my life before this without my father; I know those thoughts you’re thinking because I’ve had them too.” 

Arthur’s chest feels uncomfortably tight and he blinks rapidly at the sudden emergence of pollen in the air. He wishes, suddenly, for the goblets he used to keep on his desk in his chambers back in Camelot, because right now would be the perfect time to threaten Merlin with one of them if he could. 

This is not the discussion Arthur wished to have. It’s not a discussion he has in general with anyone. Not his father. Not Gaius. Not Agrivaine, even, the three times he visited when Arthur was a boy. 

Ygraine DeBois is the name of an unspoken spectre that haunts Camelot’s castle. Arthur had her portraits, had the very, very few stories Father managed to scrape up of her, had the whispers he used to hear from his nursemaid and servants around the castle and foreign dignitaries, and he had her entry in the lineage book that he’d read over a hundred times by the time he was twelve. 

Of course he wishes that his mother could still be alive. He wishes to get the chance to meet her often. But that is all it has ever been: a wish. A daydream he used to escape into when he needed the reprieve. 

That is why he’d not taken to Catrina. Sure, he’d been glad to see his father so happy before he knew there was magic involved, but he himself had planned to stay far away from the affair because even if Catrina had been the most genuine and nicest woman in all of Albion, she never could have replaced his mother. 

And all of those feelings are not something he shares with others. 

...But this is Merlin. And even if Merlin has trust issues with Arthur, the reverse has never been true. 

“I just wish I knew what she was like ,” Arthur whispers, caving. “Nobody talks about her. Nobody. I have that she was blonde and nice and beautiful. I know her favourite flower and that she thought Father was funny. I know that she looked a lot like me. And that’s it .” 

He looks to Merlin, again, like the sorcerer can scry him up some answers, hoping for solace or comfort or anything, feeling torn open from just that short speech.

In Merlin’s face, Arthur can see determination and conviction mixing together. “I had even less,” he says, “and it made me no less hungry. When we get back to Camelot, I promise I will help you find out more about her.” 

The vow burns Arthur’s throat and he has to look away, nodding to show his gratefulness that he cannot find another means to express. The ground beneath their feet gets a little more muddy before Arthur looks up again.

They stop walking. Arthur had forgotten how beautiful the herb grove is. 

“And Arthur?” Merlin asks.

“What?” He manages.

The next words that Merlin says last long and loud and wide. “My mother adores you, so I know yours would have too.” 

And then he walks away and behind to pick leaves off of stems, leaving Arthur abashed and jubilant and hoarse behind him. 

It takes several breaths to regulate himself, but once he does, Arthur wipes his face and strides over to begin aiding Merlin, working in grateful and, for once, peaceful, silence.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

The second that he and Merlin return from their strangely poignant foraging outing, they are drawn back into the hustle and bustle of domestic life. Things feel both similar to last season when he, Merlin, Morgana, and Gwen were living here together, while also being completely dissimilar with the shifting dynamics that come with surprise family reunions. Still, he knows the hearth like the back of his hand, so he and Merlin can cook properly for the first time in a long while with all the seasonings, side dishes, and luxuries that a small hamlet can provide and the open road could not. 

However, what they did not know was that bringing back Balinor meant bringing back opinions on cuisine, so the simple task of preparing a group meal has become more of an ordeal. Merlin, bless his soul, is trying to prove himself to his father in this meal preparation, while also trying not to displease Arthur, which has been a hassle in and of itself. He wishes Merlin would just listen to his refined opinions on palette over the former forest forager. It seems no matter what Merlin does his father is just pleased to have him around, so Merlin should capitalise on that fact and let them prepare food as Cook would back in Camelot, but alas this hybrid cuisine will have to do.

Tonight, they had settled on preparing the braised rabbit they had the last time they were here, alongside a root vegetable stew that Balinor insists is delicious after having almost two decades to perfect the recipe. It’s a bit too much of an austere dish for their last ‘family’ dinner before leaving for the capital, but Merlin wants to learn everything he can from his father and if it is good enough, it could be a potential alternative to the monotony of dried meat on the road which he wouldn’t complain about. Needless to say, things are hectic in the kitchen and Morgana, Gwen, and Lancelot should be glad of not being involved as there are far too many cooks in the rustic little kitchen.

As Arthur skins the rabbit, Hunith minces the corn mint and garlic into a paste for the dish alongside him. “You and Merlin needn’t go all out with dinner, especially with such a journey ahead.”

“I haven’t had a half-decent meal since we left Ealdor. You underestimate my want of one,” Arthur says with a smile, taking the paste from her to brush it onto the rabbit. 

Merlin lets out a small chuckle from across the kitchen, where he prepares the leeks and onions for Balinor to try. “He might have missed the kitchen more than you if his loquacity on the road was any measure.” 

“Quiet, Merlin I adore your mother and the quality of her hearth is only an enjoyable side benefit,” Arthur retorts, waving his skinning knife in one hand at Merlin and pulling Hunith into a shoulder hug with the other. “Work on your forest stew and bear us no mind while we prepare our artisanal dinner.”

The young sorcerer rolls his eyes and murmurs one of his Merlin-isms of the insulting variety under his breath as he dices the onions, which earns a small chuckle from everyone else.

“Are you two always this lively?” Balinor asks, cocking an eyebrow and glancing between the two of them. 

“Incessantly, and especially over dinner,” Hunith says with a knowing smile, as she dusts her hands off her aprons and prepares the plates. Arthur would protest but everyone in the room is wildly aware that she is indeed correct in that assessment. 

“Come now, if we weren’t returning to Camelot, we would prepare you such dishes nightly for all the good you’ve done for us, so we must make tonight’s dinner memorable enough for months to come,” Arthur says, with an altogether too pleased look on his face.

“I would hazard to say you’re succeeding,” Balinor remarks in a deadpan manner that Arthur isn’t quite sure to pin as sarcastic or serious. He supposes one’s social skills and cues become a little difficult after being a hermit for so long, still Arthur would prefer to know where he stands.

“Still, you mustn’t go so soon. You know there is room for you all to stay as long as you need and we wouldn’t mind the extra hands come harvest time,” Hunith remarks earnestly and Arthur wishes more than anything that they could do just that. 

Outside of the devastating reminders of his own familial folly and the barrier between himself, Merlin, and Morgana surrounding magic, their short time in Ealdor had been lovely. The farm work that used to be gruelling is now a welcome divergence from fleeing for their lives from yet another extremely well-timed patrol of the Essetir borderlands set on ruining their perfectly good days. Having a hearth to cook at and a roof over their heads here is a simple joy he had missed and most importantly, the place is so filled with love. It’s a foreign and uncomfortable place for that, but it’s one he could get accustomed to, if only he had the time to do so. Arthur regrets that he doesn't have.

“We’d love to stay, and Merlin is more than welcome to, should he so choose. I still, regretfully, must return to the capital posthaste,” Arthur says remorsefully, biting his tongue at the end of the utterance. Despite the worst of Arthur’s fears likely being Merlin not returning to Camelot to help him face the challenges ahead, he still wishes to begrudgingly put it out there one last time. Merlin has been affected by the happiness that comes with his reunited family, and he wishes he didn’t have to take the young sorcerer away from that so soon. Arthur is doubtless about what Merlin’s decision will be, he’s known Merlin long enough to know that he is stubbornly loyal to a fault and would not give up having come this far and gotten so close to Arthur after all this time. Still, he wouldn’t blame Merlin for wanting to stay, but if he does it will hurt all the same. 

“You mean to say, we must return to the capital,” Merlin says with the hint of an amused smirk on his face. “I did not put up with your bemoaning halfway across Essetir to not see you reclaim your birthright.” 

Arthur might let the ‘bemoaning’ comment to slide just this once, as he is all together relieved and pleased with Merlin’s intention to deliver a riposte. Although there is a parry in it yet. “Of course, Mer lin. I’m sure your courting of my sister dearest has nothing to do with your decision.”

He had expected Merlin to get flustered at the remark, ceding the victory of their verbal bout to Arthur, but the outcome is altogether quite different. There is no flushing like an enamoured young paramour or incessant parental teasing to come of it; there’s just a confused exchanging of glances he is not sure how to make meaning of. Certainly, Merlin told his parents that he was courting Morgana and they would approve of such a respectable match for their son beyond what their station would normally warrant? If so, why does everything feel as awkwardly terse as those silences when Uther would process his thoughts before scolding him or Morgana for dismaying him? It’s utterly bizarre.

Thankfully, the sound of Balinor adding dried meat, potatoes, and beets to the stew breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Right, then,” Balinor states, clearing his throat for good measure and initiating a rather shift in the conversational direction. “Still, if Camelot is in such disarray more despotic than ever, quarrels over minor lordships are probably the least of the crown’s problems.”

Merlin stifles a laugh at the mention of a ‘minor lordship’ and Arthur eyes him incredulously. Did Merlin really just leave out the fact that he, Arthur, is the Arthur? It’s negligence parallels Merlin leaving out the whole very relevant magic bit to everyone but Arthur, so this trend is rather distressing if he is being completely frank.  

“Dear, you are aware Arthur Pendragon is not a minor lord, correct?” Hunith asks, trying to be as sincere as possible without bursting out in a laugh. Ah. Balinor definitely doesn’t know. 

At the comment, Balinot stops stirring the stew and almost drops the wooden ladle on the floor, would it not be for some miracle that Merlin’s hand-eye coordination is good enough to catch it. The fact that Merlin is stirring the pot so as to not let it boil over when his father is in complete shock has nothing to do with a certain momentary fleck of gold in his pupils. Clearly. 

Balinor does a once over of Arthur with furrowed brows to size him up once more with the newfound information. “This whelp is Pendragon’s boy?”

Merlin lets out the laugh he was trying to hold in at Balinor’s rude bluntless, which Arthur would elbow him for should it not have potentially endangered the sanctity of the stew. “I’ll have you know, I was the best swordsman in Camelot. I led—”

“Definitely Uther’s boy,” Balinor says with an affirmative nod before turning back to his stew. Arthur can hear him mutter, “How could I not tell?” under his breath as he stirs with a newfound focus. Merlin rolls his eyes at Balinor before sending a kind smile in Arthur’s direction before helping his father once more. Arthur must be staring for far too long because Hunith places a gentle hand on his shoulder to redirect his attention back to the rabbit that is almost overdone.

As he turns over the rabbit to cook the other side, Arthur wonders if it really is so apparent as that. If their journey from Ealdor and back had shown him anything, it is that he doesn’t just wish to be his father’s son. He is also the son of Ygraine and brother in all but blood to Morgana. He is a trusted friend to Lancelot and Gwen and an acquaintance to some beings of magical kind. If what Merlin says is true, he is a partial son to Hunith and Balinor and best friend to the most remarkable man he’s met. 

While journeying to Camelot meant reclaiming his birthright, Arthur is slowly realising it is no longer meant for him alone. As king he could provide for the community he has slowly built for himself out of those his father could no longer bar him from and serve his people honourably, which is why he must not live out his days in this rustic hamlet. Only he, with the assistance of those closest to him, could ensure the safety of his acquired family. And if what remains of his blood family seek to stop him, so be it; from almost losing Morgana, being amongst the Druids, or living in Ealdor with Merlin’s family, this experience has proved that he has reason enough to fight. 

Chapter Text

Lᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ Eᴀʟᴅᴏʀ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴀsʏ, and it just about broke Arthur’s heart to see Merlin bid goodbye to the family whose newfound dynamic he was just beginning to find his place within. They were off again with no idea of when they would return, but thankfully this time they are headed in the right direction: back to Camelot. 

Only there could he actually seek out more information about his family which feels like one in name and mantle alone. When almost all he knows of his mother is the sigil that he carries with him at all times, it is hard to feel connected to a past so distant and secretive. Merlin had been kind enough to say they will find more information about her when they return to Camelot, but he wonders if he’d be better off not knowing, so the truth lest not shatter the vision he’s built of her for all these years. The young sorcerer is doing well enough reconciling his vision of the absent father with the physical reality, but Balinor is still alive to ease that transition. Somehow, Arthur is sure a headstone and a royal portrait cannot do the same for him. 

Arthur’s always known he’s at the centre of it all, as his very existence is the reason his family has faced such turmoil. Hunith heralds her son as a miracle child and a blessing, while his uncles made it clear enough he was to be heralded as a curse upon his family. His birth unintentionally caused the deaths of his mother and his uncle Tristan— which is why his other uncle Agrivane was always so distant. He has considered reaching out to Agrivane in his disinherited state, hoping that the change in status might change the animosity between them and allow for some alliance against Uther for sullying Ygraine’s name by marrying Catrina. 

However, he thinks it best to avoid his uncle at all costs, lest he try and seek vengeance like his deceased brother when the state of affairs is so disastrous. Besides, Agrivane had made it abundantly clear in that past that Ygraine’s blood on Arthur’s hands is altogether all and none of the former prince’s fault. And by God does it do wonders for Arthur’s self-worth to know it.

Thankfully on the road things are distracting enough as they make progress towards the capital and the sights, smells, and wildlife feel more familiar. Without having to worry about herding bastardous goats, they can ride faster than a trot for the first time in a while, which allows for some friendly competition to try and distract them all from the daunting spectre of the journey ahead. He’s only slightly bitter that Merlin— with the subtlety of an angry mob, mind you — cracked a large tree branch with his magic to spook Llamrei and afford victory to Maisie and her rider. But he had given Merlin enough heartache about it later to more than make up for it, with several references to the miraculous circumstances of the sorcerer’s victory that the sorcerer frustratingly failed to take the bait on, yet again.  

As they near a village slightly inland from the Camelot’s side of the border, they happen upon a mysteriously abandoned cart, which by all means, seems too good to be true. When the party scouts the surrounding area, it seems as if it has been undisturbed for quite some time and what few footprints remain are leading away from the cache. From a distance, Arthur isn’t quite sure if it is real or some bizarre illusion set forth by mages who, while not born evil, are choosing to be through tempting travellers with supplies despite the scarcity issues plaguing the nation. If Merlin had been forthright about magic, Arthur could have asked him to detect magic or whatever wizard bullshit the almighty Dragonlord must be capable of, but because this is not the case he must risk life and limb instead.

To gauge if it is indeed an illusion, Arthur sinks a crossbow bolt into the cart, letting out a sigh of relief when he sees the bolt split wood upon impact. It is altogether too short-lived however, when he is faced with a sword pointed at his throat from an upside-down blonde woman hanging from the trees above. 

Lancelot draws his sword, only for his hand to be barely missed by a dagger that impales itself in a tree. The sound of footsteps is augmented by that of a man who announces, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” as he approaches with a sword in one hand and an identical throwing dagger in the other. 

“Just step away from the cargo and we’ll allow you to pass,” another voice calls, encroaching upon Gwen and Morgana’s horses with his sword unsheathed. A certain two sorcerers’ magic would be useful in the midst of this ambush, but of course Morgana elects to have her horse back off slightly and Merlin is seemingly dumbstruck. Gwen, on the other hand, seems entranced, head slightly cocked at the sound of the mystery assailant’s voice. Glancing to his side, Arthur catches sight of Gwen’s scrutinous gaze upon the make of the man’s sword and up to the face obscured by a hood. 

“We only seek safe passage and civility, neither your cargo nor such animosity,” she says with an air of confidence that would have befit a queen, should Gwen have been his. It seems to work as the man seems to falter with his sword while eyeing Gwen in a similar fashion. 

“Gwen?” The man asks with a hesitancy and urgency which Arthur isn’t altogether sure what to make of. Considering his throat is still very much threatened by the mystery woman’s sword, it really doesn’t seem like the time for whatever the hell is going on there, but they at least seem to be making progress. 

When Gwen responds with the affirmative, the man gestures for the others to stay their weapons. He lowers his hood and reveals himself to be a man reminiscent of Gwen’s since deceased father. “Elyan!” Gwen responds, dismounting her horse in a hurry to embrace the absent brother whose time away from Camelot changed him. Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and smiles at the woman weakly, hoping the little reunion will be enough to break her focus. It isn’t. 

When the siblings split apart, Gwen swats Elyan on the shoulder and scolds him. “ This was more important than running the smithy? Joining a band of ruffians?”

“Honest traders, actually,” The man with the throwing daggers remarks, tossing one into the air and catching it in a way that asserts dominance in a manner far from sincere. “The state of the nation has just made the work less honest.”

“Oh, so you’re a smuggler, now? Dad would be thrilled,” Gwen spits out with what Arthur assumes is every fibre of her pent up anger towards her sibling for having not returned to Camelot when Tom was killed. 

“As if dedicating yourself to the family that killed him is any better,” Elyan retorts, taking a step away from her. “I could have protected you both.”

“Wait. You know her, kid?” The woman says, shifting her gaze between ensuring Arthur doesn’t do anything funny and trying to assess the situation happening below. 

“They’re clearly related. Are you dull?” Arthur remarks with enough sarcasm to warrant a glare from the woman that makes him wince. 

When Elyan confirms the fact, the woman lowers the sword from Arthur’s throat and swings herself down from the tree, landing on her feet and dusting her hands off on her trousers. 

“Dispatching your party would have been a pity then,” The man lets out a wry chuckle as he sheathes his weapons. “Would have been helpful information, Elyan.”

“I didn’t think it would come up,” Elyan says, letting out a sigh and gestures to the party, “Meet my sister and her companions, I ask that we allow them safe passage — ”

“You aren’t ridding yourselves of me that easily,” Gwen says, taking her brother's arm assertively.  

“So I take it we’re allowing more,” he says gruffly. “I’m Tristan, that’s Isolde, and if you’re planning on staying you best help us prepare to fortify the cache before nightfall.” 

Gwen nods and looks imploringly to all of them, as if she fears they will not allow it. They had done Merlin the kindness of spending time with his family, how could they deny her the same? She hadn’t talked of Elyan much, but it was always clear she cared for him and that his absence had deeply affected her especially after Tom’s passing. Gwen deserved to have this time to grieve and reconnect with her estranged brother so that she too can find some semblance of peace. Camelot’s future is waiting for no one, but they can spare the time if it means bringing the smile to Gwen’s face that emerges when they agree to stay. 

Besides, what’s another instance of reuniting with a long lost relative to find a sense of closure that comes with quelling the pangs of disappointed familial love. It’s not as if Arthur has any sense of what that means.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Camp is much easier to put up when one has a cart of materials, Arthur must say. And the extra hands are helpful as well. As he heard Hunith say on the farm many a time, many hands make light work . 

Elyan, Tristan, and Isolde, thank God, are also normal smuggling peasants, other than Elyan being Gwen’s brother and all. That is to say: Arthur’s streak of running into unwanted magical people is finally coming to a close, and he could not be happier about it. 

Of course, Balinor hadn’t been a bad find, but knowing he was in the presence of a Dragonlord made Arthur just a tad uneasy. 

Anyhow, camp was made up fairly quickly, which led them all here and now, most everyone settling down around the early makings of a fire except Gwen and Elyan, who have gone off to gather firewood which at this point in the journey, Arthur knows is either a euphemism or evident of a chat to be had with privacy. And, of course, considering that quite heated argument the siblings had been having while Arthur had been at swordpoint, he can say with confidence he knows what they need to venture out for.

Nobody, apparently, wishes to get in the middle of the situation. Even Lancelot has opted to stay behind, but he excused himself some minutes later with the crossbow muttering about pheasants, so Arthur was content to let him go.

So now, they have to play nice with the smugglers. He, Morgana, and Merlin, the best people for the job, obviously. 

Fantastic. 

Well, there is only one subject that Arthur feels comfortable raising at the current moment, and so he goes ahead and asks grimly, not wanting to hear the answer but knowing he needs the update. “How fares Camelot?” He braces himself accordingly for their reply.

Tristan and Isolde glance at each other, grimacing for a second before Isolde replies, “Things are not good. We picked up Elyan to help with protection on the road because the people are so desperate for coin.” 

Arthur’s heart sinks. With the news from those bandits Edgar and Godwin, he knew things in Camelot were bad, but hearing that it’s only gotten worse is awful confirmation.

“We’ve been hearing rumours about the king,” Tristan continues. “His consort is apparently an awful woman, shrewd and aloof, always whispering in his ear along with an advisor, an old man. We also heard the crown started selling “King’s Wares,” which have been identified by some as items from Camelot’s vaults, which is why we came.” 

Arthur looks to Morgana in alarm, knowing that she alone is aware of how bad this situation has become. The vaults are home to artefacts from previous kings, burial chambers, the nice wines and meads, the treasury, and of course, where all magical items are locked away in two separate chambers, one for more mundane magical information and the other for magical weapons and cursed objects. 

Morgana returns Arthur’s look with a thinning of her lips, then asks, “So you’ve seen some of these “King’s Wares,” yes?” 

“We have some here.” Tristan gestures to the nearest cart. 

Arthur furrows his brows, confused. “And they just let you buy valuable items from the crown off of them?” 

Isolde shrugs. “They were easy to scam. Many have been willing to give us what few King’s Wares they have for beggar’s prices just to get a little gold to pay for their taxes and medicines.” 

“Medicines?” Merlin asks, and he sounds positively gutted even on just the one word. 

“Yes. The prices have turned outrageous for everything in and around the castle, and it has slowly spread out into Camelot’s outlying territories as their tariffs have risen,” Isolde tells him. 

Arthur feels a pang in his chest, not just for Merlin who looks worse now than before, but also because he knows how much pride Gaius took in serving those that could not afford his services whenever possible. Whenever illness spread across Camelot, Gaius had no fear in treating the ill and he never, ever, left someone to die just because he was unfamiliar with their affliction. 

So as much as it must wound Merlin to hear that the goblin possessing Gaius is overcharging, it also injures Arthur. Maybe not quite as much, but the news is not easy to hear by any means. 

He needs to do something. Arthur does not know what, but the need to do something is too great, and he stands, hands tightening into fists just to have something to hold onto. 

“Can we see the wares?” Arthur blurts. He has no reason to why, but once the words are spoken, he feels he’s made the perfect choice. After all, he and Morgana know the vaults perhaps better than any other than his father or Gaius. 

“Why?” Tristan aska warily, eyeing them as if he thinks they are going to steal from him. 

“I don’t want to take anything unduly,” Arthur says back, scowling fiercely. “But I know those vaults, and I want to make sure you didn’t pick up anything enchanted.” 

“Enchanted? What do you mean?” Isolde asks, eyes narrowing. 

Morgana sighs heavily and says in one of her most scathing tones, “Camelot stores all magical artefacts from the Great Purge in its vaults. Uther is not currently himself, being under an enchantment by the queen, who is working with his advisor to gather Camelot’s riches. They must be selling from those vaults, and there are many items down there that should not ever be removed.” 

Tristan and Isolde communicate with another series of glances that go too fast for Arthur to comprehend them, but they nod in acquiescence. 

“You can look,” Tristan threatens, “but don’t take anything. And if something is cursed, put it in a separate chest.” 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Combing through the magical artefacts isn't the most thrilling job Arthur has ever had, but it beats filling up the waterskins and gathering firewood by many leagues. There are a few that he recognises and puts in the clear bins almost right away: a few necklaces that he recalls were for boosting the wearer's connection with nature and a collection of Druid talismans that aren't enchanted at all.

The rest of the pieces require a little more research, and so he examines them one by one and sorts them into piles.

Midway through the chest he's working on, Arthur picks up a piece of finely crafted gold, a two pronged end joining before swirling into a spiral, etched with symbols of the Old Religion. Narrowing his eyes, Arthur moves the piece back and forth. There’s something familiar about it, almost as if he’s seen it before somewhere. 

He rotates it slowly, looking at it from different positions before realisation hits him: this is a piece. He lays it out on the dirt and traces a finger from the pronged edge, making an identical, connecting pronged edge and spiral, leaving room for only one more.

It makes a triskelion. And there would only be one triskelion piece in the vaults. 

The story flies through his head faster than a horse sprinting: The tomb of Ashkanar. An impossible maze. The last dragon egg. 

He darts a glance at Merlin, eyes wide, and thankfully the other man is absorbed in his own task of wrapping the “clean” pieces and putting them back into the chests provided by Tristan from his cart. 

The last dragon egg . It takes a split second for Arthur to make a decision, and the triskelion piece is slipped into his pocket, exchanged for the last bit of gold Arthur had been holding onto for a hot meal on their journey back to Camelot. He doesn’t feel sorry; if anyone is to have this key, it is Merlin or Balinor. 

What do Tristan and Isolde need to know about it? 

Nothing, that’s what. And he paid for it, probably more than they paid for the piece in the first place. So there. 

Arthur busies himself with the next thing in the quickly diminishing pile, only having found issue with a cursed amulet that he recalled brought the wearer extremely bad fortune, and a ring that would cripple one’s hand. 

After pushing through two books of complete gibberish, Arthur hears a commotion outside of camp and looks up, alert and quickly assessing the possible danger until he sees that it is Gwen, Elyan, and Lance, returning with triumphant smiles.

“We come bearing gifts!” Elyan announces, and he seems to be in a much better mood than Arthur thought he would be in, but there are no complaints on his end. 

They do indeed, look bogged down by what they’ve gathered; Elyan and Lance are carrying full loads of wood while Gwen looks to hold the meat of whatever Lance caught, already skinned and cut into pieces. 

“What did you catch?” Merlin calls. 

Lancelot puffs out his chest. “Pheasants, just like I mentioned earlier. I recalled a nest of them being around here from my travels.” 

“Well I am glad for it,” Arthur jokes, abandoning the last few vault items, spilling them into the “clear” trunk without further ado. He didn’t recognize any of them, anyhow, which means they’re fine. 

Isolde rushes over to Gwen, taking some of the meat excitedly. “Tristan and I will cook!” She offers, and Arthur is a bit offended, honestly. He was about to say the same of Merlin and himself.

But, if he considers their cooking as recompense for being attacked and almost killed before Gwen’s timely rescue, then Arthur supposes he can allow it just this once. 

Regardless, he nudges Merlin with an elbow. “How much do you bet they have inadequate seasoning?” He snipes, and Merlin just swings his head over with such a look of disdain that Arthur can read every word he doesn’t say perfectly: Oh yes, because I’d make a wager against the word of the most spoiled prince in Albion, Sir Pratliness. Inadequate seasoning, really ?

He has to hide an amused smile behind his hand, but it’s worth it. 

Arthur allows himself a moment’s respite as they all lightly banter about their travels around the campfire. When they were around Hunith’s hearth in Ealdor they had felt as a family, but this one radiates the camaraderie he once shared with Camelot’s knights. Jokes are shared, eyes are rolled, all the while a good meal is prepared and it's an altogether much more civilised dinner than Arthur would have expected from smugglers who were out to kill them but a few hours ago. 

They make a bizarre trio— Elyan, Tristan, and Isolde— and Arthur still isn’t quite sure what to make of the arrangement. From how they all jest, it’s clear that Elyan is the greenest of the smuggling band, and the other two have an effortless repartee. When Elyan is busy ribbing Lancelot about courting his sister in front of a flustered Gwen and amused Morgana, Arthur finds himself watching the two of them with interest as they prepare dinner. 

The two of them linger close to one another, enjoying the other's company until the other screws something up. Isolde tries to swat a sprig of rosemary from Tristan’s hand as he tries to add it much too early to the dish for it to do the flavour any good. Arthur would be distressed as she is too, but the smirk on Tristan’s face is revealing enough. As he tries to lord the herb over her with what additional height he has over her, it is clear he’s messing around, as Arthur does too with Merlin when the sorcerer gets too serious about meal preparation for his own good. 

Every now and then, the pair make snide comments at one another through hidden smiles as they try to best prepare the meal with what little supplies they have in the woods, but making do all the same. It’s almost as if he is watching himself and Merlin — if Merlin was a formidable woman, that is. They have that same sense of competition and camaraderie as they go about their shared tasks that had slowly become as natural to Arthur as breathing. That bond shows in all Tristan and Isolde do too, whether it be defending the cache, cooking a meal, or staging an ambush. Perhaps he and Merlin would have been good smugglers too, if their stint in peasantry hadn’t worked out. They certainly had the rapport and closeness that came with the territory, if Tristan and Isolde are any gauge for it. 

As the time to properly season the meat approaches, Isolde now lords the needed rosemary over Tristan who looks at her with a similar look of disdain that speaks a thousand words on its own. Shaking his head and letting out a small chuckle, Tristan pulls the mischievous Isolde towards him into a kiss. The herb that their faux spat was about seems all but forgotten as she wraps her arms around him and the pair is engrossed in one another.

The two of them break apart, and something in Arthur feels adrift and distant, like he is watching himself from above. There is a fool inside of his body, making his limbs thick and hazy. 

He swallows, the movement feeling clunky and metallic, as Isolde grins her wicked grin at Tristan, leaning into his side, never straying too far. 

Their dynamic is, therefore, not like his and Merlin’s at all. But, for one moment and one moment only, an image appears in Arthur’s mind of him and of Merlin, bantering fast, cooking a meal, quipping back and forth; a moment of sincerity arising through the steam, a brush of hands, a heated glance, a kiss just like that. A suspended moment, an intimacy Arthur has seldom ever longed for with any real intent surfacing fast. 

He wants it. And just for that particular, singular moment, he lets himself think it before the thought is turned absurd. 

Merlin is Merlin. Servant, friend, sorcerer, Dragonlord. A man. Trustworthy but not trusting. A puzzle but an open book. A deceiver. A wise man. A fool, and one who would never look at Arthur and think anything like that about him. Not even in passing.

He turns the images sideways in his mind, letting their shapes distort until they no longer make any logical sense, as if reflected onto the surface of a rippling lake. He tells himself that it’s funny, what the brain comes up with, sometimes, when one is left to one's thoughts for too long.

And then he promises himself to never think anything like that ever again about Merlin. He must have touched that cursed amulet for too long. That’s what this must be from. 

No matter. No matter. Arthur shakes himself, disposing of the fool who had taken his place, reentering into the scene of laughter and light. He pastes on a smile, laughs at Elyan’s joke, scoots imperceptibly away from where Merlin sits by his side. 

Arthur tries not to think about how Merlin has always been at his side, has served him, ridden into battle with him, been willing to die for him, has even learned sorcery almost certainly for him. 

He looks back at Tristan and Isolde, willing them to be done cooking even though he knows the pheasant cannot possibly be cooked all the way through. Instead of any solace, he sees the two of them—the couple — wrapped up in each other again.

Arthur feels a light nudge in his side and tries to not jump at the contact, well aware of who is sitting beside him. Under his breath Merlin whispers, “I think you might win your hypothetical bet, Arthur.”

He mistakenly turns to meet Merlin’s gaze, who is looking upon him with an amused grin on his face, so like the teasing smile Isolde had thrown at Tristan. Arthur shivers, even though the weather has not yet turned cold.

He forces a small chuckle for Merlin’s sake, but it feels hollow. The fool is back, and Arthur does not feel like any more bets are on the table. 

He knows, intrinsically, that any he makes now he will lose.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀɪʙᴜᴛᴇs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀsᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. He eats his pheasant, slightly bland, and compliments Tristan and Isolde for their cooking. He tells Merlin that he’s won the bet, haha, take that. 

But it’s a thin veneer that’s cracking with every second. Arthur just wants to be alone. He wants to sleep, but not here. He wants his rooms at home with the fireplace roaring and a nice hot bath and a plate of fancy meats and soft cheese and the cushy down bed with pillows. God, how Arthur misses good pillows. 

And then, Arthur doesn’t think he would cry, but he’d lay there and stare at the ceiling and wouldn’t answer the door, but that would be okay, because he’s the prince and sometimes nobles are allowed to have days off just because . Nothing like being a peasant. 

He tries to think about returning to Camelot instead, but that doesn’t make him feel any better either, and he knows that if he goes to do a manual labour job like cutting wood he’s just going to end up thinking too much and hurting himself. 

So Arthur engages with the crowd until it’s time for everyone to sleep, and he volunteers to be on first watch because Merlin’s bedroll is right next to his own and Arthur doesn’t even want to look at that. 

He doesn’t have a ceiling out here, nor a down bed, pillows, and bath, but he has the stars and the roaring fire and nobody will bother him, because they’ll all be asleep. It’s almost the same, if only Arthur didn’t have nineteen whole years of precedent to compare it up against. 

Elyan makes Arthur promise to wake him in a few hours so he can take second watch, but Arthur’s going to break that promise, because he’s already made one to himself: he’s going to stay up with himself for as long as he needs, listening to the wind in the trees and blanking out his mind from the thoughts of—

He’s always tracked Merlin’s smile, known what types meant what. He thought about how many days it had been since he’d seen that big, genuine one that lit up Merlin’s whole face. God! He’d included Merlin in all his plans, standing at his side: the farm dream, his future as King, as a swordsell, as a physician, as cooks even! Arthur looks for him when he isn’t there. He was so hurt about Merlin and Morgana because he—

Fuck. 

The amulet he’d touched was cursed. He has to wait for it to wear off. He has to stop thinking. 

If only a creature could show up right now and Arthur could hack at it with his sword. He feels like throwing around a bit of hurt tonight, no matter if he's giving or receiving it. 

But it’s late. There’s a fire to tend and things to avoid and Arthur is so tired but he can’t sleep; he doesn’t want to dream. 

He’s not sure he’ll like what his mind comes up with, tonight. 

Apparently, he’s not the only one who’s being tormented, because Morgana whimpers in her sleep and turns over. Arthur presses his lips together at the sight. Her nightmares have gotten better of late, ever since they left Ealdor. He would hate to see them make a return at such an unfortunate time, when everyone should be more focused than ever on getting back to Camelot. 

Morgana whimpers again, louder this time, and her arms flail in her bedroll. “No,” he hears her say. “No no no.” She rolls over again, closer to the fire, and Arthur has had enough, all earlier thoughts gone for the more pressing situation at hand. He gets up and walks over, intent on waking her up, for her own safety and sanity. 

“No,” she says again, and Arthur blocks her from getting any closer to the fire before he reaches down and uses one hand to shake her shoulder gently. 

“Morgana, wake up,” he tries, but she is in the throes of the nightmare’s clutches, and shakes off his hand with her spasms. 

“Please stop,” she pleads.

He can’t watch this. Arthur tries again to wake her, calling her name louder this time and shaking her shoulder more forcefully. 

“No, please,” she says instead of waking, and her eyelashes are starting to collect moisture in a way that makes Arthur uncomfortable to see. He gets down on his knees and cradles her in his arms, trying to comfort her somehow hoping the gesture shines through in her dream. 

“‘Gana, please wake up,” he whispers into her hair, fearful. He has never seen a nightmare this bad from her before and he doesn’t know what to do. 

She thrashes in his arms. “No. NO!” She gasps, and launches from his hold to her feet, but she’s unsteady and collapses back down to the ground next to him a moment later, gasping for breath, her face pale and slackened with fear. 

Morgana never backs down, is never this scared. What should he do? 

“‘Gana?” Arthur asks hesitantly. 

She turns sharply to look at him before relaxing when she catches his face. “Arthur,” she breathes. 

“Tell me?” He asks, tentatively. It’s been a long time since he comforted her at her bedside last, but he wants to hear her confide in him. He needs to make sure she’s okay.

Morgana bites her lip and looks downwards much more timidly than he knows her to. Arthur hates it, even though her headstrong nature can be overwhelming, when she does not wear her confidence like a cloak it means that she is very upset. 

“I don’t know, Arthur,” she says back to him, and it hurts like a physical blow. 

He scoots away from her, stung. “You don’t trust me,” he accuses. 

Her jaw clenches, and a spark of her familiar fire returns. “You’re family. ” 

“But you don’t trust me.” 

She looks away, and her hair falls over her face like a shield. “Maybe I just don't want to talk about it,” she retorts, but it falls flat between them, and Arthur breaks.

“I don’t get it. You keep having all these secrets from me Morgana, and whenever I try to talk to you I can never get past the banter. Why aren’t you confiding in me like you confide in Gwen, or in Merlin? Why am I the only one who doesn’t know about your—” Arthur stops himself before he can say magic , but glares at her instead, like he didn’t just slip up. 

Morgana looks up at him again, and her eyes flash defiantly. “Are you sure you want to know, Arthur? Maybe I’m trying to protect you by keeping you out of it. Did you ever consider that?” 

Arthur sneers back at her. “You know that I don't scare easily. I like to be prepared for threats, not blindsided and betrayed by my own sister!” 

Taken aback by his words, Morgana puts a hand on her chest. “Sister?”

Arthur swallows, suddenly shy. Of course he’s thought of Morgana as his sister for a long time, but this is one of the things they don’t talk about. He never wanted to put that pressure of siblingship on her when she might or might not feel the same way about him. 

Because Morgana is a brat. She is the bane of his existence sometimes, and he hates when she used to fight with Uther. She is brash and brave and loyal and hotheaded and vain and careless and empathetic and she’s family.

“Of course,” he says thickly, and Morgana offers him a trembling smile. 

“You’re my personal bother,” she tells him, but he knows what she means. 

He prompts, “Does your bother get to know about your nightmare? Fair warning, bothers are experts at, well, bothering you until they get what they want.”  

She rolls her eyes. “You’re insufferable.” 

He shifts so his back isn’t to the fire, preparing for her to go on, because he knows Morgana, and that hadn’t been a no. 

“I had a dream,” she begins, but Arthur knows that’s not right. 

So, he interrupts her. “The truth, Morgana.” 

She throws up her hands in exasperation. “What do you want from me Arthur? You saw me, didn’t you? You know I had a nightmare. What are you on about?” 

Arthur sighs tiredly and leans back onto his hands. “I’m just sick of you lying to me. I know you’re not telling me everything. So come on. Just get this over with and say it.” 

She snarls at him a little bit, casting her gaze away into the fire like she’s contemplating his head ablaze. “You really want to know?” She asks bitterly.

“Yes,” he says. 

“Fine,” she bites out. “Fine. It was a vision! It was a vision and I know something absolutely horrible that is going to happen and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. It was horrifying. I’ll never forget it as long as I live and I’ll do whatever it takes to stop that future from happening!” 

Arthur blinks and throws up his hands. “Visions? Wait just a minute. When I saw you and Merlin doing nature-defying magic in the forest glade I didn’t know that visions were a possibility!” 

And Morgana just gapes at him, speechless and stunned for one of the very few times in her life. If he wasn’t so confused, Arthur would be proud of himself for the accomplishment. 

“You knew?” She shrieks after a moment, and Arthur immediately shushes her, since the others are sleeping and all of them are quite light sleepers, these days. It wouldn’t do to wake anyone at such a late hour. 

“Of course I knew,” Arthur bites back. “I’m not completely useless. Now tell me more. What exactly is a vision and what did you see and how do we stop it?” 

“No, wait, we have to back up just a little bit first. When did you find out about Merlin and I’s magic?” She whisper-yells, and her eyes look half-crazed and mad in the firelight. 

Arthur huffs. All of this is old news. He doesn’t want Morgana to try and shake him away from talking about her vision. Nightmare vision? Arthur needs her to answer the important questions now, because this is just filler gossip. 

“I’ve known since right after Mountmend, and I’m fine with magic now. It doesn’t corrupt your soul like Father always said according to all the magical people I’ve talked to, and power corrupts for a sorcerer in the same way that it can corrupt for a king,” Arthur explains quickly. “There. Now will you tell me about the vision, yet?” 

Morgana stays quiet for a few moments, and Arthur is willing to let her process that for a time, considering that he’d needed a few weeks to be okay with the whole sorcerer bit. Maybe she’s been worrying about this as much as he has. In fact, she probably has been, and Arthur feels a bit like an ass. 

He reaches out a hand and puts it on Morgana’s knee. “I’m not Uther,” he says gently, and she nods, taking it as the concession he knew she would. 

She takes a breath in shakily and then lets it out, and he watches as she steadies herself before giving her knee one last squeeze and letting go. She shifts to sit up tall and proud, and covers the tremble in her lip with fierce determination in her eyes, only moderated by fear. 

“Visions are glimpses of the future. Warnings, perhaps. I see them and then they happen almost every time, sure as the sunrise. Merlin says what I see can be changed, because he’s done it before. But they are difficult to thwart, almost impossible.” 

Arthur nods. It makes a little bit of sense, he thinks. She sees things that are going to happen and they’re mostly bad so she tries to change them. Fair enough, and— he recalls a few trips before which she’d cried and begged for him not to go from which he came back hurt and winces— probably quite traumatising. 

“And this time?” He asks.

“This time, it was about Uther,” she confesses, leaning in. “I saw him, and he was laughing — and not in genuine joy. He was mad, even more than he already is. But then, I saw him, his eyes. His eyes glowed gold and there was fire in his hands and he killed someone with it and he smiled, like he got some sick enjoyment out of it.” She pants out a harsh breath, looking to him, her confidence fading into helplessness. “I saw it. I saw Uther use magic,” she repeats, as if Arthur did not hear her the first time, and then shudders. 

A wave of cold washes over Arthur. His father would never use magic. Never. Arthur doesn’t care how convenient or inconvenient it might be, King Uther of Camelot would not ever concede to allowing magic in his kingdom without punishment of death. 

So, as respectfully as possible, Arthur asks, “Are you certain this was a vision?” 

Morgana glares at him, which is answer enough. 

“But you know Father hates magic. Why would he use it? It makes no sense,” Arthur argues. 

Morgana reaches up into her hair and pulls. It looks like it hurts. “I know ,” she hisses. “But what other explanation is there? It felt so real.” 

Arthur thinks back to being fifteen and not being able to escape screaming Druids dying in his dreams. He smiles grimly and offers, “Real nightmares, in my experience, sound like they can be almost as awful as visions. Except they concern where your thoughts linger and what you know instead of gifting you a glimpse of the future. Have you thought about being persecuted, of late?” 

The look she gives him is uncomfortable. “When have I not had the thought in the back of my mind?” 

Arthur’s shoulders droop. He knows she’s right, but wishes she could be wrong and that he could reassure her that Uther would love her anyway, if he knew about her magic. But both of them know that’s a lie. He doesn’t know what Father would do to Morgana, and Arthur thinks protectively that he never wants to find out. 

“You’re safe here,” he offers instead. “And it sounds like just a regular, non-magical nightmare to me. Any old peasant can have one of those, so don’t worry too much about it and quit being a baby.” 

He can practically see Morgana draw herself back together as she lets the nightmare go, finally trusting in Arthur. “You’re right. Uther would never lower himself so much as to touch the filth that he believes magic to be. I must be overtired from all of the riding we’ve been doing.” 

He smiles at her questioningly just to make sure, and she quirks her lips back at him, raising both eyebrows in a silent challenge. 

“Now, I know you’re a girl Morgana, but there’s no need to get so dramatic on me—”

Morgana pushes Arthur and says sweetly, “Women are the fairer sex, Arthur, and we have much better pain tolerance. Have you ever heard the knights after an afternoon of training? And then there are women who give birth and are back to working within a week.” 

Arthur scrunches up his face, not wanting to entertain the thought and so switches the topic to the first thing he can think of. 

“Tell me more about your magic. I heard… I was wondering, um, Iseldir and Alice said that some people are born with magic? And that magic can manifest against your will in adolescence?” 

Morgana looks at him as if he’s thicker than Merlin on a bad day, and Arthur’s heart breaks just a little bit. “You know the answer to that,” she says. “Things started the year before I asked Gaius for my first sleeping draught. They worked for a while, until they didn’t. The magic came later, though. You recall the candle and the window?”

Arthur nods. 

“That was my first real instance of consciously using magic. Things only got worse from there, though I hid the best I could while in Camelot.” Her face is far away and solemn, as if reliving Uther’s paranoia over a magic user attacking Morgana when it had been her all along. 

Those had not been good days. So, he moves on, pulling Morgana back into the crisp nighttime air.

“What about Merlin? Did you both learn together in Ealdor?” Arthur asks with more urgency and curiosity than intended. He stifles a small cough to keep some semblance of his pride. “Oh-so-rudely under our noses, I might add.”

“I doubt who you were then would have handled today’s revelation with the same poise, Arthur,” She parries, shaking her head but still looking upon him kindly.

If he hadn’t been so interested in information on Merlin’s arcane biography, he would have reminded her that this was not today’s revelation and it had, in fact, been the month’s mental torment. But, he needn’t make this evening about himself, after what it must have taken for her to be honest with him, and he is thankful that she has acknowledged his shifting opinions of magic. There is at least that to prove that this whole journey was as good for his character as they once joked about.

“But he’s practised longer than I, his talent with magic makes that as much clear if you compare us, and he’s been a decent tutor.” Morgana says affirmatively. The confidence she admits it with is disconcerting, considering he’s never known Morgana to admit she is anything less than the perfection she strives for in every attribute. He tried to shove away the thought of how deeply she must care for him to even make such an admission.

If Merlin had been a sorcerer for far longer than Morgana— “You mean to imply Merlin had been practising magic in Camelot with Father right there? ” Arthur scoffs in disbelief. 

While Arthur would deign to say he admires his bravery of it all, Merlin could have very well gotten himself into a situation that Arthur could not save him from. And Merlin wouldn’t be that much of an idiot, would he? 

Arthur’s thoughts dart to several circumstances of his past since Merlin arrived in Camelot: the floating orb in the Morteaus flower’s cavern, being saved from the Questing Beast’s venom, and the like. There were so many instances where Arthur was miraculously saved from himself or those that wished to see him dead by seemingly inexplicable means. If those pieces align in the way that Arthur believes they might, by God, Merlin is that much of an idiot. 

Morgana must notice his bewilderment, because she places a hand on his forearm and states, “Merlin’s history as a magical practitioner is not mine to tell. You’ll have to cross that bridge with him when you get there.”

It is, of course, his luck that even when he continually is entrusted with certain secrets they only branch off into more infinitesimally. Even when he, for all intents and purposes, probably knows what said secrets are and solely needs to receive the confirmation that he seeks. But life can’t be that easy, and it certainly isn’t with the events of today of all days on top of it.

Arthur bats her hand away a little harsher than intended with a scoff, saltily remarking, “You both keep a lot of secrets to yourselves these days, don’t you?”

When Morgana doesn’t seem to react to the prodding, he decides to be a little more direct with her about the situation. Arthur doesn’t wish to process why he would rather bite his tongue than speak the words that he knows he should say as a friend, brother, and leader. He musters a sense of levity and sincerity, despite the fact they feel remote to him even as they fall from his lips. “We appreciate the discretion, when compared with Lance and Gwen, but you don’t have to hide your courtship. It’s not as if we did not approve before, and now that we’re practically common folk it matters even less.”

Arthur expected a warm embrace from her, overcome with emotion that the young couple has his stamp of approval just as siblings ought to and characters in the chivalric tales from his childhood would react. Well, perhaps not that much as Morgana has never been known as a blushing maiden, but he had thought there would be some positive recompense. What he did not expect was her to break out into a small fit of laughter, eyeing him incredulously as if he is a court jester.

Morgana must notice that he is, in fact, not finding this as funny as she is because she shakes her head, trying to contain her amusement. “You can be wrong in the head at times, but this is surprisingly low. You’re not getting enough beauty sleep are you?” 

He hasn’t been getting enough sleep; none of them have been. Still, it isn’t an excuse for her to make a mockery of his admission. “And here I thought we were getting along.”

And he is truly trying to be supportive in this too, of all things. Her and Merlin deserve every bit of happiness. Surely, if she finally admitted to the magic secret that was life-threatening in Camelot, her infatuation with his manservant is nothing in comparison and she needn’t be so bizarre about it. Besides, the relief of a confirmation means he will not have to spend what precious free time he does have thinking about it and said implications, so it could stop weighing an unnecessarily heavy amount on his mind. She’s his sister and Merlin is his best friend, they should owe him at least that much. 

“Come now, being facetious will not get you the answers you seek, Arthur,” she retorts, shooting him a knowing look he cannot quite place. She seems to finally see through his line of questioning, that much is clear. But, why she is so smug about it is still beyond him. She wouldn’t know about the blasted amulet that is making this whole conversation more uncomfortable, right?

“Fine, then. Why am I such a fool?” Arthur respectfully gestures for her to continue, knowing she will not unless he condescends himself to this opening. 

“Because you couldn’t be more wrong about the situation. Merlin and I? Seriously ,” Morgana says, trying to hide both the laugh and the slight offence that seems to escape her. 

“...So, you aren’t courting him then?” He asks after letting the thought air for a moment.

Arthur had spent so much time accepting the unfortunate reality that they were courting that the possibility that they were not is disconcerting. If Merlin and Morgana are indeed not together, it would be a relief and a curse all the same and he’s not quite prepared for the answer either way. Considering his duty to the realm as former heir apparent, any sort of entanglements had always been off-limits, and Morgana’s choice of suitor made said fleeting intrusive thoughts doubly off-limits. When they are off-limits they are easier to avoid, like magical artefacts smothered in the vaults of Camelot never to see the morning’s light. And time and time again had proven exactly what calamity has befallen the second said artefacts emerged. It’s never good.   

“I don’t even want to know what gave you the impression,” Morgana retorts, shaking her head in disbelief and prompting Arthur to release his breath in a steady stream of air, making a whooshing sound as his lungs empty. 

Well, shit.

Arthur wracks his thoughts, listing every grievance that gave him the implication, so he can prove to Morgana it isn’t as preposterous as she must think: the flowers, the herb gathering, the secret talks. Taking the time to examine things within the context of the magical tutorage, he supposes things could be construed as strictly platonic in retrospect. Still, he could have sworn it was the two of them he caught kissing and they were still abhorrently thick as thieves at times. 

“Is the mighty Arthur Pendragon jealous?” Morgana asks, to pull him out of his musings. She looks at him with a wicked grin that he wishes would disappear from her visage and he would have seen it through if she hadn’t just woken from that nightmare. Damn his empathy for her. 

“I’m far too tired to discuss this further, Morgana,” Arthur grumbles, avoiding her prying gaze. He adds, “You’ve kept me up as it is,” to try and express his discontent, so as to not give her the last word, but smiles at her all the same to know it is in good humour. 

“Yes, of course, I wouldn't want to deprive you of your beauty sleep,” Morgana demures. “Whose watch is it next?” 

Arthur stiffens. It’s definitely past second watch, and he’d feel horrible waking up Elyan at this point. But, he knows whose turn it is after Elyan’s, and that’s a conversion he does not want to have tonight. 

Morgana huffs at him. “Merlin? Oh, do get over yourself, Arthur. It’s trading watch. I do think you should talk to him but you don’t have to do it tonight.” 

She’s giving him an out. It’s kinder of her than he expected, and he takes it gratefully. “Some other time,” he agrees, fully aware that he is not going to be talking to Merlin about his magic until Merlin wants to tell him about it. And maybe that’s petty of him. Maybe he should take the first step, just like he did tonight with Morgana.

But that conversation and this one feel different, somehow. Morgana is his sister. He knows how she is and he knows the ways she works. She’s never been one for words and neither has he. He understands why she didn’t say anything to him. 

But Merlin? Merlin is his best friend. His confidante. How many times had Arthur confessed his own secrets in the dark to him? And Merlin couldn’t even reciprocate with his, not even once he knew Arthur was questioning everything that his father told him? Not even when they were visiting the Druids? Not even after he’d told Morgana or Gwen or Lancelot or even that Druid boy? Not even after Balinor walked back into his life and brought with him the extra news of Merlin’s Dragonlord status?

It’s not more important, but there’s more weight. More expectation, and Arthur hesitates to think too much on why. 

He goes back over to his bedroll and uses one foot to kick Merlin awake, who grumbles a bit too much at the intrusion. 

“Get up, Merlin,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “I need to sleep.” 

But what Arthur needs and what actually befalls him are two very different things, as he this time, opposed to Morgana, is now the one struggling to sleep this evening. Not for lack of trying, but every time he closes his eyes, Arthur sees nightmares of his own. And when he opens his eyes, all he can see is Merlin. He’s not sure which is worse.

Chapter Text

Aғᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴇxʜᴀᴜsᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʏs ʜᴇ’s ʜᴀᴅ ɪɴ ᴀᴡʜɪʟᴇ, Arthur had desperately wanted to awake to normality. Perhaps Merlin, who had woken up early, would have prepared a nice meal for them with the previous evening’s leftovers, seasoned just right with the utmost care. Perhaps he would find Lancelot and Gwen being sickeningly sweet in front of an eye-rolling Elyan as a sign that all was well with the world. 

Apparently, however, that is too much to ask for. So instead, he wakes up surrounded by a swarm of unusually large scorpions that have so kindly stormed their camp, complete with the biggest claws he’s ever seen on any such creature. 

He doesn’t wish to point fingers, but how these scorpion bastards got this close this fast without anyone’s notice is frankly a bit uncanny. At this point, it doesn’t really matter as all that does is ensure he has his blade in hand to ward the foul beasts off. As much as Arthur would love to backtrack yet again to Alice or the Druids for healing in case one of them is poisoned and slowly dragged toward their untimely end, it would simply be better to not to. 

Everyone quickly gathers their bearings at Gwen’s beck and call to try and fight but the size of the swarm and the members thereof are somewhat daunting. Arthur readies his blade and shoves his crossbow at Merlin, knowing full well that he’ll probably fumble to use it. He could just as well flicker his eyes and set the forest afire so they don’t have to fight for their lives. Selfish prat.

Still, Arthur hasn’t fought off assailants for the umpteenth time on a quest to reclaim the throne only to die to a bunch of blasted scorpions in the woods. It would be unbecoming and frankly disappointing of him. 

As the serkets draw closer it’s hard to even single out members of the horde to try and bisect. Instead, he hacks furiously, trying to not think about how badly he’ll need to bathe considering how much arachnid innards, venom, and various extremities are dowsing his clothing and the supplies that remain on the ground. He and Lancelot find a steady rhythm, switching up who is guarding the other from the stingers as the other tries to slash the beasts back. The waves seem unending and the serket-less pocket they remain in is slowly being encroached on as Morgana and Merlin struggle to hold them back with as much force. 

Merlin and Morgana retreat a few steps so that they are almost back-to-back with Arthur and Lancelot. Under her breath, he hears Morgana insistently mutter, “Merlin. We need to save the camp now .”

Sidestepping another serket trying to swipe its stinger at him, Arthur quickly looks over his shoulder to see Merlin staring at Morgana with a look of incredulity, as if offended she is mentioning such a thing out loud. He catches Merlin’s eyes darting about, albeit with blue pupils as opposed to the momentarily needed gold. Is Merlin really this worried about the whole magic thing that he’d rather let them die than stop being stubborn about it? Even when Arthur’s made it abundantly clear he has changed his opinions on the subject?
“Do fight instead of stating the obvious, Morgana,” Arthur shouts at Morgana in between stabbing the serkets, giving Merlin an out to the conversation which he clearly doesn’t want to have. It is because Arthur needs him to be useful and not because he is too protective of the sorcerer for his own good. Obviously. 

They face the horde, getting increasingly covered in serket fluids of all varieties and narrowly avoiding slashes that thankfully only tear their already getting-ragged clothes. While they make progress in some areas, they get pushed back in others, so much so that everyone is pressed up against the other’s backs. Their weaponry is pointed outward and they find themselves completely surrounded. 

A crack of lightning surges through the clear sky striking a serket, and Arthur looks to Morgana and Merlin, finding them without gold pupils and just as confused as he is. When the next bolt strikes, their eyes remain the same, evidencing an unknown sorcerer. For what he would hazard as his first time, Arthur is exceedingly grateful. The lightning chains, bouncing from beast to beast, thoroughly electrocuting them as their bodies fall to the ground. The serkets at the back of the horde flee, smart enough to know their battle is not to be won. 

Stepping away from the party, Tristan and Isolde cautiously tiptoe over the dead serkets, careful not to stir those that may not be entirely dead. Isolde shares a wordless nod with her partner, as he goes and starts to gather their things and she starts harvesting one of the stingers. She tosses a dagger to Elyan to help her in her task who eyes her confusedly before assisting her.

As they do, everyone catches their breath for a few moments and scans the perimeter for the sight of the mysterious rescuer who would have the gall to use magic so recklessly within Camelot’s borders and is not the only person he knew would do so standing beside him.

When they are not to be seen, Arthur and the others help Tristan and Isolde with the harvesting until Tristan comes back, announcing the cart is prepared to leave and make the journey north to the Essetir border.

“You’re leaving in such a hurry?” Gwen asks Elyan, trying to hide the sadness in her voice. She doesn’t seem ready to leave her brother so soon, which Arthur cannot blame her for. They had days with Merlin’s family in Ealdor and she had but a few hours and those she did have were sullied with a mistaken ambush and a serket attack.

“We enjoy your company well enough, but do wish to live off the wealth we’ve obtained through our trade. Frankly, continued magical creature attacks and threats to our lives such as this one will inhibit us from doing so,” Isolde says, putting the last of the stingers into a satchel at her side. As much as Arthur hates to admit it, they are probably right and are the smartest of the lot he’s travelling with to make this judgement call in terms of their safety. 

She bounds over to the cache, giving Tristan a quick kiss on the cheek before loading what she had salvaged from the combat in hopes of selling the venom for some coin. Tristan beckons Elyan over, calling, “Make your farewells Elyan, and we’ll be off.”

Elyan looks to Gwen, giving her a smile and lightly squeezing her forearm before approaching Tristan and Isolde. “My sister seems to be in constant danger, and I cannot in good conscience leave her. I hope you will forgive me.”

“That isn’t quite what I meant, but fair enough,” Tristan says with a small chuckle and shaking his head, before pulling Eyan into a side-hug and slipping a sack of coin into his pocket. “We’ll miss you, kid.”

After her partner releases him, Isolde pulls Elyan into a hug as well and says, “If you need anything, you know how to find us,” before taking up the cart. 

“Try not to die, and if you don’t ruin Camelot more than it already has been done, perhaps we’ll meet again,” Tristan calls to the party with a small wave before he and Isolde hit the road. Elyan watches them go, somewhat remorsefully, before his sister runs up behind him to embrace him. As they exchange words of thanks and fraternal affection, Arthur scouts the woods once more. This time his eye catches a blonde woman cloaked in black and hiding behind a tree, as if watching from afar. This must be their protector. 

“Come hither friend, we mean you no harm. Quite the opposite actually, as I surmise you are the one who saved us from it,” Arthur shouts in her direction, in hopes of luring her out so they may properly thank her. 

Merlin looks to Arthur, incredulous as to who he is communicating with until the woman emerges. While he doesn’t wish to make assumptions, but from her appearance and the magic she conducted, she does fit the Wild Woods Witch archetype his father warned him about. Still, she rescued them and if anything happens, Merlin and Morgana would hopefully not be as stubborn as before in rescuing them. 

“Who are you?” Merlin says, and honestly, he sounds like Arthur confronting Aldreda. Had he really been that aggressive? Wow. That had not really been a good look for him, had it? 

“My name is Morgause,” says Wild Woods Witch, lowering her hood and smiling beatifically. “I am so glad to have run into all of you, now of all times.” 

Arthur thinks that Wild Woods Witch Morgause is perhaps a little too friendly, and it’s quite frankly a little bit rude of her to say so right after Tristan and Isolde decided to leave.

“And why is that?” Morgana inquires, her tone scathing. Arthur also thinks that she’s a bit bitter that her roll of clothes got serket venom on them and the two dresses she brought for sentimental value now probably have holes in them. 

Morgause, however, must have an iron will along with being a pretty powerful sorceress, because her smile does not budge one stitch. “I’ve been looking for you and Arthur both,” she says. “I knew your mothers.” 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Quite frankly, it’s about time for Arthur to be at the centre of the mystery of running into magical and non magical people in the woods. Merlin has his turn with Balinor, Gwen had her turn with Elyan, Lance had his turn with Aldreda, Morgana had her turn with the Druid boy, and even Gaius had a turn with Alice and he’s not even a part of their party.

So running into somebody that knows Arthur? And Morgana, of course, but somebody that knows Arthur’s family? His mother? 

It feels serendipitous. Generous. Like fate, if Arthur put any stock in that hollyhock. And sure, Morgause is a sorceress. But then again, so is Morgana and so is Merlin and so on and so forth. Arthur’s over that kind of thing by now. He’s just hoping that Morgause can actually tell him about Ygraine, and then help him regain the throne. An actual experienced magic user would be most beneficial, he’s sure. 

Everybody sits in the centre of the camp, around where the fire is slowly dying. Morgause has yet to elaborate on everything, and Elyan had taken her silence as an opportunity to start on breakfast, grabbing their dried meat stores and passing the bag around with the waterskins. 

Arthur watches as she fiddles with a small pouch on her lap and goes back and forth between gazing at himself and Morgana, drinking them in.

“You said you knew my mother?” Arthur asks, impatient. There is no urgency, which he blames on the early time of day and fading adrenaline catching up with lethargy. But Arthur cannot wait any longer. 

Morgause smiles and tilts her head. “Yes, I did. You look a lot like her, Arthur.” 

He knows, but it is a sentence he never tires of hearing. “Can you tell me about her?” He pleads. 

“Wait a minute,” Morgana protests. “How do we know you’re not lying? After all, I have never heard of you before. If you were supposedly such a close person to our families, then why have we not met? Why has your name not been mentioned to me by anybody that came before?” 

Morgause’s mouth twists. “That is because they probably never thought to mention me. I am the eldest daughter of Lady Vivienne.” 

Arthur dares a glance at Morgana and watches her face fill with shock. A sibling of hers? But how? Arthur has studied many lineage books over the years, tracing both his and Morgana’s family trees, and there was never any mention of another child of Gorlois and Vivienne. 

Her gaze connects with his for a second, and the look on her face conveys that she is just as confused as he is.

 Morgause continues, “As a child, my death was faked and I was given to the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. I was raised on the Isle of the Blessed, exchanging letters and gifts with my mother until her death, and only a few months ago I began to venture out into Albion again, in search of both of you. Here.” She reaches down and opens the pouch she was fiddling with and brings out two bracelets. 

They are both silver, one of them with a big stone in the centre and the other with delicate metalwork, and Morgause lifts them up reverently before extending one towards Arthur and the other towards Morgana. 

“These bracelets belonged to your families. Morgana, yours is a powerful healing bracelet that contains the crest of Gorlois.” She hands it to Morgana, who accepts it tentatively and inspects its face. 

“And Arthur, this was a gift from my mother to yours. The stone in the centre signifies friendship and prosperity.” Arthur accepts the bracelet and is pleased to note the fine craftsmanship of the jewellery. 

He has so few things of his mother’s that he strains to feel some sort of connection to her through the object, as if her spirit is transfused in some small way into it. There is nothing of her to feel, so instead he runs his fingers across its surface, wondering how many times her fingertips had touched the same metal, how many times she wore it proudly, bearing the gift of her friend. 

“This is the crest of Gorlois,” Morgana confirms, shaken. 

Morgause nods. “I have no reason to lie.” She spreads her hands open wide, which would be a gesture of goodwill if Arthur didn't know that she could set the camp ablaze with a single thought. “And as I come bearing gifts, I also come bearing news.” 

News? What does she know that Arthur does not already? 

“News of what?” Gwen asks. 

Morgause’s gaze darkens. “I fear you would not believe my claims. And I understand why, as we have all just met. So, instead of hearing it from me, I would have Morgana and Arthur speak to their mothers.” 

Arthur clutches his bracelet and stands up. “My mother is dead,” he spits, “and so is Morgana’s. What do you mean?” 

Morgause titles her head to the side and looks up at him. “Through magic, of course,” she says. “I am a High Priestess of the Old Religion. If you do not fear magic like the fool your father is, this is a gift I will give you.” 

Arthur glances at Morgana. “I never have,” he replies honestly. “Let’s do it.” 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur rides distractedly behind Morgause and Morgana chatting away, listening vaguely as Morgause shares the few stories she has of their mother. He asked for stories of Ygraine an hour ago, and Morgause had delivered, offering tales of her as a young woman who loved to ride and take care of her horses and spend time with her brothers. 

Apparently, she loved horses a lot, and would voluntarily do the chores that he forces upon Merlin that technically aren’t even in his jurisdiction. Morgause said her laugh was loud and bright and she used to write short stories. 

It definitely is a lot to take in, and he feels full and dazed but happy all at the same time. Putting some stories behind his mother’s portrait and her short summary in the lineage books and the few tales his father had told him is priceless, even if some of the memories are thirdhand. 

His uncle Agrivaine never talks about her either. Morgause is officially his favourite extended family member from her willingness to talk about his mother alone, not including her giving Morgana more of her history and saving them from the swarm of serkets. He really hopes she’ll be willing to stick around after they learn of whatever news she must bring them. 

At his side, Merlin gasps, and Arthur startles, almost falling off of Llamrei. 

“What, Merlin?” 

Merlin reaches over and points at Arthur’s wrist frantically. “The bracelet,” he hisses, “is glowing !” 

Arthur looks down to his wrist, where the bracelet from Morgause sits. It is, in fact, not glowing. “No it’s not. Stop being paranoid, Merlin.” He sighs and looks away, still not wanting to engage much in talking with the other man. 

  All of the fanfare today has overtaken his mind until this very moment, in which Merlin in his everything has reminded Arthur of the night previous with Tristan and Isolde as well as his and Morgana’s conversation. 

Arthur’s grip tightens on his reigns. He doesn’t want to think about the particulars of  what is going on between Merlin and himself. It’s the fool’s own fault if he doesn’t want to trust Arthur when Arthur has more than proved his own worth as a confidante and a friend. 

But perhaps it’s better that Merlin has not confessed his secrets to Arthur. He doesn’t know what he would do at seeing Merlin with confessions dripping from his lips. Trusting him fully and completely. 

Arthur shakes his head and turns to Merlin with a raised eyebrow. “What is it you’re always saying to me? Ah, yes. Don’t be a dollophead. Morgause is family.” 

Gwen, who was riding with Elyan, eases up on Arthur’s other side. “Did Merlin say the bracelet was glowing?” She asks. 

“Yes, he did,” Arthur explains patiently, “and he clearly needs to get his eyes checked by a physician, because my mother’s bracelet did not glow at all.” 

Gwen, however, does not look appeased by Arthur’s wit. “Are you sure?” She sounds quite sceptical, which means she did not take Arthur’s joke as such. She should know by now that he’s always joking when it comes to Merlin.

“Merlin has always had a sharp eye,” she defends. “It’s why Gaius made him cut up all the herbs in Camelot, and why your armour never got gunk in the crevices as soon as Merlin was the one to start to clean it. Also, have you not noticed that he is always the one to organise our packing in the most efficient way? Without him, not everything would fit on the horses.” 

Of course Arthur has noticed all of that. But he cannot say so, especially now. And after all, it was supposed to be a joke. 

“Arthur, I swear I saw it glow,” Merlin pleads, and Arthur has to look away from him as he continues, “I just don’t know what that thing does. All I want is for you to be safe.” 

Arthur knows that, now. By God, he knows it. Merlin wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. Wouldn’t have learned magic, probably. And so Arthur doesn’t doubt his commitment to that job, but… 

“This is my mother’s bracelet,” he says. “My mother’s. You must understand, I cannot just get rid of it.” 

He risks a glance at Merlin to see his shoulders slump in resignation. “Of course,” he says, and Gwen offers a nod.

Arthur steps forwards, then, to get back to Morgana and Morgause’s conversation. He’d rather hear about Lady Vivienne’s childhood tales than have any more of this drama with Merlin and Gwen. 

There is no way Morgause would give him a gift from his mother in bad faith. Not after all she’s done for them in such a short time, because Arthur feels like he’s never known his mother this well in his life. He only wishes that it hadn’t taken so long to feel this way. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur has entered fortresses sketchier than this for less noble reasons than finally meeting the mother he has been seeking a connection to for his entire life. Is Morgause’s fortress a bit outdated and in desperate need of a new groundskeeper as well as a kitchen and serving staff to clean the place up? Yes. Does Arthur care at the moment? Not in particular. 

He doesn’t quite know why Merlin and Gwen are being so awfully suspicious of the woman; she has saved their lives and is finally going to give him the answers he desperately needs about his mother. Besides, Arthur has been more than accommodating to their familial reunions, so they should let him have this, even if the atmosphere is a tad ominous. Morgause had not given them much reason as to why the ritual has to be performed here, but he figures that it must be a place more connected to the arcane or she has need of some ingredient that she has stored here. 

No matter. He has waited twenty odd years to meet his mother, he can wait just a while longer. Although, Arthur must say that he is experiencing a bout of impatience, and if he could, he would have urged Llamrei into a full gallop hours ago. 

Everybody dismounts and ties up the horses where Morgause indicates before they continue onwards on foot, the crumbling structure around them never getting any more appealing. 

The sorceress leads the party into an antechamber that is separated from an outdoor courtyard where an altar sits, covered in unlit candles. She pauses, turning to the party and states, “The ritual is dangerous if conducted incorrectly, so I ask those not necessary to please wait here, lest you break my concentration.” 

Morgause beckons Morgana and Arthur hither. Morgana steps forwards without a backwards glance, but Arthur hesitates for a moment. 

“Come along, Merlin,” he calls, drawing Merlin away from his conversation with Gwen. Merlin looks at Arthur in surprise but gives him a nod, setting Arthur more at ease. The sorcerer excuses himself from Gwen, giving her a knowing look and a light squeeze to her arm to quell whatever fear seems to be in her eyes. 

Morgause levels a look at him, slightly frustrated. “Does he need to come?” She asks, and Arthur feels irritation build against her for the first time. 

Does Merlin not trust Arthur fully? Yes. However, Arthur trusts Merlin. If anything does go wrong, he knows Merlin will do what he must to save him. Besides, whatever happens, he’s going to have to tell Merlin. Might as well save his breath and let the idiot witness it alongside him.  

“I wish it,” Arthur states affirmatively, ensuring he makes eye contact with Morgause and avoids it with Merlin when he does. 

“Then I will allow it,” she acquiesces before entering the courtyard, black dress trailing behind her in the wind. She begins to light the candles and hands Morgana an alight torch to assist her in preparing the ritual.

“Are you sure you want to proceed?” Merlin quietly asks out of Morgause’s earshot. “We don't actually know why she’s doing this.”

“If you were granted the same opportunity in my position, would you choose otherwise? I’ve seen how much good reuniting with your father has done; is it wrong for me to ask the same?” Arthur states imploringly, hoping his best friend does understand. 

Before Merlin can respond, Morgause utters, “It is time.” Arthur smiles weakly at a concerned Merlin before approaching the altar where Morgana already stands. Catching her shaking slightly, he takes Morgana’s hand, giving it a light squeeze before letting it fall. 

“Close your eyes,” Morgause says soothingly, placing a hand on each of their shoulders and walking around the candle-covered altar. She incants, “ Arásae mid min miclan mihte þín suna to helpe. Hider eft funde on þisse ne middangeard þín suna w'æs .”

Around him, he feels the wind blow with vigour and anticipation so quick it matches the beating of his own heart. He has been awaiting this moment for as long as he can remember, but always thought it would be when he reached Avalon and not a moment before. But now? The moment is upon him far sooner. He is almost certain his heart cannot bear it. 

“Arthur,” he hears a voice call that is all at once unfamiliar to him but also feels like home. He opens his eyes to see a fair woman with blonde ringlets, and the warmth in her cheeks make her seem as real as he is. She is draped in whites and silvers that give her the ethereal quality of an angel and is far more beautiful than the royal portraits ever captured. 

Ygraine runs up to him and pulls him into a mother’s embrace he dare not let go of, lest she be gone forever and this is but a dream. He tries to take in everything to commit each and every detail he can to memory: how tight her hugs are, where her hair falls on her back, the lilt of her voice. After being so dumbstruck by the moment, with the time to relax in her comfort, he breathlessly says, “Mother.” 

From behind him, he hears a gentle voice call Morgana’s name, and he eyes her embracing the other celestial woman before her, seeming as infinitely happy as he is. When his mother pulls away, she cradles his face in her hands, looking upon him with the affection he has been seeking all these years and only recently came to know through Hunith. 

Arthur is pulled from the trance that comes with his mother planting a soft kiss on his forehead for the first time he can remember by Morgause’s booming voice. “Now, you both must learn the circumstances of your birth and the hypocrisy of your father.”

The perfection of the moment is shattered. Arthur wishes that Morgause would have let them have longer to sit with their mothers. To hold them, to feel them, to know them. He’s been missing his mother all of his life, never having met her until now. He hadn’t realised how young she really had been when she passed: only a few years older than himself. 

And yet, the circumstances of his birth? Hypocrisy of his father? He cannot ignore Morgause’s words, no matter how much he might wish to. 

“Mother, what is she speaking of?” Arthur asks, gently squeezing Ygraine’s forearms, hoping she may provide the answers he seeks.

“Arthur, my son,” Ygraine says, cradling his face once more. “You were conceived of magic.”

Well, fuck. Perhaps there are some secrets he is better off not knowing.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇs ᴀ sᴛᴇᴘ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜɪs ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, shaking his head. “No.” It’s reflexive, his denial, and the words that follow fall off his tongue without a moment of thought. “That’s not true.” 

Ygraine smiles at him, but it trembles on her face. “It is true, but it does not matter. I am so proud of you, my son. This moment is the happiest I have been since I last held you in my arms as a baby. You looked up at me with such wide, curious eyes… seeing you now shows me what my sacrifice was worth.” 

“Sacrifice?” Arthur intones. His world narrows to just himself and his mother, drowning out the noise of Morgana’s words between her and Lady Vivienne. 

His mother steps towards him, completing the bubble of just the two of them, and she reaches a hand out that never makes contact. “Worry not about it, my son. The circumstances of your birth are best left in the past,” she pleads, but Arthur must know. 

“I’m sorry Mother, but you know I cannot. You must tell me what you know.” 

“Arthur—” 

“Mother please. Magic? Sacrifice? Anything you tell me would be better than what I am imagining.” 

Her face screws up in sorrow, but she smooths it out into placidity and looks him in the eye before she tells him a story he should have heard long ago. 

The words of it swim around his head. Pendragon dynasty. Barren. The sorceress Nimueh. Magic. To make a life, a life must be given. Sacrifice. His father knew.

His father knew. 

“Father knew?” He asks, needing his mother to deny it, needing reassurance that Uther would never do something that desperate, that dangerous to his own family. 

Love and pain drip from Ygraine’s eyes. “Yes,” she says. “Your father knew there would be a cost, but he was willing to pay any price, even that of my life.” 

Arthur skips all of the implications of that sentence save one. “So the Great Purge—?” He asks, frantic but unable to finish the question, its second half lodging uncomfortably in his throat.

“Yes, Arthur,” his mother confirms, knowing what he couldn’t bring himself to say. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Arthur thinks back over every incident of his father’s madness, his paranoia, his unwillingness to see the truth in face of his bigotry. And all the while, he had been lying to everyone, because his own son, his precious heir, was a product of the very thing he hated most. 

And he has known Uther was wrong. He’s learned that magic isn’t evil. Arthur realises that this whole time, his father has just been trying to give him good reasons to believe in the discrimination he’s been spoonfeeding Arthur his whole life.

Morgause is right. His father is a hypocrite. 

“I did,” he confirms to his mother. “I have done.”

Slowly, like a physical being, Arthur feels anger build heavily in his chest, crawling up his neck to his cheeks, making him almost shake with the force of it. 

Families have been torn apart. People have been burned at the stake. Druids were chased out of their own homes. 

And Arthur himself as well— the amount of times he cried when he was fifteen and desperate after leading that attack on the Druid camp at the behest of his father! The amount of guilt he held that kept him up at night! The amount of conversations with Uther he’d had to try to get him to see reason! The exhaustion he felt having to follow his father’s jumps in logic! The sheer weight of a person’s life on his shoulders that he would have to carry in cases like Mordred’s, in which he helped one person escape but not another! And all of those times in which Morgana, oh brave Morgana, stood up for someone accused of sorcery at the dinner table and then stormed off and Arthur was the one who would have to pick up her slack and try a sneakier approach to getting his father to see the light! 

Through all of that, through every single instance, his father had known he was wrong. And yet, he had done it anyway, committed horrible acts against a people whose help he had begged for. 

His mother had been lost. But that did not make up for the fact that so many others had suffered for it. 

“But what did he think was going to happen?” Arthur spits out, disgusted. “Did he think that some random peasant would drop dead, that he was willing to give up the life of a citizen of Camelot just to have me? Or did he not care that it would be you so long as he could ‘continue the dynasty’?”

Ygraine shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she confesses, and Arthur’s heart breaks. He has so much more to say to her, to ask of her, to bask in with her, but he blinks once, and she is gone. 

Devastated, he turns and sees Merlin staring at him, the other man’s face slackened in disbelief. Arthur wishes he had the capacity to be entrenched in incredulity instead of the mix of rage, shame, and desolation that is flowing out his every pore. 

He turns to Morgana, ready to commiserate with her, until he sees that her mother is still present. 

Arthur hasn’t seen a portrait of Lady Vivienne before, but nonetheless she looks familiar, which doesn’t surprise Arthur through knowing Morgana and now Morgause, both daughters to her. It’s in the shape of her jaw, her nose, and the green colour of her irises, the way her long brown hair spills into curls the same way Morgana’s had back in Camelot when she’d had the time to care for it instead of the frizzy bun she wears it in nowadays.

“I tell no lies, daughter, though I have wished for them to be,” she’s saying, and Morgana looks about as stable as Arthur had in his conversation with his own mother. 

“But Uther Pendragon?” She spits. “Mother, how could you? How could you?”  

There is rage in Vivienne, and it flashes in her eyes the same way Morgana’s does. “When the king calls upon you, you do not refuse.”

Morgana lets out a sound of pain so vivid Arthur feels it like a knife against his skin, and Arthur understands the meaning behind Vivienne’s words, assembling pieces in his mind that he’s been looking to find for many, many years. 

He does not like the picture it makes. 

“I am sorry, my dear daughter. I wasn’t strong enough… but I see now the woman you have become despite my choices. Know this: I gaze upon you and am proud,” Vivienne imparts, and then she too is gone. 

“Morgana,” he calls, desperate to see her and be seen. He feels like he could be as much of a ghost as his mother. 

Morgana looks back at him, eyes wild and scared. “Brother,” she chokes out, and it is a reassurance and a confirmation of his fears all at the same time. 

He starts to make his way over to her, but Morgause steps up, her arms raised. There is a frenzied, vengeful gleam in her eyes that draws the attention of everybody to her, and Arthur stops in his tracks as she begins to speak. 

“Now you know the secrets of Uther Pendragon, your father. He has kept these things from you. He has started wars over nothing. He cares not about who you are, only who he wants you to be.

“Come with me. Join me. We will take back everything he has stolen from you. We will ensure he receives what he deserves from his unjust actions!” 

Arthur has spent too long defending a man who never deserved it, never deserved him. “I am with you,” he pledges before even Morgana has a chance to speak. 

She follows along as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “As am I.” 

Morgause’s cloak swirls, and she comes to grasp Morgana and Arthur’s hands, both of their wrists bearing the bracelets she had given them. 

Arthur blazes warm and right, like he is finally on the path to doing what he is meant to do. 

Morgause’s gaze burns into his and Morgana’s in equal turns, and she promises, “As soon as you avail me in making a plan, we will march on Camelot to regain both of your birthrights.” 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

After the events in the courtyard, Arthur needs to seek out Morgana posthaste. While they both were there committing every word, breath, and expression of their fleeting moments with their respective mothers to memory, they hadn’t had the time they needed to fully process its gravity. They are siblings, and had always believed themselves to be by virtue of their upbringing, but never by blood. Yet they are related in that too. And Uther? Uther had lied to them both about their relation— nay, he had lied to the entirety of the kingdom about it— to preserve what little virtue he had in the public eye. And he lied without remorse or a second thought, probably like he had with so many other things, content to let them live their entire lives not knowing the truth beyond his word alone.

Somehow Arthur always knew that something like this must have been the case. Uther had always treated Morgana with the utmost compassion and concern when pleased with her and such venom when he was not, that it always seemed odd she was merely his best friend’s child. Still, Arthur had accepted the explanation without question like the foolish child he had been. If only he questioned it when he could have— he can’t imagine how much brighter his life would have been if he’d grown up alongside Morgana treating her as the actual sibling she was instead of a faux one whomst several members of the court thought he should ultimately court. 

She also hasn’t been taking the revelation well. Her well-warranted hatred of Uther had raged on for years now, and she always clung to the fact that Gorlois had at least raised her correctly to counter the hypocrisy she witnessed within the capital’s walls. Morgana can denounce Uther as her father all she wants, but she cannot rid herself of the tainted blood running through her veins.

Arthur seeks her out in a small alcove atop one of the abandoned fortress watch towers, where she is hunched around a small fire. If the meagre amount of firewood didn’t suggest she had cast it herself, seeing her eyes glow as she mutters curses under her breath and the flames multiply does as much. Leaning up against the door, he stifles a laugh. “Careful dear sister, burning Morgause’s fortress down is hardly a kind repayment for her gift.”

Morgana initially jumps at the comment, too emotionally and mentally invested in her symbolic magic usage to have noticed his entrance. After acknowledging his presence, she goes back to tending her fire with an ineffectual stick, bitterly remarking, “Don’t tempt me Arthur, lest you turn me into the wicked sorceress Uther would make me out to be.”

She gestures with the now flaming stick to the ground beside her, and Arthur sits down next to her. They both stare into the fire for a few moments in a tense silence. Morgana continues to knock at the meagre logs until Arthur finally breaks. 

“Are you alright?”

“I believe you’re smart enough to definitively know the answer, Arthur,” she says shortly.

“Yes, I do.” Arthur rubs a hand behind his head, trying to find some channel for his nerves as he states, “But considering we’ve been uncharacteristically emotional with one another the past night and day, I thought you’d wish to continue the streak in the face of more news.”

“Making up for lost time as the darling, doting younger brother, are you?” Morgana says with an amused yet bitter laugh, sarcasm dripping from her lips. 

“I believe my consistent role as the intermediary between you and my— our father is evidence enough that I have played the role before. Besides, filial piety was never your strong suit,” Arthur retorts, rolling his eyes and nudging her lightly with his elbow, hoping to bring any sense of levity he can to their conversation. Even if Morgana doesn’t appreciate it in full, he needs it for himself to cope with this newfound truth, as if their heart-to-heart the previous evening had not given him enough to think about.

At the words ‘our father,’ Arthur catches her sneer a bit, which he resonates with. He too, upon hearing his mother’s utterances, wishes he could disavow himself of said paternity. 

Morgana states, “I only vocalised that which I felt strongly about and oftentimes gave him all due respect. It’s clear now that no respect was due to begin with. He is a man without honour.” Her knuckles are clenched white around the stick, and Arthur wants to reach for it to take out of her grasp. He knows how ruthless Morgana can be with a sword and knows the anger that lives inside her burns hot and scathing. However, for once her rage is mirrored in Arthur himself; he would not trust the stick would fare any better in his hand, so he leaves it with Morgana instead.

“I am sure the implications of me being your elder sister are clear to you,” Morgana says solemnly after a pop from the fire.

Arthur nods his head affirmatively, knowing exactly what it means. 

It meant his father—meant that Uther—had committed adultery with Vivienne while his mother was still living. Uther had heralded Ygraine as some sort of soulmate, a supposed special love one could only find once in a lifetime that gave life its purpose. Yet, he hadn’t cared if she was lost in his pursuit of a lineage and even sought others to aid him upon knowing that she was potentially barren without hesitation. Just the thought of it makes each Uther’s lamentations over his deceased queen feel all the more hollow. 

She continues speaking, baring her soul to him yet staring at the fire so as to not show how much emotion she is holding back in her usual way. They are both their father’s children in that way. He hates it.

 “He robbed us of our mothers, one driven by magic, the other by her own hand—”

Arthur stops her, placing a hand on her forearm. “Your mother…?”

“Come now, Arthur. I’ve been one-upping you my whole life. Having the more tragic demise of our respective mothers could be no different,” she states with a bitter laugh, biting back what tears are welling in her eyes.   

Arthur doesn’t know how to console her, and so leaves his hand on her forearm, squeezing to show his sympathy while still playing off of their banter. Lighthearted to counter the serious. Downplay to make the big seem small. Devalue that which has power over them to gain more agency. 

He knows how they work. 

“Yes, but your dramatics always continue through to your exits, and I have always had to deal with the fallout,” he means to tease, but the words deliver more serious than he’d wanted them to, and he retracts his hand to twist both of them together in his lap. 

She turns to him, a brow raised, urging him to go on.

Arthur clears his throat. “I know that you thought I agreed with Father too much. And I did. You were right, you can gloat about it if you’d like. But you always swept up and left, sometimes only two bites into dinner, whereas I was not allowed to leave. What do you think I had to do after you left?” 

 “What are you saying?” She inquires. 

Arthur looks into the small fire, still dancing high even though there is almost no more wood to sustain it. 

“He would just continue where he left off,” he says, letting the memories overtake him from the time he was thirteen onwards, of sitting at a table, abandoned and alone with Uther on a tirade and Morgana, his only ally, gone from the room. 

“And I would say yes. Appease him, but also, I’d defend you. You weren’t wrong, not most of the time, but you know our father. He doesn’t take well to threats. You always challenged him. I never understood that; fighting with him never ends well. You have to be sneakier about it.” 

Arthur recalls looking up policies on magic a few times in his youth, Sir Geofferey pleased Arthur was taking an interest in law and showing him the dusty tomes by which Camelot was governed. He’d read everything in them by candlelight after he’d been put to bed.

And the next time Morgana rose from her seat, palms on the table and head held high and protesting loud, Arthur would be preparing his more subtle argument, phrased in just the right way to make Uther think fixing the issue was his own idea all along. 

If only it had worked.

“You should know, Morgana,” he says, and turns to her. “That every time things have come to a head, even if it has meant going directly against his wishes, I have done the right thing. Just look at Mordred’s case. The afnac. That time when Merlin tried to confess having magic, for which he was an utter fool with a death wish.” 

There is an odd look in her eyes, as if Morgana has just come to a realisation that she is not alone. 

“I did not know,” she tells him, her voice choked up with tears. 

Arthur feels his own eyes wet. “You were never alone,” he reassures.

There is nothing more they need to say when Morgana pulls Arthur into an embrace, finally allowing some of her tears to flow. He holds her to him, feeling more protective of her than ever. It’s not as if he has many of these rare moments of affection like this with her for comparison, but it still feels different to embrace his sister as his sister for the first time. Relaxing into her embrace, he feels his body slacken and weaken in her arms. All the tension and vigour held in his body flees him entirely, as if by magic.  

She pulls back from him, hiding behind her sleeve as she wipes her face so she can face the world with the cool and effortless poise she had always been heralded for. She misses a stray tear which he wipes away, before flicking it back at her. She thankfully glares at him.

“Careful, too many of these might put a damper on your emotionally motivated arson,” he says, smirking at her in amusement. He cannot play the part of the doting younger brother so readily as to confirm her teasing and make her think he is soft on her. She’d never let him live it down. Besides, being a nuisance is much more satisfying.

He expects Morgana to bat at him lightly with a playfully scolding hand. What he does not expect is to be full body tackled by Merlin and to struggle against resisting it. The two of them had consistently roughoused, albeit more than was likely proper, but Merlin never had the ability to overtake him. And since he knows Merlin has not gotten exceedingly strong, that makes this all the more bizarre.

Arthur struggles to wrench himself from Merlin’s prodding as he swats wildly at Arthur’s arm which bears Ygraine’s bracelet, as if possessed. Eventually Arthur is able to free himself and he gawks at Merlin incredulously from the floor, hand hovering protectively over the bracelet. 

“ Mer lin! What the hell are you doing?” Arthur inquisits. How long had he even been there? That was a private moment that he had no want of the others knowing about, lest they mercilessly tease the newfound siblings for it.

“It’s orange, Arthur!” Merlin insists, pointing at the bracelet, just as wild as before.

“For God’s sake not this again, Merlin,” Arthur growls, running his hand over his forehead in frustration. Could he not have a singular moment’s rest? “Firelight just so happens to be orange, idiot .”

 And then Merlin levels Arthur that look of his, the one that means he’s as serious as Merlin ever gets, like he’s speaking ancient wisdom into fact. “It’s a Phoenix Eye and it’s going to kill you.”

It might as well, given his day.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ʀᴜʙs ʜɪs ʀᴇᴅᴅᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴡʀɪsᴛ ɪɴ ᴀɴɴᴏʏᴀɴᴄᴇ as his gaze flickers between the offending bracelet and the sorcerer who wrenched it from him. Merlin frowns at it intently where it sits on a tree stump as if the offending object has been put on some sort of trial, waiting for its innocence or guilt to be pronounced.

“I seriously doubt my mother’s jewellery is going to kill me, Merlin,” Arthur says, crossing his arms. Considering his mother died in order to give him life, a murderous bracelet seems a bit counterintuitive.

Merlin fingers through a seemingly magical tome, ignoring Arthur’s needling as he searches. It looks like one of Tristan and Isolde’s inventory which Merlin must have pocketed, but they are too long gone now for anything to be done. Arthur would have chastised Merlin for it, but with the triskelion weighing heavy in his pocket he certainly isn’t one to talk. 

“Well, circumstances change. You hadn’t exactly doubted your father before today, had you?” Merlin tuts off-the-cuff. 

Arthur goes to quip back at Merlin but cannot find the words. That is not exactly the point of all this, even if it is admittedly correct in some regards. The bracelet is in fact what matters, not the slew of thoughts regarding his father, which he had only partially unpacked before one of the few times he actually shared his feelings with Morgana was so rudely interrupted. 

Arthur eyes the bracelet again with a frown, realising the crystal’s colour is evocative of one of the circlets Morgana used to wear in the fall. Yes, to celebrate the Autumnal Equinox! His mother’s bracelet must be intended for similar occasions. 

“Morgana had similar jewels in Camelot, how can you possibly be sure it’s this ‘evil’ one. Morgause has been nothing but—” 

“This.” Merlin shoves the tome into Arthur’s hands, and points to an illustration of an amber crystal identical to his own with wings in its setting. Merlin hovers his fingers over the text and dictates, “Burns with a fire that consumes the life force of anybody it comes in contact with.”

The sorcerer lightly slaps the top of the book and gives Arthur a self-satisfied look. “Unless I’m mistaken, consuming one’s life force doesn’t bear the mark of cousinly affection.”

“You’re far too smug, considering I was just supposedly dying,” Arthur grumbles, lightly elbowing Merlin as he traces the pattern in the image and compares it once again to the bracelet before them. Given the striking resemblance, it does seem Merlin has some reason to fret about it. They have travelled a bit too far and a bit too long to die at the hands of an accessory. 

Still, Arthur hesitates to fully believe Merlin on this alone. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Merlin, the problem is quite the opposite actually. Arthur trusts him above all others, which makes him slightly biassed. And as much as he ador—respects Merlin, he isn’t ready to cause another familial rift based on his words and pictures in some ancient tome alone. 

He finally has received a sense of the family by blood that has been shrouded in secrecy for so long. It is clear that the actions of his father had severed so many of their relations, both figuratively and literally, so finding a branch of the tree that had not yet been pruned is so rare. Accusing his cousin of trying to kill him after she had embraced him and Morgana with open arms would only prune another branch, this time by his own doing. There is no saying if or when Arthur will ever find another; he has little hope for any of Agravaine’s lot.

Even further, Morgause hopes to dethrone Uther, just as he and Morgana wish. They have a common enemy and having another powerful sorceress on their side would make the task at hand simpler. Besides, Merlin had always sympathised with magical beings, for reasons Arthur only recently has come to understand, so Arthur bridging the gap with his magical relatives is a good thing. It will be easier to reinstate magic in Camelot one day should good magical people like Merlin, his sister, and Morgause help bring peace to the realm. With that too at stake, the situation is too fragile to act rashly, even if the one encouraging such action is Merlin. 

“Are you certain you’re not jumping to conclusions? If my bracelet is so treacherous, why can’t we find Morgana’s bracelet pictured,” Arthur says, narrowly eyeing Merlin. He flips through the pages to search and scan for answers but none come. 

“Page forty-seven, it’s a healing bracelet. Any more pressing questions?” Merlin quickly tuts, flipping to the page. It’s infuriating how well Merlin knows him to have the answer prepared as such.  

“Doesn’t that seem suspicious?” Arthur questions in an impertinent, yet justified way when the bracelets’ completely polar effects were considered.

“Your glaringly obvious imminent demise was a bit more pressing concern than bracelet distribution politics, sire .” Merlin retorts, shutting the book in Arthur’s face and scooping up his bracelet off the tree stump. “But please, ask the sorceress about her kind intentions if you are so wary . ” 

As Merlin bounds back downstairs, Arthur rolls his eyes at Morgana over Merlin's attitude, to which she stifles a small laugh in response. Arthur isn’t entirely sure if he should be treating such a serious matter like a petty domestic squabble, but his life has been threatened time enough that it is the norm as opposed to the exception.

“I am!” Arthur retorts to nobody in particular, Merlin too far off to pay Arthur any mind. Hopefully, this one of the sorcerer’s little crusades wraps up quickly enough. 

He sighs, standing up and offering Morgana a hand, readying himself to chase after his wayward friend yet again. Knowing Merlin, it won’t be short at all.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

It doesn’t take them long to wind around the old castle’s ruins to find Morgause in one of the rooms that Arthur guesses used to be a banquet hall of some sort. It’s open to the air, but the floor is made of stone that echoes where their feet land on it. 

Honestly, the whole thing feels more than a little bit like a fool’s errand, but he’s felt that way many times about Merlin’s accusations and an astonishing number of them have turned out to be true, so he’ll just have to humour the other man this time around.

Merlin, of course, is more than willing to be the one to present his case to Morgause, with his stolen textual evidence and, apparently, supportive agreements from both Gwen and Elyan.

When Arthur turns to see how Morgause has taken this news, she looks properly horrified. Arthur, feeling extremely vindicated, shoots Merlin a smug look of epic proportions. 

“What?” She exclaims, her voice pitchy and high. “I would never do that to you; Arthur, you must believe me. My mother and yours were friends, and we were both betrayed by Uther the same way! Cousin, why would I help you only to betray you?” 

Arthur nods aggressively. “That is what I said precisely. Merlin, I appreciate you trying to keep me safe and all, but Morgause surely cannot have been behind it. Cousin, did you ever misplace or lose the bracelet?” 

“Arthur, it doesn’t—” Merlin tries to say, but Morgause wails over him.

“My mother, before she perished, got the bracelet back from Ygraine after her death…” she gasps. “Uther! Oh, that monster, he must have sabotaged it! Perhaps… perhaps, Morgana, he intended for our mother to wear it to get rid of her! Oh!” 

There has been made a space for the complicated knot of feelings Arthur harbours towards his father; with this revelation it only grows. 

“How dare he!” Arthur growls, and Morgana’s eyes glitter, cold as ice. 

Morgause continues to rant, looking more and more harried. “All of this time I never put it on… and good thing I hadn’t. Uther Pendragon is a coward and a tyrant!” 

“Excuse me,” calls out a new voice to the storm. Guinevere pats down the front of her skirt as she steps forwards, everyone ceasing the hubbub of noise in surprise to look at her. “If the bracelet was Ygraine’s, why does it not have her seal on it?” 

Arthur snaps out of it first, walking over to Merlin and snatching his mother’s bracelet out of the sack he carries. He twists it up in the light, scanning his eyes over it carefully for any sign of the DeBois sigil but finding none while Gwen continues her explanation.

“I did not see any crests upon looking at the bracelet. And though my father is only a swordsmith, I know how metalworking for nobles works from my service to Morgana,” she nods at the aforementioned lady. 

“Especially for ornamental pieces,” Gwen stresses, her hands coming up to emphasise her point, “Nobles want everyone to know that it’s theirs. They want their seal all over so they can pass the jewellery down through generations. If I were a noble lady giving my very dear friend a gift, I would most definitely put her crest on it. Maybe even both of our seals to show our deep friendship.” 

The explanation does make a lot of sense. After all, for the scabbard of dagger that Arthur had made for the occasion of Morgana’s latest birthday, he’d had Gorlois’s family crest inlaid on one side and Vivienne’s on the other. 

Arthur looks down at the bracelet again for anything he missed, even turning it to look on the inside for an inscription of some sort, yet finding nothing. 

Morgause splutters. “If Uther replaced the bracelet, then this is not even the original. Perhaps that one did have the seals on it, as you say. Why would I invent a story this ludicrous? The bracelet is an honest mistake, another drop in the ocean of Uther’s trickery!” 

“But you gave it to Arthur,” Morgana says slowly, as if she’s thinking extremely deeply. “If you had any doubts about the bracelet, why keep it? Why give it to him at all? And you know magic. This bracelet is enchanted Phoenix Eye. How did you not see that, or feel it?” 

“Yes, because I did a detection spell on all of my mother’s old jewellery.” Morgause seems more hurt than anything else, now, her arms wrapping around herself for protection. 

“Morgana,” Arthur calls out, “that is uncalled for. I wouldn’t be surprised if this all somehow was Father’s fault, at this point.” 

“Arthur, you are the legitimate heir,” Morgana continues over him as if Arthur had not spoken, “and Morgause is my half-sibling, same as you.” 

She turns to Morgause with a smile that drips with poison, razor sharp with intensity in a way that Arthur has not seen since those first few months on Hunith’s farm, and he knows that whatever she is about to say will hurt.

“What don’t you have to gain from my brother dying, hm? After we kill Uther for you, I’d be next in line for the throne.” She tsks gently, shaking her head. “The amount of power you’d have being in my ear, Morgause, would be quite substantial, I’m sure.” 

Arthur reels back from the wound the words cause, dropping the Phoenix Eye bracelet onto the ground with an audible clatter on Morgause’s stone floor. 

Morgana can’t be right, surely. After everything, after finally getting to meet his mother, even a ghost of her, and after gaining a real sister. After having Morgause tell him about how his mother liked horses and wrote stories and laughed loud and was the glue that kept her brothers together, after all she has given him, how could she betray him so thoroughly? He just wants this one thing.

He looks to Morgause, hope still holding out until he sees the way that she becomes loose-limbed and lets apathy take over her features, no longer the concerned and incensed woman she was even a minute earlier. 

“Sister, I always hoped you’d be smart,” Morgause says, letting the words roll over her tongue, languid like water. “You caught on to things a little faster, even, than I thought you might. I’m impressed.” 

Arthur’s stomach drops. She’s lied this whole time?  Had Morgause thought so little of him in the brief time they had met as to completely dismiss him as a force for change? And so little of Morgana’s faith in him that she would betray him so easily? 

He is but a former prince with a claim to the throne and has been manipulated so easily through honeyed words and gifts. If that is now, and there is a then when he has the throne, Arthur questions if he will be sized up and played by the court as he has just been. He tries not to ponder the thought too deeply as one hand goes to the hilt of his sword, though he doesn’t pull it out quite yet. In the same movement, he takes two steps back by Merlin’s side unconsciously, used to needing to protect the fool from these sorts of things and unwilling to abandon the small peace of mind it brings him. 

It doesn’t help that he sees Merlin reach down and grab the cursed bracelet off the ground, shoving it back into his sack before Morgana stomps on the ground, her footfall ringing out on the floor.

“I’m not your sister,” Morgana spits. “Not when you are willing to kill my brother and use me however you see fit in a mad reach for power.” 

“Mad reach for power? You forget that I am a High Priestess of the Old Religion. I have more power than you, currently. But regardless, I’ll give you a choice: you can still join me, Morgana. We can kill Uther like he deserves and rule Camelot side by side, bringing back magic and our mother’s legacy with us!” 

Arthur’s horror grows. If he didn’t recently learn that magic is not evil, he would be incensed. Still, he cannot help but think just how far Morgause’s lies have reached. Were the stories of his mother fake too, or just the bracelet? 

Was that shade genuine to Ygraine’s memory? Or had that been a lie too, just another fabrication to get Morgause what she wants. And he and Morgana’s siblinghood; what of that?

Morgana, thankfully, seems to hold none of his doubts on the matter, because she snorts loudly at Morgause’s claim, casting it off with a wave of her hand. “I’d rather do that with my real sibling. And besides, you don’t think I have not encountered numerous nobles in court who have tried to use me as a rung in their ladder? You don’t fool me, Morgause.” 

“You are the elder Pendragon. You don’t wish to rule? You would do a better job than he ever could,” Morgause chides, not even acknowledging Arthur’s presence as she slanders him. 

Before Arthur can allow his mind to entertain why Morgause may be correct, Morgana’s resolved voice cuts through the trains of thought. “Arthur and I grew up together, defended each other, and have been exiled together. I know who he is, and he would never try to do something like this. That alone speaks volumes.

“He will be a good king, and when he makes mistakes, I know he will listen to the solutions I present to him,” she finishes, throwing a quick smile in Arthur’s direction, which he returns. A confrontation such as this is not exactly the right time to be emotional regarding the hard-won faith Morgana has instilled in him. Still, he could not be more proud to call Morgana both his sister and the counsel who will one day be at his side to provide advice, aid, and scolding when the need arises. 

Morgause, conversely, sneers at the words, obviously disagreeing with Morgana’s sentiment. “So be it. On this day, you both have chosen to be on the wrong side of history. I should have known that both Pendragons would never fall far from the tree.” 

She raises her hands and casts, “ Wanne nædran, fram þæs foldan bosme astigaþ ge! ”  

Arthur is, perhaps, less surprised than he should be when serkets begin flooding in from the trees to surround them once more, and he finally pulls out his sword.

“I will enjoy killing Uther on my own. At least you can die knowing he will not sit on Camelot’s throne for much longer, even if neither of you will be replacing him.” 

And then she just turns away from them, the serkets parting for her perfectly as everybody else begins to hack at the creatures out to poison them again. Only one day, and it seems they have come full circle. 

It now makes all too much sense that the entire thing from beginning to end was a ploy, Arthur thinks grimly as he cleaves one of the treacherous serkets with his sword. Still, he cannot stop the ache in his chest at the thought of losing someone he was looking forward to knowing.

Why is Arthur not allowed to have one single nice thing?

Chapter Text

Dᴇsᴘᴏɴᴅᴇɴᴛʟʏ, Arthur sits at the counter of a small tavern, waiting for the barkeep to set down the establishment’s strongest drink in front of him. If he weren’t feeling so morose, he'd wish for them to hurry up about it, but Arthur just feels so dead inside that he can’t bring himself to care, his head cradled in his hands. 

He wants to get drunk, spectacularly drunk, absolutely fucking sloshed. And he does deserve it after the past few days he’s had. The list is much too long, starting with the awful Merlin revelation he’d had while Tristan and Isolde were cooking to confronting Morgana about her magic to meeting Morgause to finding out he and Morgana are real half-siblings to getting to meet his mother, albeit in ghost form, to finding out the truth behind the Great Purge to getting betrayed by Morgause to having to fight off serkets for a second time.

And that’s not even counting the way that Merlin had tried to play off the way that the serkets had been mysteriously struck by lighting that had come out of nowhere when it wasn’t even raining. Of course, though, a storm had followed shortly after. And since good old Merlin— who had claimed that the storm had been “perfectly natural” and that the lightning had just been “pure luck and circumstance” like Arthur didn’t see the gold fading out of his fucking eyes— didn’t want to come clean to Arthur about having magic even after Arthur accepted Morgause, a High Preistess, into his family, the rain had stayed. And stayed. And stayed. 

Meaning that Arthur also, currently, is soaked and cold and miserable . He deserves absolutely none of this. None. 

The barkeep finally comes back with several mugs of something, and Arthur takes his up right away to throw back the alcohol, wanting a quick oblivion more than ever. 

 The drink is watered-down beer. Arthur’s life is hell. 

Regardless, Arthur has become quite good at dealing with the cards he’s been dealt, and so he finishes his tankard before shoving it back across the counter of the bar and requesting another, not minding the heavy looks most of the party sitting around him are probably giving him right now. 

He truly is in no mood to deal with any of their opinions. 

“Looks like somebody is having a good day,” a voice says that Arthur does not recognise, and does not wish to recognise. 

He barely glances over his shoulder at the stranger, seeing a flash of brown hair and a grin far too wide to deal with at his current state. 

“Yes, well, when you’ve had days like the last couple I’ve had, you’ll do anything for a drink,” Arthur mutters just loud enough for the stranger to hear, who snorts.

Arthur actually turns around this time to look at the man, who is rolling his eyes as well. “Okay, princess.” 

The way the man says the words, so entrenched in sarcasm, makes Arthur’s blood boil. Unknowingly, he has hit on a moniker that Arthur just knows is going to stick, at least for tonight, and he feels no surprise at all when Morgana and Merlin begin to laugh behind their hands at the stranger’s comment. 

Their laughter spurning him on, the stranger grins again, obnoxiously bright. “So, where are all of you from? Haven’t seen your lot around here before.” He opens his arms as if to welcome them and winks before turning and pointing a finger at Arthur. “Ah ah ah! But I don’t need to hear the answer from you, princess.” 

Any other day would have Arthur taking offence, but he’s just tired at this point, and the barkeep has come around to fill up his tankard, so instead of retaliating, Arthur just watches the foam on his cup slowly die down to a level at which he can down its contents with ease. 

“We’re travellers just passing through,” Gwen offers succinctly, but not unkindly.  

“Very forthcoming of you, fair lady. I appreciate your forthright honesty,” the stranger banters back, and Arthur brings his cup to his lips to imbibe. He really isn’t drunk enough for this. 

Morgana, thankfully, takes things over, shooting back, “Yes, because you divulge your life story to every person you meet.” 

Arthur’s cup bangs back down on the table, empty again as the stranger laughs once more. 

“Maybe not to every person, but just to special ones like you fair folk. Except princess here, who’s looking quite the opposite of fair today, unfortunately. Must have really been a rough couple of days, huh?” 

And Arthur had almost been content to let the man get away with his comments. “My name is Arthur —” he bites out, but does not get to finish. 

“And mine is Gwaine!” The man announces. “So nice to make your acquaintance,” he says insincerely, and takes a seat on Merlin’s other side. “Now. What about your name?” 

“Merlin,” Merlin says, and scoots his untouched tankard over to Arthur to appease the rage that Arthur can feel flushing up his face. God. Merlin really is a good friend sometimes, even if he’s a horrible bastard about keeping his secrets for too long. 

Arthur is still dripping rainwater onto the ground, after all.  

He washes away his rage with ale, which is still too weak, but somehow this third cup is better than the first. In seeing so, he decides not to throw the whole thing back at once, and sets it down after a hearty chug. 

He lets everyone else introduce themselves to Gwaine, though it irks him that everyone is allowing the man’s intrusion. Elyan, the farthest away, has to stand up and call out his name over the din for Gwaine to hear, which is slightly amusing. Gwaine then tries to flirt with Gwen until he sees the way Lancelot reacts and laughs it off before moving his sights over to Morgana. 

“Don’t try it. I would hate to have to render such a fine man infertile,” she threatens sweetly, a poisonous smile on her face.

Arthur has to hide his smile in his cup at the way Gwaine’s face blanches, taking his time with Merlin’s— his, now— drink, content to let Morgana scare him off until Gwaine turns his sights on Merlin. 

“So. Merlin, then. Do you protest to my presence as much as all these fair ladies do?” Gwaine leans dramatically onto the bartop, throwing the back of one hand against his forehead and fluttering his eyelashes at Merlin. Due to Gwaine’s longer hair, the picture he makes throws Arthur back uncomfortably to how some of the visiting nobles’ girls had acted around him the summer he turned eighteen. 

Merlin laughs. “No, no. And we all are glad to have you, only Morgana has no time for romance and Gwen and Lance down that way are engaged.” 

Arthur clears his throat pointedly in objection, and Merlin elbows him in the side. 

“Don’t mind Arthur,” Merlin says. “He’s just in a bad mood because he hates travelling in the rain. A bit of a prat, he is, but there’s nothing to be done about it.” 

Arthur jams his elbow right back into Merlin’s side. “That is patently not true. And the rain was only a problem because of you .” He switches his now empty tankard with Morgana’s, which is still half-full. They’re siblings now. He doesn’t really care about cleanliness between them. 

“Sounds like what a princess would say, princess,” Gwaine drawls. “And besides, the weather can’t be your friend’s fault. It’s the weather .” 

Arthur scoffs at Gwaine and Merlin’s antics. Whatever. They can have this one, he supposes. It’s not like he’s going to get Merlin to confess about his magic with Sir Gwaine here, of all people. He turns again to Morgana’s— of course, his , now— tankard, and takes a sip, staring daggers over its rim. 

Merlin rolls his eyes and pointedly turns his back, telling Gwaine something about “not minding childish dollopheads” that Arthur refuses to think about, and the two of them fall much faster than he would hope into conversation.

There’s something irritating about the casual touches and lighthearted banter the two men are engaging in. He is the one who manhandles Merlin and puts that ridiculous, albeit charming on occasion, smile on his face. It’s their thing. 

Fine. Gwen and Lance and the others do too at times, but there is still something different about his relationship with Merlin than theirs forged by their years together, attached by the hip. So, Gwaine so easily falling into that same role not even having known Merlin for an hour? It’s disconcerting to say the least. While Arthur believes he can place why, he would nary admit to it and instead downs more of the shitty beer to drown the blasted thoughts out.  

“If looks could kill, dear brother,” Morgana mutters under her breath, which he elects to ignore as he drinks. Arthur doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s smirking devilishly at him while nursing her tankard, stolen from Gwen, who is too engaged in her conversation to notice. He wonders if Morgana has come to the same conclusions about him and Merlin that Arthur had with Tristan and Isolde? No. It’s fine . He’s not jealous. Besides, she looks like a miserable drowned rat now anyways, so taking that out on him is honestly rude of her. Some actual older sister she is turning out to be.   

Turning to avoid the repartee he is not being included in, he finds Lance and Gwen sickeningly engrossed in one another in their usual way. Elyan, on the other hand, is electing to ignore the couple, as Arthur is with Gwaine and Merlin. Elyan looks up from the letter he is penning and sends Arthur a knowing look about their respective situations, which the former prince would rather not think too much about as he finishes the tankard.

Before Arthur can order another one, a thug dressed in leathers and trophies bursts into the bar and slams a fist on the counter petulantly. He calls back, “Afternoon, Mary. Business looks good,” and has a seemingly terse conversation with the tavern owner that Arthur doesn’t wish to expend the mental energy to eavesdrop on. He’s already been using what little he has to listen to whatever oh-so-thrilling tale Gwaine is recounting about his exploits in cuckolding some lower Mercian nobleman, swindling him out of several horses in a card game, and subsequently evading capture by the fiefdom’s minor army. Why Merlin even cares is beyond him. Merlin never has seemed to care about those sort of tall tales before, so why now ?

Regretfully, Arthur cannot fully process the answer to the question because of the scream he hears and subsequent dagger he sees pointed at the tavern owner’s chest, which pulls him from his musings. The thug slowly pushes the blade closer towards her, as the woman backs up against the bar counter with nowhere further to go. The man growls, “I’ll not ask again!”

Considering everyone— meaning nobody in particular— seems a bit too self-absorbed at the moment to deal with the potential homicide at hand, Arthur slams his tankard down and gets up from where he sits. Never mind the slight fumbling to get up as he does, he shouts, “Take your hands off her,” at the thug while pointing an accusatory finger at the man. 

“Stay out of this, boy,” The man growls, which means Arthur is certainly not staying out of this. If Gwaine can fight off some feudal lord’s army or whatever the fuck, he can save the tavern woman from this thug. Saving the common folk of Camelot and beyond from ill-timed and lacklustre miscreants is practically his main thing now. Especially, considering Gwaine seems to be trying to fulfil his other main role. 

He chucks his empty tankard at the thug’s head, and while the man tries to avoid it, Arthur takes advantage of the distraction to shove him against a shelf. “Then leave the woman alone,” Arthur retorts smugly, adding a derogatory ‘ sir ’ for good measure. 

The thug wrenches himself from Arthur and whistles loudly, summoning the man’s posse into the tavern. As the thug goes to strike Arthur again, a right hook, seemingly out of nowhere, knocks the man back up against the shelf once more.

“Need some help, princess?” Gwaine offers with a grin that is arguably inappropriate for the situation. He gives Arthur a dramatic bow which is a clear enough jest already if not for the metal plate Gwaine flings at another thug as he does so. 

Before Arthur can even question why the dinnerware is now fair in love and bar fights, more tankards and jugs are hurled through the air and Arthur tries to duck behind a bench to not get caught in the crossfire. As he props himself against it, to catch his breath he turns and catches a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye. 

Now, Arthur has learned something of humility living among the common folk in his travels. Still, Arthur is positive there is no actual gold in the shitty and only tavern for miles. This means that gold can only be one thing and Arthur is pissed in both senses of the word. 

Merlin, who refused to use magic and made them trudge for hours in the rain— which the almighty sorcerer and Dragonlord could have stopped, mind you— is using magic. 

Blatantly. In a fucking barfight. 

When it’s actually useful and could help marginally improve their miserable existence? No, that would apparently be preposterous. But give Merlin a chance to get a couple of pot shots in at random bandits and there are no magical holds barred and flying benches are within limits. 

Arthur doesn’t know if he’s more astounded by the audacity or how this man survived in Camelot for more than a minute. All Arthur does know is that he is not letting this one slide because this is a new level of idiocy for Merlin that Arthur didn’t think the fool could surpass. Yet here he is, expectations exceeded as always.

When Merlin goes to direct a plate at an assailant behind Arthur, the two of them make eye contact. Arthur can see the gold immediately dim from Merlin’s eyes and hear the plate fall to the ground as the whispered words on the sorcerer’s lips fall silent. 

And, shit . Arthur had imagined the oft awaited for moment coming as some accidental slippage during their banter as they prepared a meal together back in Ealdor. Arthur envisioned a late night discussion coming off the heat of a trying battle in the firelight. It happening while sloshed in a run-down pub by virtue of a freak accident and subsequent bar fight is utterly unsentimental. And Arthur deserves sentiment after all the bullshit he has put up with for this secret.  

But no, Merlin just stares at Arthur like a frightened deer before part of a stool gets hurled at the wall in between them, breaking their gaze. Merlin doesn’t even flinch at the action, still obviously shaken by the realisation falling upon him. 

He would feel bad, but it’s entirely Merlin’s fault for it having gone on this long and for being so careless as to let it happen this way. So, Arthur gets up from the ground and grabs a piece of cutlery off the floor so he can return to the fray. He doesn’t wish to put any more undo pressure on Merlin, considering the state of shock the man must be in at their moment. 

Still, it does not mean Arthur is above commenting: “Lightning is a bit more effective than benches, you know,” as he goes. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

It turns out that saving a tavern owner from getting robbed makes said owner very grateful. And a grateful tavern owner gives out lots of free drinks to the people who saved her establishment, even if they also broke her furniture. Arthur, on this night, does not perhaps need any free drinks. However, he did say that he wanted to get sloshed. 

And so. Currently. Right in the now. Arthur Pendragon is very, very drunk. 

They had thankfully acquired rooms at the tavern for the evening, as it would have been a comedy to try and set up camp in their state. He presumes those are Elyan, Gwen, and Lance’s current whereabouts, but does not particularly care where they are as long as it’s not inside the stuffiness of the tavern. The heat he’s feeling from both being inside and the alcohol in his insides is suffocating. 

“Come along, brother dear,” Morgana says, pulling Arthur’s sleeve to pull him towards the door of the establishment. He’s not looking forward to outside; his clothes are still a bit damp and it feels awful . 

As he gets dragged through the door, Arthur takes note of Merlin and Gwaine in front of him, and he feels the urge to go pick on Merlin to redirect the sorcerer’s attention. Merlin’s been avoiding him like a plague and latching onto Gwaine like a besotted maiden and it’s infuriating. He would run up and jostle Merlin to catch his notice, but his feet have other plans so all he can do is shout. 

“Are you really going to leave us for Gwaine, Mer lin,” Arthur whinges, words slurring. He’s halfway certain that he’s drawn out the sorcerer’s name for far too long in his pestering but he is too sloshed to care for his dignity at this point. Bite him. He’s jealous. 

“So, what if I do for a short while. Your entourage is large enough, sire ,” Merlin drawls, pointing an accusatory finger at Arthur that wavers. For all Merlin’s trips to the tavern it is increasingly clear that the man does not know how to hold his liquor. ‘Sire’ sounds quite pretty rolling off an inebriated Merlin’s tongue which Arthur will try to make note of, but will certainly forget by sheer force of will or alcohol before the night is up. 

“If you don’t come with us then—” Arthur confidently proclaims to the entirety of the surrounding village, before losing his train of thought. Shit. What would Merlin not pass up? They already are at a tavern so that’s out, and that’s practically Merlin’s favourite pastime next to lying to Arthur. 

When he is struck with inspiration, Arthur announces, “Then you won’t see your parents. Yep! We’re going to Ealdor without you. So, there .”

“Wow,” Gwaine says, stumbling into Merlin’s side and giggling. “I get to meet your parents already, Merlin? Things really are going a bit fast.” 

That sounds like an inference to courting, and even though he knows it’s ridiculous, Arthur cannot let that stand. Absolutely not.

“No,” Arthur counters. “No, no, no. I said that for us. Merlin and I. And everyone but not you. You are not allowed to come.” 

Gwaine gasps and beams sunnily. He looks like the annoyingest annoyance Arthur has ever seen, and he’s still touching Merlin way too much. “That sounds like a gla— like a gilded invitation. ” He pauses for effect, a shit eating grin forming on his face. “ Princess .” 

Arthur growls. He hates that stupid fucking nickname. If he’s going to have a title, it’ll be Prince Arthur. And okay. It hurts to hear the reminder of what he does not have, the thing he’s supposed to be that he ironically is starting to feel like he’s more ready for now than he had been when he’d left Camelot.  

“Can you have this argument tomorrow, please?” Morgana sighs loudly. 

“Only if Merlin comes with me,” Arthur says, and stomps his foot a little bit. It feels like it has a good effect, so he stomps the other foot too, just to show how serious he is. 

“Merlin?” Morgana asks tiredly, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes. About this tall,” Arthur gesticulates, “Rather twiggish, has pretty eyes, and is clearly magical but we haven’t talked about it yet.” 

When Morgana just stares at him dumbfounded, he points at Merlin to make his intentions clearly known. “ That Merlin. ”

“Magical?” Gwaine says. He’s doing something weird with his face that Arthur thinks might be trying to wiggle his eyebrows, but the other man is too drunk to coordinate it well, so he just looks mildly confused. “Oh Merlin, what hidden depths do lie beneath!” 

“Okay then! I think it’s time for all of us to end this conversation for the night,” Morgana soothes, the witch’s voice a bit more pitchy than normal. Ha! Pitchy witch. 

“Fine. Be that way!” Arthur pouts and marches over to Merlin, careful not to trip over his own feet. Grabbing him by the jacket sleeve, Arthur starts trying to drag Merlin back with him towards the tavern, but the sorcerer will not budge. He grumbles, “Ugh. Come on! Merlin ,” as he tries again with more force. 

“You think my eyes are pretty?” Merlin asks quietly. 

“When haven’t I thought that? Obviously I do, Merlin, why would I have lied?” Arthur says incredulously, before his own thoughts catch up to him regarding his admittance. He needs to say something, anything, to cover it. 

The first thing that comes to mind is to retort, “You though, on the other hand? Different story. Lots of lies there.”

At least Merlin has the decency to look guilty, even if he doesn’t have enough of it to let the truth fall from his drink-loosened lips.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴡᴀs ᴀsᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜɪᴄᴋᴇɴ, which is apparently the only thing anyone will ask him as they prepare dinner for the party in Hunith and Balinor’s home. Considering every time they visit Ealdor they acquire more companions, Arthur figures the least they can do is prepare a fine meal for the hospitable couple. By they, Arthur means Merlin and himself. However, it unceremoniously now includes a certain vagrant who has insinuated himself into meal preparation, so perhaps the chicken is a bit over-minced in frustration. 

Sue him, he’s annoyed. 

Arthur really thought if he got Merlin alone and in the swing of their usual way, the sorcerer might finally open up about just what happened during the tavern brawl. Arthur will be the first to admit this backtrack to Ealdor isn’t an entirely selfless endeavour. There isn’t really space or time for discussing the spilled secret when they are on the road and Merlin’s avoidance has made it abundantly clear that the wound is still too fresh. There are few, if any, places Merlin is more at home than Ealdor, so Arthur had hoped its comfort would put Merlin at ease enough to finally talk, yet Merlin is still avoiding him like the plague and eyeing him like a frightened doe. It’s insufferable.

Yet, even more insufferable is the fact that otherwise Merlin is fine. He’s more than happy to crack jokes with Gwaine in Arthur’s place, as if replacing him without a second thought or feeling a shred of remorse. He’d eyed the sorcerer staying up late with Morgana to fool around with minor charms and spells for the coming days before nodding off the previous evening, as if all were well and good in the world. In Ealdor, there is seldom a frown on Merlin’s face. He’s constantly beaming with the light of a thousand suns— only for them all to go dim the second Arthur approaches him. It makes for quite a clear message: Merlin is better off without Arthur. 

But he doesn’t understand why there is such revulsion. He’s learned so fucking much over the course of his exile about the true nature of magic and he has grown, which he prays Merlin has been made aware of. He is so clearly not like his treacherous father and even if he were, it’s not as if Arthur can order an execution— or whatever the hell Merlin expects Arthur to do— when he’s without rank or power. Besides, every single person in this home would run him down with a sword should he even dare to seriously threaten Merlin, so Arthur just doesn’t understand what he’s afraid of. 

By God, he’s even tried to ask but Arthur cannot get the full question out of his mouth before Merlin finds some excuse to leave.

So, Arthur can take the hint. He’s doing his best to patiently wait for Merlin to breach the subject on his own, but it’s slowly driving Arthur mental. On top of the past week of his shitshow of a life, he’s not sure how much longer he can wait. 

Then there’s that part of him that yearns for Camelot. Being so close to her border yet again makes him heartsick for his home and the trials he knows she is facing. He feels like a numpty of a prince for leaving them for so long, even though the title technically is no longer his. 

He’d like for it to be, though. Arthur has learned a lot about deserving over the course of his journey, and he doesn’t think that he deserves to be Camelot’s ruler. He wants it: the crown and the responsibility, the ability to change things for the better. 

Arthur still roils inside when he thinks of his father and the Purge. The bloodthirsty sharpness that Morgause had set alight has not left him completely, and being so close while still beyond being able to take action leaves Arthur feeling restless. 

He curses fate for ruling that this latent anxiety about the need to usurp and kill his own father in a kingdom turned against him— which Merlin is aware he is undergoing— is not enough already. 

He just hopes that Merlin will decide to take pity on him soon. The day he finally gives Arthur an explanation on just how much he has lied about for so long and why will half the  weight on his shoulders. However, Merlin apparently thinks otherwise, or else he would have said something by now. 

Honestly, it stings each and every time Merlin rejects the warm smiles or friendly touches that Arthur offers. He tries again and again to coax something other than animosity and fear out of the other man only to get a fraction of what they had before. 

What he wants is simple. He can see it in his mind’s eye; they had done something similar when they’d first stayed in Ealdor that it had almost become routine. They’re around this very hearth, a sense of harmony flowing through him as their skill sets perfectly synchronise and their verbal retorts parry and riposte in an unendingly blissful bout. They’re seasoning the dish and throwing literal and physical knives while enjoying one another’s company as if the world outside the walls matters not. They’re smiling and the atmosphere is warm and it’s not just the hearth making it feel so. 

Tristan and Isolde had been like that too when they cooked and when they fought. They completed each other and though Arthur does not deign to admit to it aloud, Merlin has always completed him where he lacks in the same manner: the wisdom when he’s without his better judgement, the courage when he’s full of the fear he tries so hard to mask, the loyalty when none else hold fast, the magic to his blood, steel, and sweat. 

But not anymore. Not if Merlin refuses to allow them that much.

And if Merlin feels even an inkling towards making that so, it certainly isn’t showing, not right now. Attempts could have been made at conversation or lighthearted banter. He would even take Merlin mocking him thoroughly for admissions made during the drunken escapade if Merlin would even look upon him once more. But he is an outsider in the meal preparation he set up to get closer to Merlin as instead they grow more distant by infinitesimal but nevertheless tangible increments. 

“Pass the salt would you?” Merlin hums as he stirs the likely bland stew on the stovetop. They could have had a lovely dinner, but no Merlin just has to ruin everyone’s taste buds because of his stubbornness. 

“Come hither, princess, the fair Merlin requires thy presence,” Gwaine says over his shoulder with a self-satisfied glint in his eyes as he searches the cabinets for the seasoning. Of course, he still isn’t laying off and everyone else is still just as amused by the misnomer.  

Arthur hurriedly searches, hoping that at least being useful will encourage Merlin’s civility, or gratitude if he should be so lucky. But Gwaine already has wrapped an arm around Merlin’s shoulder, dangling the seasoning playfully as the sorcerer wrests it from him with a light elbowing.

The awfully domestic way the two of them are standing only makes Arthur mince the meat harder and faster to try and vent some of his frustrations. If he makes enough of a commotion to set the two men apart, it will not be an unwelcome side benefit. 

Thankfully Balinor, who is gathering the table settings with his wife, interrupts the picturesque scene. “Merlin. Don’t you need to add the chicken?”

“Right. Sorry,” Merlin says shortly as he steps out of Gwaine’s path and gathers the meat from the cutting board into a bowl, without so much as a request for help or a word of gratitude for Arthur’s assistance. “Gwaine, can you start preparing the vegetables?”

Arthur sets down the lettuce head he was about to dice and feels Hunith and Balinor’s eyes darting between him and Merlin, just as they have been doing since the party arrived in Ealdor. They can sense that something is in the air, but then again it doesn’t take a sage to notice the tension in the air could be cut by a knife.

Hunith lets out a small cough and states, “I’m quite sure Arthur’s capable enough for that. You two prepared such a lovely meal last time.”

Merlin shortly replies, “If he’s desperate to feel useful, by all means,” before turning back to Gwaine to engage him in conversation.

“I did ask you to assist me, Merlin. Not to take over and complain about it,” Arthur grumbles under his breath as he chops the lettuce’s head clean off with more aggression than it should have warranted. Merlin just stares at him vacantly at the comment before wiping the diced vegetables off the cutting board once more. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Arthur overhears Gwaine murmur under his breath to Hunith as he moves past her with a stack of cups that need to be brought to the table. Arthur would let the man know he is indeed its partial source would it not expose him and blow up into another discussion he isn’t about to have, least of all now. Merlin won’t even acknowledge his presence right now, the last thing Arthur needs to admit is how much he can not bear being without it. It’s pathetic. 

“For the record, Arthur and I are actually getting along quite well,” Merlin says, avoiding everyone’s gaze and furiously stirring the stew pot. Arthur is filled with petty vindictiveness that Merlin is as enthused about the comment as himself. 

“Doubtful, if how you both are taking it out on the dinner is any measure,” Balinor challenges mildly. Everyone in the small kitchen is aware of that statement’s veracity, allowing it to hang in the air. The silence is awkward and disconcerting, but he cannot even contest the claim. They both can be read far too easily.

“But they are!” Gwaine exclaims as he waggles his eyebrows at the sorcerer’s parents. “Just the other day, Arthur joined me in complimenting the pleasing features your son inherited from handsome people such as yourselves.”

Well, shit. That did happen, then. 

Arthur wasn’t quite sure what elements of the night at Mary’s tavern had happened and which were his own blasted mind dredging up the fantasies Arthur dared not allow when in control of his mind. Trying to piece together the tapestry of the evening, one thread points to admitting his admiration for Merlin’s eyes, which Arthur supposes Gwaine must be referring to. Through searching his mind’s haze, he thankfully cannot find anything more damning in that regard. Another thread needles at him, trying to insist that he awoke next to Merlin the next morning, having passed out together, but it’s probably his mind playing tricks on him once more. 

It has been happening often lately, and not by his choice. It initially only occurred when Arthur slept, but these feelings encroach on his waking life now with each passing day. Yet only now, when he truly notices their depth, have they become the remotest of possibilities with the most unwilling of recipients. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Merlin announces, shoving the pot of boiling stew into Gwaine’s arms. Gwaine winces as some of it splashes up at his shirt, but Merlin does not seem to care as he makes a beeline out of the kitchen with a stack of bowls and a ladle for serving. Gwaine simply shoots a wink Arthur’s way before sauntering off to the dining room to claim a seat next to Morgana and attempt to woo her without regard for the fact he had just spent the better part of the hour flirting incessantly with Merlin.

With a sigh, Arthur places the cutting board and knife in the wash basin. As he stares vacantly at the messy dishes before him, Arthur feels the weight of his emotions compelling him to remain where he stands. He doesn’t want to face the others in the dining room, certainly not like this. His skill at masking his own heartache is wearing thin and he has lost the energy to compel him to strengthen it further. He’s just so fucking tired of everything and if the world were to come forth and swallow him whole at this very moment, he would thank it for its mercy. 

However, if there’s anything he’s learned these past months is that the world is the furthest thing from a merciful place. 

“Come Arthur, let’s eat.” Hunith’s voice is gentle as she places a hand upon his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze, smiling at him weakly. 

Normally, a hot meal surrounded by those he loves most would be a source of joy and respite. Moments of peace are few and far between, especially now when reclaiming the kingdom and potential patricide loom on the horizon, weighing heavy on Arthur’s conscience with each step he takes. 

When all those months were spent here in Ealdor, dinner was something to look forward to after a full day’s labour. Arthur could have spent all his days like that, if fate would have allowed. And it would have been simpler to go back to the time before the exposure of Merlin’s secret had come forth to tear his world asunder. Instead, laughter and levity could have filled Merlin and his plates with the emotional sustenance to bolster what little physical sustenance they had prepared for dinner together, all the while enjoying life’s simple pleasures and one another’s company. It wouldn’t have been some great destiny, but the experience has proved that the simple joys of rural living with Merlin might have filled his days with enough meaning. 

But it was never to be. And tonight, Arthur is dreading one of the few things that had given Arthur’s life the meaning he made for himself since his coronet was stripped and he lost sight of his previous purpose. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Dinner, as Arthur predicted, is a most awkward and awful affair. Arthur hasn’t had a worse dinner since the ones he used to eat alone with Uther after Morgana would yell and accuse Uther of being a mad tyrant before running off. 

He sits through Gwaine and Merlin giggling and laughing back and forth, shunted down at the opposite end of the table, sitting across from Elyan. In all fairness to Gwen’s brother, he does try to engage Arthur in a discussion, but Arthur finds himself acting as an extremely poor conversationalist, dropping sentence ends like threads of a loom his untrained hands do not know how to navigate. 

The meal doesn’t even taste like anything to him. It could be that horrible porridge for all he recognises its flavour, stabbing pieces of chicken and masticating much too thoroughly before swallowing them down. 

Elyan— very unsubtly— nudges Gwen and jerks his head towards Arthur. He knows he’s acting unlike himself, but what can he say? Gwaine’s voice, much too loud and irritating, grates against his ears, making Arthur clench his jaw and stare down into his still-full plate. 

It’s not like he came to Ealdor in search of a sense of home only to find himself ousted again. It’s not like Merlin is still trying to pretend like he doesn’t have magic in one moment and laughing with his new best friend Gwaine the next. It’s not like Morgana and he just found out they are siblings by the blood of their own father. It’s not like Arthur has unlearned the prejudice of his fucking family and discovered the depth of Uther’s unwarranted hatred and betrayal or anything, only for it all to culminate in this. 

Right? Because that would be just bleeding absurd, wouldn’t it? 

Merlin laughs as if in ironic agreement to Arthur’s thoughts, and that’s all it takes. Arthur snaps, throwing down his fork and standing up in an instant. 

“Arthur? What are you doing?” Gwen asks, her voice wary and cautious. 

A part of him feels just like it had when he’d found out about Lancelot and Guenivere’s courting: boiling rage screaming over deep, cavernous sorrow. He can’t stay here, not for one more second, not like this. 

His hands tremble just a little bit, but he grinds out, “I need to take a walk, I’ll get firewood, don’t wait up,” and stalks out the door without looking back. 

The woods around Ealdor are comfortingly familiar, which allows Arthur to focus solely on his anger and self-hatred instead of where his feet are going. And it is easy to let the storm of everything continue to rise up around him. There are so many things that Arthur is angry about, so many things that, if he gives them much more thought, will make him pick up a sword and go on a quest or plan out a siege or plot an assassination. 

Arthur wants something he can hack at and watch bleed, beat up and fight against and win . He feels almost exactly like the brutish fool he was when he’d arrived at Hunith’s farm, only a step to the left and two shades brighter. 

When he can see the world around him again, he’s at the small clearing where he’d found Merlin talking to Will’s grave all those months ago, the first impetus in Arthur’s slow turnabout to reconciling goodness and magic. He sits on the same log Merlin had sat on and stares at the stone pile on the ground, thinking viciously that perhaps Will was another one of Merlin’s lies.

A cover-up of a cover-up. Arthur snorts. How perfectly Merlin. After all, what was the likelihood of two boys in a tiny village both having strong magic? Arthur doesn’t know the specifics, but it seems quite implausible, and he distinctly recalls that Will had not confessed to having magic until after he’d taken the fatal blow meant for Arthur. 

It takes all of his impulse control not to kick at Will’s grave marker, but the poor man is dead and for saving Arthur’s life, besides. He’s not angry at Will anyhow, not really. He was loyal to Merlin, and how can Arthur begrudge that quality in a man? 

Instead, Arthur gets up and starts gathering wood. He’d said he would gather firewood while he was out, after all, and he might as well make something productive out of the way he’s feeling. 

He only gets to his first armload, which he dumps on the ground in front of the log where he’d sat, before Arthur hears footsteps approaching accompanied by the bobbing light of a torch. Scowling, Arthur turns his back to it and starts to pick up more wood, cursing himself for not grabbing the hatchet to cut down some larger tree branches. He does not want to talk to whoever has been sent to fetch him. 

Even if it’s Merlin coming to apologise, Arthur nastily decides that he isn’t in the mood to hear that from him. 

“Arthur? Dear, are you out here?” The voice makes Arthur turn around in a flash, making him drop the couple of sticks in his hand. 

“Hunith?” He calls back incredulously, not expecting her to have come out in the least. 

“Oh yes, there you are!” She says, and the light begins to drift closer. “I’m with Balinor, and we wanted to come have a chat with you after all of that nonsense in the house.” She steps into the clearing, Balinor holding the torch aloft behind her. 

Something in Arthur relaxes at seeing them there, Merlin’s own parents clearly taking an interest in his side of the story that their son so staunchly refuses to tell him about. Hastily, Arthur makes his way back to the log in the corner and offers up his small pile of sticks, which Balinor sticks the torch in without fanfare, causing the pile to engulf in flames with a gold flash of his eyes aiding the process. 

Balinor looks at Arthur as if to gauge his reaction to the magic, but Arthur has seen much worse than that by now, and is therefore unfazed. He sits himself down, and Balinor magics up two small stools so that the two of them can sit down as well. 

Both of their gazes rest heavily on Arthur, wordlessly encouraging him to speak. There are so many questions that he wants to ask and so many problems that he needs to discuss that he flounders for a moment, each one of them taking up altogether too much space in his head to make the words come out. 

“Arthur?” Hunith prompts one more time, and then Arthur knows what to say.

He looks right into her eyes and right into Balinor’s. Blue and blue and blue, all three of them different shades, different shapes. “I know,” he says. And then, it bears repeating, because there is so much that Arthur knows now, he finally relates to the books of legends his tutors made him read when he was younger when they’d told the reader of heroes burdened with knowledge.

“I know . About everything . I know magic is not inherently evil and that Merlin has it, I know Uther started the Great Purge over my mother’s life that he played with for mine and should have known he was going to lose, I know that he cheated on my mother with Morgana’s mother just because he wanted to ensure an heir, I know that Morgana also has magic and she’s a seer as well, I know that you’re a Draglonlord, Balinor, and that your son is too, or will be, or what have you. I know that my father is a hypocrite and a liar and that I could kill him for what he’s done and I’m a fool . I know I’m a fool because I—” Arthur cuts himself off, eyes darting away. 

His drunkenness had cracked open a vault in his mind of thoughts that he should never entertain that now run rampant and bold over everything, a constant stream of Merlin Merlin Merlin like the eternal backdrop of Albion’s winter rain.

I’m a fool because I would be dead without your son and his magic I used to blindly hate. I don’t know how many times he’s saved me in the past, but now I count how he saves me anew every day in the love I have grown to feel for him. 

That’s what Arthur was going to say, but he cannot possibly say it. Not here, not in front of Merlin’s own parents when Arthur’s admittance of the thing would cause him pain enough. 

He shoves the thought away and focuses on the other revelations he’s breathed air into, braving a glance at Hunith and Balinor, who both look stunned for a moment, but recover more quickly once they see that he’s looking. 

“Well,” Hunith says, “that’s certainly more complicated than what Merlin told me about the situation.” 

Balinor looks mildly concerned and even a tad pained as he inquires, “When was the last time the two of you talked?” 

Arthur lets out a bald-faced laugh. “I don’t know if we’ve ever had a truthful conversation,” he spits more harshly than he means to. “I found out none of the above information from him. None. I don’t even know how long he’s had magic or how he learned it or why. I don’t know how many times he’s used it without me knowing about it, how many times he’s saved me.” 

He wants to say I saw him conjure butterflies once, and it was beautiful . He wants to say I trust him with my life and my heart and he trusts me only with his jokes and his lies. He wants to say Merlin made me into who I am and Merlin was my biggest roadblock to getting here . 

He says none of it. 

“Where has my son’s head been?” Hunith scolds lightly. “Tell me, when did you find out he had magic?” 

Arthur twists his features. “I learned shortly after we left the village of Mountmend, where we went with Lancelot. Perhaps two weeks after we departed from Ealdor?” 

“So you knew before we met?” Balinor inquires, and Arthur confirms with a nod of his head. “So you’ve known for months,” Balinor states. “And you never said anything to him?” 

“Of course not!” Arthur defends. “He was the one to hide it from me. For all I know, he started learning that week I found out.” Arthur knows that Merlin’s been practising magic for a long time by now, but the words pour out before he can stop them, trying to rationalise everything. 

He follows it up with the rest of the truth, admitting, “I thought he’d come to me. I understand why he didn’t want to at first, because of course he didn’t, I’m a Pendragon —” 

Balinor huffs out a breath and makes a face like he agrees.

“—but I thought, after I talked to Alice and Iseldir and Morgana, that he might give up his secrecy. Even after I almost accepted a High Priestess into my family, he still didn’t say a word!” Arthur throws up his hands. “What would you have me do, corner him?” 

Hunith shakes her head. “No, he wouldn’t have taken that well. I see your dilemma, Arthur. I won’t tell you everything, but let me say this much: Merlin was born with magic. He could wield it before he could talk, before he could walk.” She offers him a watery smile. “He’s always been capable of miracles.” 

Arthur closes his eyes for a minute and lets the information sink in. He’d figured that was the case, but having it confirmed makes Merlin’s betrayal of trust sting more than ever. 

 “And, I’m sorry, did you say which High Priestess you almost let into your family ?” Balinor asks incredulously.

“Her name’s Morgause, she’s the other daughter of Lady Vivienne. She resurrected some shades of our mothers and tried to kill me with a bracelet; you can ask Morgana about her later if you want. She was the one who told me the truth behind the Great Purge.” 

Balinor and Hunith share a glance that seems bewildered, but for Arthur that much is old news. He has about seven other crises to handle that are much more important than Morgause’s vague death threats and serkets that got blasted away with the least inconspicuous lightning that he’d ever seen. For goodness’s sake, it had chained from serket to serket, what normal lightning would do that? 

“Alright,” Balinor agrees slowly. “So now you want to…?” 

Arthur looks at him flatly. “If my father had been in the next room when I’d talked to my mother’s shade, I would have run him through with my sword without mercy. It was cruel of him to barter with her life like that in the first place, and he had the audacity to tell me he loved her !” 

Hunith reaches over and grabs Balinor’s hand, squeezing it tightly and turning her knuckles white with the pressure. She looks horrified but intently invested. 

“A life for a life,” Balinor recites. “And do you still wish to end your father’s?” 

Arthur stiffens. He wishes there to be an easy answer, because when he thinks of Uther he wants simultaneously for his father to fall dead and embrace him heartily. He wishes for Uther to spew out his hatred so Arthur feels justified in running him through but also for him to break through the troll’s magic somehow just at the sight of him and beg forgiveness. 

However, after all that this journey has shown Arthur, after knowing his history and his truth, after learning what magic is and is not, after learning the ways of the people through being one of them, Arthur knows that he would not be able to stand aside and watch his father make the same mistakes over again. 

He is unsure if he wants his father dead, but he does want the crown. Quite frankly, the responsibility of rule is something he no longer trusts Uther not to abuse. 

And so, Arthur says, “Only if he makes me.” 

Balinor asks mildly, “You’re willing to commit treason against your own father?” 

 He imagines Morgana sitting next to him on the log, her apparition saying As if that wasn’t the plan all along? Arthur dear, do catch up. 

“He’s done worse and he’s being controlled by a troll and a goblin. If it comes to it, I’ll do what I need to do for Camelot.” 

Hunith smiles at him. “You’re going to be a great king.” 

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. King. If Uther isn’t king, he will be. The impossibility of it looms over him, but the facts are irrefutable. Camelot is his home, his land with his people. He’s going to do right by them. He must. 

“I must prepare myself,” Arthur muses. “I have been through a trial already, but before rule, it is customary to take a trial upon one’s self as a ritual.” Arthur will never be a crown prince, but he needs to feel like it, and from digging in the back of Geoffery’s dusty cupboards as a child he knows exactly what his trial for the crown would have been.

“I need to take a quick detour to the Perilous Lands,” he decides, “and complete my quest so that I can take my crown. Do you think I have the time?” 

Balinor shrugs. “Has your seer made any predictions that would encourage you to make haste?” 

Arthur shakes his head. There was that nightmare about Uther wielding magic, but he and Morgana had already agreed it had no trace of prophecy in it. 

“Then you should do what you need to do in order to make you feel ready,” Hunith encourages, smiling warm and bright. 

It reminds him of the way Ygraine had looked at him just a little, in the way that her eyes hold back emotions that threaten to burst through, the foremost of which leaks through enough for him to see: pride. 

Arthur is thrown back to his old, brutish self of a few months younger again, a man who had recognized the kindness Hunith bestowed upon him in his stay with her, and suddenly it is not hard at all to offer up, “Thank you. Both of you.” 

The words feel inadequate, and so Arthur scrambles for something more to give until he feels the weight of the triskelion key in his pocket, which he fishes out posthaste and hands over the fire to Balinor.

“Take this, please. I was going to give it to Merlin, but…” Arthur sighs, which communicates the situation quite well, in his opinion. “So you should have it. It’s one third of the Triskelion, the key to the tomb of Ashkanar where—” 

Balinor snatches the key and holds it over the fire for better light. “Where the last dragon lies,” he finishes and then laughs, his eyes becoming wet. “And I thought that there were no more dragons,” he whispers. 

He looks up to Arthur with new hope and determination. “No, it is I who must thank you, Arthur Pendragon. You are more than I thought you would be and even what I dared to hope you could be. Now, you have your quest and you have given me mine.” 

Arthur looks back at Balinor with, what feels like the first time in forever, a similar sense of hope. Before this evening, he had no sense of his path, merely stumbling along the road back to Camelot and going where life had been taking him, when the direction he had needed was within to begin with. It had only needed the proper guidance to usher it forth, which only a parent or mentor could typically provide. 

Arthur had lacked both when he started this journey, but it seems here in Ealdor, he has found what he had been missing for so long. In Camelot, he was never without a firm hand to guide him, but it lacked the care and compassion needed to help hone the overwhelming slew of thoughts and desires into direct action. Despite having a son of their own, Balinor and Hunith care for him as their own, and Arthur has in turn found them to be the positive parental influence he had yearned for all his days and been unable to find in Uther’s presence or Ygraine’s memory.  

His mind flickers then to Merlin and Gwaine, but he stops it in his tracks. When all is said and done, Arthur will be King, and there will be no time for him to indulge in dalliances. His heart has always been a cruel mistress in where its faith has been placed, but it still beats for Camelot more than ever, more than it bleeds for Merlin.

Arthur has his quest and his goal. Nothing else matters more, not even the bruises he will continue to press on his chest just to feel the hurt. He will be a king, a better Pendragon than the rest if Balinor is to be believed. 

He tells himself it will be enough.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ɪs ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ ᴏғ ʜɪᴍsᴇʟғ, all things considered. Setting forth from Ealdor on his own in the odd hours of morning to avoid the party’s notice isn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world — especially when in full chainmail— but when has anything these past months been easy? Thankfully, Hunith and Balinor had done him the kindness of discretion and even packed him enough supplies for his journey to the Perilous Lands. He has survived the first day’s travel completely on his own, which he isn’t sure he could have said for himself if he were still Camelot’s sheltered boy prince. He would have eventually made the solitary journey to seek the Fisher King’s Golden Trident and prove himself worthy of the throne, but he likely wouldn’t have done so for quite some time. The tragedy of disinheritance came with few boons like the hastening of his own maturity and sense of self, so he supposes he can thank Uther for that.

It’s not like he can thank Uther for much else anymore. Not when he’s been the root of the kingdom’s misfortunes these twenty some-odd years past. In order to ensure the kingdom’s problems will be cured, the only answer is to cut off the head of the figurative snake, as much as he does not wish it. Divorcing Uther as a tyrannical king and even more amoral man from the sentimentality associated with Uther as a father— despite him never being much of a father to begin with— is still difficult. Morgana, at least, had grown up viewing Gorlois as her true father; he had not been given comparable mercy. 

Arthur knows he doesn’t need to complete this quest into the Perilous Lands for Uther anymore. The people of Camelot cared for their prince more than they ever had their king, so if Arthur unseats him, as long as he proves a more just and merciful monarch, he doubts anyone will contest his claims to the throne via blood and conquest. Even if he returns home with the Golden Trident, it’s not as if Uther will take him back with open arms. And even if he did, Arthur wouldn’t wish it. The quest is for Arthur and Arthur alone to affirm the worth everyone else wishes to instil on him.

This also means it is incredibly dull. Sitting around a shit fire out in the cold has never been Arthur’s idea of a pleasant time and spending an exorbitant amount of time impoverished cannot change that. He is more competent now, but it doesn’t mean he does not long for the ease of starting fires that are far too large and warm for the wood they consume that come with travelling at sorcerers’ sides. It is odd to finally have a moment to think and breathe to himself. Even when Arthur has been completely and utterly alone of late, he has never been far from his closest companions. Sure, he bit back the occasional silent sob in odd hours of the night in his bedroll, but there had always been the sound of someone on watch to lull him to sleep. At night there were whispered thoughts and stifled laughter and as they travelled there were always several conversations to engage in and eavesdrop on. 

Here, it is just Arthur and the rest of Albion. He can hear the sound of the natural and by no means magical wind blow through the trees and the footfalls and cries of the wildlife as he traipses through the land with Llamrei. He’s much more in tune with her now, not having anyone or anything to draw his attention. Having finished setting up a trap to warn him of any assailants that approach, Arthur takes to brushing Llamrei’s mane in an attempt to calm himself before he tries to get in what little sleep he needs before they are ready to continue the journey. 

It would almost be nice to witness the natural beauty of the land he has been destined to lord over as steward and protector if the gravity of the future kingship were not weighing down upon his head like the crown he had sworn off once and is now seeking again. Being alone out here gives him too much time to think of all that which he had purged from his mind but still remained latent from years of tutelage: duty, tariffs, taxes, training, treaties, and the like. He despises most of it, but it is something practical to think of as he travels and requires his utmost attention and focus on. It is much easier to be caught off-guard when daydreaming about and lamenting the loss of things never to be. Uther had lamented the loss of his wife by his own hand for years and everyone is aware of what that did for Camelot; Arthur cannot do the same for his former servant of all people, even if he has discovered that he may harbour comparable feelings. 

Thus, it is best to think of nothing but who in his current circle and that of the present court would be a good Ambassador to Essetir or head of his Kingsguard. Besides, he best get situated in the beginning of the rest of his life once more. He had his little rebellious peasantry dream —turned-nightmare on some occasions— and now he must go back to the reality he has prepared for since birth. There is a war for Albion afoot and there is neither time nor energy to expend on a war of hearts. 

But apparently even these musings have done him in, as he feels a sharp whack on the back of his head. It’s not enough to knock him out, but it’s enough to get him scrambling for his sword, annoyed that neither the trap nor Llmarei informed him of the assailant’s approach. When Arthur whips back around with sword in hand, he makes eye contact with said attacker and unhands the weapon.

“What the hell were you thinking? I could have killed you,” Arthur scoffs and angrily gesticulates at Merlin, who is at perfect ease with what he’s done. It becomes abundantly clear why Llmarei didn’t do anything, but it doesn’t make Arthut any less unhappy about it. Of course Merlin had followed along, probably using some magic tracking device or whatever the hell else Albion’s most powerful sorcerer could whip up. 

“The stress of you journeying by yourself would have just as well. They are called the Perilous Lands for a reason, you dollophead,” Merlin chastises, crossing his arms in disapproval. Still, there is a hint of a teasing smile tugging at Merlin’s lips and a glint in his eye, so Arthur’s never been more relieved to be insulted in his existence. 

“Don’t be such a girl, Merlin. I can take care of myself,” Arthur brushes off cooly, doing his best to hide what little pleasure comes with the fact that, despite their current distance, Merlin still cares for his well-being deeply. Gesturing at the fire, Arthur states, “I’m not entirely without my wits out here.”

The second the words leave his lips, Arthut knows the response he is about to receive. A smirk stretches across Merlin’s visage as he retorts, “Well, that would be a first.” 

The sorcerer instinctively side-steps Arthur as he lunges at Merlin to lightly shove him in retaliation, because it seems to be the only manner the ex-prince can express any sort of casual affection without fumbling miserably. Faster than the younger man, Arthur manages to sling an arm around Merlin’s shoulder to tease him incessantly. “I warrant when we return to Camelot I won’t even need such a worthless manservant as much as yourself on a daily basis. Living out here might have put you out of a job.” 

“Oh, yes. Poverty has done wonders for you, my lord ,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes and trying to wrench himself from Arthur’s grip. “Though, need I remind you, you have not exactly grasped the concept of laundry yet.”

 Merlin sits himself down next to the meagre fire Arthur has set up and adds another one of the logs for good measure. If the fire burns a little brighter and hotter than one log would have warranted and the prince catches a golden glint in the sorcerer’s eyes when Merlin thought he wasn’t not looking, then that’s Arthur’s little secret. Settling into the comfortable silence, Arthur finds himself at peace that the surprise attack had dismantled some of the wall Merlin had erected between them since the reveal at the tavern. 

“I’m undertaking this journey alone, you didn’t need to come,” Arthur states neutrality, not seeking to fight with Merlin just to take his meaning for being here.

“It’s my duty to protect you,” Merlin shrugs, warming his hands and stating the answer as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. 

“We are equals now, you are not bound to do so. I am not some fair maiden in need of defending,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “I need to prove myself.”

“You’ve proved enough. You’d know if you asked anyone we’ve encountered instead of moping about. And if you refuse my help as your retainer, I still will give it as your friend,” Merlin says, looking at him with an unshakable confidence in his eyes and on his lips. The sorcerer’s words echo in his head and Arthur tries to commit them to memory, derogatorily blunt bits and all. He feels a sense of pride that the growth he has made for partially selfish reasons has not gone unnoticed in the eyes of one of those for whom he had changed for the better. Arthur finds himself able to momentarily push aside the questions of Merlin’s trust in him that arose with magical circumstances, witnessing the unshaking faith in the man before him. And all is well again in the world, even if for but a moment. 

“Besides, we haven’t travelled this far to lose you to your own folly,” Merlin tacks on to the end of the sentimental utterance, pulling Arthur from his thoughts. 

“ We? ” Arthur asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Don’t hold your breath, Gwaine is here as well,” Merlin says sheepishly, nudging Arthur with his elbow lightly. 

“Oh, joy ,” Arthur remarks, trying to hold back the smile daring to be released when Merlin stifles a laugh at his sarcasm. “Where is our man of the hour?” 

“I’m sure he’ll be here shortly,” Merlin says, shaking his head, “He stayed back, lest you think it was a real ambush.”

“That was probably for the best,” Arthur hums, biting back some smug retort about how much easier it would have been to not frighten he and Llamrei if he just used the magic Arthur knows about. But, he isn’t about to ruin the one moment of normality between them to make a petty remark, they have time enough for that in the future as Merlin is never living this one down. 

After a moment’s silence, Arthur asks, “And the others?”

“My father was inspired by you, of all people, to seek out the Tomb of Ashkanar where he believes the final dragon egg to be,” Merlin says with a small prideful smile on his face. “The others offered to accompany him, much to my mother’s relief. You are not the only one to take up your destiny once more.”

That would make three of them, if his own hazarded guesses at the sorcerer’s destiny are remotely true. They cannot be rid of one another if they tried, so it would seem, and Arthur doesn’t really see an issue with that in the slightest.

And then he fumbles hard , not ever sure quite what to say when Merlin does the thing when he ends up not being an idiot and acts wise beyond his years and kind beyond compare. Arthur goes to take the hand that Merlin is warming over the fire, but stops himself from doing so at the last moment, opting to pat the sorcerer on the shoulder instead. “I— Merlin. Thank you… for coming.”

“You’re welcome, princess!” A voice yells from the darkness. Arthur does not need to see his own face to know the ridiculous look upon it. He would have wiped it off, however he knows doing so might have made Merlin thoroughly upset with him once more. Merlin’s beaming smile counteracts Arthur’s own heavy sigh, well aware that it is going to be an interesting quest from here on out. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

The Perilous Lands have had many maps drawn up of them. Arthur, however, is using none but his own sense of direction, because none of the maps he recalls looking at agreed on what lay inside. Each one of them recounted a different thing; the place was described in a thousand different ways and it was impossible to discern one way or another which account was right since nobody had actually gone inside and come out to tell the tale in several lifetimes.

However, Arthur does know there to be a bridge entryway at least somewhere. And perhaps it is the fact that he has placed some faith in the merits of magic, but Arthur believes somehow that he will find it, even with the not quite wanted presence of both Merlin and Gwaine. Arthur knows that the he of old would have been aghast solely at the rule-breaking of the decree that the prince should accomplish his mission without aid. While it does still grate a little bit, Arthur can’t bring himself to mind overmuch. 

At the very least, if he does get jumped by bandits again, there will be more than just himself to fend them off. Minus Merlin, of course, because the bastard’s lips still have not let his most closely-guarded and awfully-kept secret grace the outside air. 

Well. Not like it matters. Eventually he’ll have to tell Arthur, it’s just a matter of when. And after all the suffering Arthur has gone through on Merlin’s behalf about the point, there is no way that he is going to back down. No, at this point the only thing he has to do is put the pressure of time on the eggshell of Merlin’s magic until it breaks. 

“Princess, do you even know where you’re going?” Gwaine calls. “It feels like we’ve passed this glade before.” 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t call me that. And this is all definitely new, thank you for your valuable input Sir Gwaine. I know because there’s wild garlic growing over there, and that’s the first patch of it I’ve seen this whole trip.” 

Against his own will, Arthur cannot stop a glance at Merlin at his presentation of superior herb knowledge, but unfortunately the other man does not spare him a single speck of attention, still looking forwards on his horse. 

Gwaine snorts. “And you’ve been trying to tell me you’re not a princess, princess? Explain your magic herb knowledge and being so in-tune with nature, then!” 

Arthur groans aloud. “You do know that this is my quest, right? I did not invite you. I do not want you to be here. Mer lin, why did you have to bring him ? You could have brought literally anyone else. Gwen, Morgana, Lancelot! Elyan, even, and maybe I’d finally be able to get to know him, but no , you had to pick Gwaine. ” 

“Oh, and delicate too, are you? I supposed there’s no accounting for lack of taste, eh Merlin?”  

Merlin, thankfully, does not deign to reply to Gwaine’s awful remark directly, instead grumbling, “I’m rather displeased with the both of you, at the moment.” Nethertheless, he demonstrates his admirable and apparently limitless favouritism of Arthur to respond to his inquiry with, “And I’m awful with a sword, everybody knows that, so I wanted to be sure, Arthur, that you had somebody to help you with any dismemberment that need occur.” 

It takes all of Arthur’s strength not to make a return quip about how Merlin doesn’t need a sword and could serve them all much better using magic.

“Wait, dismemberment? I didn’t sign up for dismemberment!” Gwaine shouts, looking slightly off-put. 

Ah. Here, however, there is nothing staying Arthur’s tongue. He turns to Gwaine with a smirk and taunts, “Well, who is the princess now?” 

“You are allowed to be quiet, I would like to remind you of that,” Merlin offers, more dismayed that he has any right to be. “Want me to settle this? Because I can.” 

“How?” Arthur taunts, unable to hold it back this time, “with ma —”

“Wait, is that the bloody bridge you’ve been trying to steer us towards?” Gwaine interrupts, gesturing with one hand and a huge smile on his face. Arthur hates to be thanking Gwaine for the interruption, but it isn’t exactly the right place for he and Merlin to be having that conversation right now, especially with such undue company. 

Arthur looks, and… Well. It is a bridge, they are north of Camelot, and there is a good bit of fog that is too opaque to see beyond. The whole thing positively reeks of enchantment, so Arthur is willing to place his bets. 

“Obviously,” Arthur states with more confidence than he feels. “I knew exactly where I was going this whole time. I told you we didn’t pass that glade twice.” 

Merlin dismounts right at that moment, walking away with aggression that speaks of his attitude at being told to muck out Arthur’s stables. He ties up Maisie to a tree near the creek they’ve been following, and Arthur and Gwaine follow along behind him at a slightly more leisurely pace.  

The peace only lasts until Arthur looks up from tying his lead, patting Llamrei twice, and notices that Merlin is gone. 

“Merlin?” He calls, but not too loudly. 

There is no response. He makes eye contact with Gwaine then, and an understanding passes between the two of them faster than a lightning strike. If Merlin is in trouble, they will work together to get him out of it. 

Both of them creep forwards through the trees and underbrush, Gwaine’s footsteps blessedly light. Arthur knows that Merlin is a damn fool, so both of them head back to the bridge as his most plausible destination, trying to stay out of sight. 

And, of course, Merlin is standing in front of the bridge, conversing with someone— a very, very short man, it looks to be, but where had the fellow come from? 

He and Gwaine make eye contact again, a moment of exasperation passed between the two before exchanging a quick series of hand gestures for a plan and separating to opposite sides of the edge of the woods to spring their attack.

“—here accompanying Arthur Pendragon on his quest to the Perilous Lands,” Merlin is saying, and Arthur straight out groans into his hands. 

What is Merlin thinking, telling this odd stranger about their quest? 

The man smiles. “Well,” he says to Merlin, “you must be magic.” 

The world freezes right then and there.

Arthur has had hopes. He’s had plots and plans and, yes, even fucking dreams about this moment. He’s been waiting oh-so- patiently for Merlin to get over his damn fears and confess his secret to Arthur. In his saddest moments, the confession is angry. In his weakest moments, the moment is tender. In his worst moments, the secret is passed between Merlin’s lips as the light fades from his eyes. 

None of them—  none of them — had been as ludicrously simple as an absolute stranger sussing it out before his very own eyes.

Arthur, aghast, steps out from behind his tree, all subtlety lost. “What did you just say about him?” 

The small man turns to him, expression unchanging. “Courage, my my. Come to join your friend magic? Where is strength?” 

Arthur flaps his hands. “Magic? Magic! ” He hardly notices the way that Merlin is turning paler than a sheet right in front of him.

“He didn’t offer up that information, so I don’t see why you have the right to just, declare something like that out loud where just about anybody could hear!” Arthur defends hotly. The absolute nerve of this man to take away Arthur’s petty and sometimes slightly romantic fantasies! He has no right!

“And to reduce Merlin to only one thing about his identity, truly,” Arthur continues. “His magic is not all that he is, you know? Sorcerers are people too!” 

Gwaine appears on the other side of the clearing, his eyebrows raised. “I mean, to be fair mate, Merlin’s not the most subtle man out there. I knew he had magic in the first five minutes of meeting him.”

The Bridge Outer comments, “Ah strength, I knew you couldn’t be far behind,” but Arthur is barely listening to him.

“Yes, but at least I had the decency to try and wait for Merlin to tell me about it instead of confronting him about the whole ordeal. I’m not devoid of basic human decency, not like some people,” Arthur fires back, sending a glare to Bridge Outer. 

Merlin seemingly gets over himself at this revelation, and blurts, “Wait, you knew ?” 

Bridge Outer clears his throat, but the noise barely registers in Arthur’s ears. 

“Of course I knew!” He bellows. “I’ve known practically since Mountmend , you dunce! I unlearned twenty-two years of prejudice for you! Not only did I talk to Alice and Iseldir, but also Morgana, and— oh, that reminds me, I know about you being a Dragonlord too! Even Balinor, your own father, has talked to me about your own magic more than you and I have!” 

Merlin tilts his head in that offended way of his, his mouth falling open indignantly. “Betrayed by my own father?”

Arthur snorts. “Welcome to the fucking club, Merlin. I’m its king. Now would you like a present?” 

He stares down Merlin for a moment, who holds his gaze. Tension soars between them, neither one wanting to back down, bringing Arthur back to when the two of them first met, and Merlin had said—

Wait. That idiot had said— in response to Arthur’s I could take you apart with one blow — And I could take you apart with less than that . Practically a confession of magic right then and there. Utterly preposterous. It’s a wonder he isn’t dead.

Bridge Outer clears his throat again. “Are you gentlemen quite done? You do have a quest to complete.” 

“Yeah,” Gwaine says, and honestly, if he’s siding with fucking Bridge Outer then that in and of itself is evidence of his being bad news. “And you’re not the only people alive who wish to fight their fathers. Get in line.” 

The words have absolutely no effect on Arthur’s will, and he narrows his eyes at Merlin, daring the warlock to look away first. 

Merlin just cracks his neck from side to side and rocks back on his heels, crossing his arms all the while. Stubborn fool. 

“The Fisher King,” Bridge Outer continues, “has waited many years for this day. Do not deny him what he wishes by refusing to enter his realm.” 

If Arthur weren’t so mad, he wouldn’t mind the fact that he gets to stare into Merlin’s eyes for so long. They are a quite nice shade of blue, after all, but this is an argument that he feels more than justified in wanting to win. 

Merlin, thankfully, seems to sense this, and breaks their engagement with a roll of his eyes. 

“Wait, what do you mean that the Fisher King has been waiting?” Gwaine asks. 

Bridge Outer smiles in a way that Arthur dislikes immensely. “He has not had visitors for years, and your trio has been prophesied to deliver these lands to their previous prosperity. Of course, until your mission is complete this cannot happen, so if you might be willing to begin your entrance…?” 

Arthur would draw his sword at the horrid man, but he can sense it would be as much a waste of time as killing that unicorn, so he refrains. 

“I, for one, am ready to get this over with,” he says, this whole ordeal making him slightly disenfranchised with his quest. 

“Seconded,” Gwaine sighs. “This place is going to be wretched; I have a hearty need for a drink that I will not receive.” 

And Merlin, for the damned simpleton that he is, walks right out onto the bridge without fear, brushing by Bridge Outer without a word.

Quickly, Arthur falls in line behind him, shooting a glare at Bridge Outer one last time as a parting gift.

What prosperous portends this belies for the rest of their quest.  

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

The Perilous Lands, truth be told, have much less peril involved when a sorcerer is brought along.

The place is barren and dry and dusty and hot, broken and dead trees litter its hilly and awful surface. The sun, too red in colour, beats down on them mercilessly, and Arthur can almost feel the malevolence of the place on his skin.

But all it takes for this to change for the better is Arthur finally getting a chance to berate Merlin for his sins of the past. 

“Merlin,” he starts as they begin to walk downhill, avoiding sticks and rattled bones alike, “do you remember when we faced the serkets and there was all that rain?” 

Arthur does not need to see Merlin, who is walking behind him, to know that the sorcerer is quaking in his boots. 

“Yes?” He replies tentatively.

“You could have stopped that storm, couldn’t you have?” Arthur asks, making sure that his tone is light and jovial.

“Well,” Merlin replies, “I suppose I could have done.” 

Arthur comes to a screeching halt and turns around, a winning smile on his face. “Any chance you could make the weather better now, then?” 

Merlin blinks as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, and then glances to Arthur as if to check if he’s being serious or not, which, of course Arthur is being serious. He’s wearing chainmail and he’s baking like Chef’s best cake. If Merlin can block out the sun, Arthur will forgive him of literally all the rest, no questions asked.

“Oh, God. Would you, Merlin? I’m dying ,” Gwaine moans. 

With the addition of Gwaine's prompting, Merlin caves and says, “Tídrénas!” Arthur watches his eyes flash shimmering gold, closer than he ever has before. It doesn’t look as sickly as he remembered it to be, a rather softer colour instead. Molten, almost.  

He rips his eyes and thoughts away at Gwaine’s gasp. The sunlight around them changes rapidly as clouds begin to form in the sky, lessening the heat’s influence by the second. It’s magical, in the sense that it all happens so quickly, and in no time at all the sky is cloudy and Arthur has never been happier. 

“Was that so hard, Merlin?”

“Yes, actually,” Merlin retorts. “This place is thick with enchantment, and I had to pull through its net in order to make you more comfortable, prat.” 

Oh. Arthur feels a bit bad about that one, then, and mutters a half-hearted apology.

“Well I’m grateful,” Gwaine says over him, and then smiles and flutters his eyelashes at Merlin like a swooning maiden. 

Disgusted at the display, Arthur urges them to keep moving, and now much much more comfortable, they trek onwards. 

Midway through walking, Merlin helps them avoid more than a few disasters with magic. Namely he refills the waterskins with conjured water, grows them some berries to snack on, and saves Gwaine from almost getting swallowed by mud. 

Arthur is extremely grateful to have him along, and then he sees figures in the sky, dark dashes against the muted grey of the clouds.

“Merlin, what are those?” He asks, pointing upwards.

Merlin’s face turns up, searching for a moment along with Gwaine until he spots them. 

Gwaine takes two immediate steps back. “Oh shit.”

Truth be told, Arthur rather agrees with that sentiment, because the figures in the sky look an awful lot like dragons . And, Arthur would be pleased to report to Balinor that there are still existent dragons left in Albion, but at the same time he really would not like to be roasted and eaten on his quest. 

“I’ve got this one handled,” Merlin says.

“Are you sure?” Gwaine asks, but Merlin just brushes him off. 

 When the figures come close, Merlin calls, “S'enthend' apokhorein nun epello-o-o!” And just like that, the figures turn and fly off. 

Arthur is stunned only for a moment until he has an epiphany, looking out over the still sizable expanse they have yet to cross.

“So, let me get this straight, you are a Dragonlord , right Merlin?” 

Merlin nods.

“Dragons are supposed to listen to you, yes?”

Merlin shoots him a very confused glance. “Yes?”

“And yet you cannot get them to fly us to the castle?”Arthur bemoans. “Some all-powerful Dragonlord you’re turning out to be. Your father gave me such large expectations, I hate to admit, but I believe I’m underwhelmed.”

“You dollophead,” Merlin banters, but something about it is almost fond. “Those were wyverns, not dragons.”

“I dunno,” Gwaine comments, “they looked like dragons to me, Merlin.”  

At this, Merlin sighs, which Arthur takes to be another sign that Merlin favours him more, making a mental note to lord it over Gwaine when Merlin is not in earshot. “They don’t look at all alike, for one they’re much smaller. After all, wyverns are dragons’ twice-removed cousins, not sisters.” He pauses for a minute to let the little lesson sink in, then adds, “And I’m not even a full Dragonlord yet.” 

A pity, that. Oh well, they do still have working legs. And Arthur wouldn’t want to cheat his entire way through the quest, he already has defiled the rules enough.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Storming the capital of the fabled kingdom of Elmet is equally as peril less, much to Arthur’s disappointment and relief. On the one hand, this is supposed to be Arthur’s quest to prove himself. He’s supposed to do some badass king nonsense that by virtue of tradition makes him a worthy ruler. So far, the journey has been nothing but a massive inconvenience to be frank and its ‘dangers’ have been more minor annoyances than anything else. Hell, being assuaged by bandits thrice before sun-high in Cenred’s kingdom and living is much more of a testament to his merit as a ruler than exploring some abandoned castle. 

On the other hand, he does not wish to be here longer than absolutely necessary and is not going to complain if they are without any immense obstacle to completing said quest. It also makes things abundantly easier now that Merlin is allowing himself to be lax regarding magic usage as things are now out in the open. Not getting impaled by wyverns is certainly a plus and if the castle’s rotting infrastructure— which is honestly the most perilous thing about the lands— threatens to collapse on them, Merlin can flash his little eyes gold and prevent it from happening. 

As a falling brick gets whirred from over Arthur’s head and into a wall, Arthur laughs to himself and bites back the urge to make a counterfactual comment theorising what would have happened if Merlin was still trying to idiotically hide his gift for sorcery. The idiot probably would have let them get pummelled with bricks here in an attempt to not let the secret spill, so at least Bridge Outer’s callout is good for something. 

When they climb a spiral staircase leading to a chamber, the three of them step inside, but not without depressing a stone to set off a trap door. Without hesitance, Merlin stops the door from closing atop them with ease. 

“I can’t believe you could have been this helpful the whole time, Mer lin,” Arthur snorts, before he hears someone clear their throat loudly. Pulled from his antics, Merlin, having released the falling door from his magic’s grasp, elbows him and nods his head towards a decrepit man sitting on the throne before them.

The chamber is empty, seemingly having fallen into disrepair for ages past, save for the cobwebs decorating the place and an ornate golden throne that the man sits upon. Draped in furs and riches that would make Camelot’s current greedy leaders blush, the Fisher King sits, trident in hand and staring at the three of them.

“Emrys, I see you have arrived at last,” The Fisher King states, looking upon Merlin with a sense of relief and contentment. Upon the man’s eye contact, Merlin mutters a short slew of unbecoming curses under his breath, clearly done with whatever destiny has in store for him.

Arthur tilts his head close to Merlin’s ear and teasingly says, “Oh, so there’s another title I don’t know about Mer lin. What could possibly be next?”

 Arthur stifles a laugh as he sees the embarrassed flush on the Merlin’s face spread all the way to his ears, trying not to give Arthur the time of day and to give his full attention to the Fisher King before them.

Thankfully, the old man seems to show the other warlock some mercy, as he continues, “And you are here with Albion’s Once and Future King and Sir Gwaine of his Round Table, no less. This bids good tidings.”

“Are you shitting me?” Gwaine swears, before running a hand through his hair in confusion. Arthur catches him mumble, “But I’m not a noble anymore. Fuck ,” under his breath. Arthur thinks Gwaine might have taken to hysterical pacing if they weren’t mid conversation which Arthur takes a bit too much pride in. Did he have any remote sense of what it meant to be Albion’s ‘Once and Future King’? No. But having heard the term before helps lessen the shock’s blow, meaning he can one-up the apparently other ex-noble for the time being. Arthur can process whatever the hell his own title means in the near future, and he has a feeling it may become clearer with the fabled Emrys’s help. Everything always does. 

“But you have more of a gift for me than just your presence,” The Fisher King says. “The time of the Once and Future King is almost upon us, which means that my own time has come to a close.” 

At least that doesn’t require much interpretation. Arthur knows his time is drawing near. His destiny, whatever it may be, is upon him and he is more than willing to accept it. 

“You wish to die,” Gwaine assesses. 

The King smiles indulgently. “Yes, Sir Gwaine. I do not have your strength. I have suffered for long enough and look forward to my peace.” 

“But if you’ve lived this long, then how can you die?” Arthur asks, put off by the defeatist attitude and literal centuries-old king somehow still alive after all of this time. 

The Fisher King nods towards Merlin. “You have a trinket that can do the job. And in return for it, I will give you a gift far greater than the trident the Once and Future King wished for: Avalon water.” He reaches down into his coat to retrieve a vial and holds it out to Merlin.

The warlock looks lost for a moment, but then a realisation flashes over his features and he scrambles for his pack, clumsily looking about inside of it. He pulls out a cloth and unties it to reveal the dreaded Phoenix Eye bracelet triumphantly. 

“I knew there was a reason to keep it,” he murmurs. 

The Fisher King holds out his wrist, and Arthur watches with ceremony as Merlin walks over to him to put it on.

“Albion’s time approaches. And in her darkest hour, you alone will not be enough. This water will ensure you have the help you require.” 

Merlin nods, the bracelet snugly on the King’s wrist. “Thank you.” He picks up the vial of water and puts it in the cloth the Phoenix Eye bracelet had been in before tying it closed.

The Fisher King smiles at all of them, this time full of joy. “No, thank you. I know you will make me proud in the next life.” 

And then, between one blink and the next, the man is gone, his throne left empty and his trident clattering to the floor. 

“Well that was dramatic,” Gwaine says after a moment, and reaches down to grab the trident off of the floor. Personally, Arthur thinks his comment is a mite disrespectful, but then again Gwaine wouldn’t be the type to respond well to authority figures. 

In a humbling and uncharacteristic display of generosity, Gwaine offers the trident to Arthur, who takes it with a stunned nod of thanks. Unfortunately, the moment is ruined immediately by Gwaine commenting, “Once and Future King, next time you want to prove yourself don’t pick such a shit quest.”

Arthur, naturally, rises to sarcastically parry it. “Of course, Sir Gwaine, where would I be without your and Emrys’s guidance.” 

“Dead, I assume,” Merlin says brightly, and Arthur absolutely cannot let that fly.

It’s probably the truth, but Arthur is well-practised at dodging that, by now. 

Innocently, he replies, “So, there really is no chance of you getting those wyverns to fly us back?”

Refusing to even acknowledge the comment, Merlin moves past Arthur, opening the chamber door with his magic once more. Gwaine, however, snickers at Arthur’s comment and pats him on the back in a rare moment of solidarity. 

Well. That's no way to treat a future king, but Arthur has, admittedly, dealt with far worse.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ Pᴇɴᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ ɪs… ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ? Yes. It feels absolutely insane for Arthur to even think about those four words in the same sentence without some sort of modifier; it has always been ‘Arthur Pendragon was happy then ’ or ‘Arthur Pendragon is happy for now .’ He’s never just content. Of course, he needs to return home and try and stop his tyrannical father from imposing further harm on his homeland, but that can weigh heavy upon his mind when he has come down from his out-of-character state of elation. 

After returning from the Perilous Lands, they had all regrouped back in Ealdor, planning to spend a few days resting there. Of course, they had to prepare for that final push into Camelot’s interior to complete their quest, which meant stockpiling and packing needed rations, supplies, and the like. But it also meant moments of downtime helping around the farm or swapping stories by the hearth over mulled wine and braised rabbit amongst friends. 

When they had arrived in Ealdor the first time, it was just the four of them with Hunith. Now, they have amassed such a small army of trusted advisors and companions throughout their journey that the small hut is running out of room to fit them all. Bedrolls and blankets are strewn across the floor and the voices echo in each and every room. It feels like a home should feel; it is nothing like his solitary and spacious quarters back in Camelot, which Merlin kept fairly immaculate for being the worst servant known to man. This place is full of life and love and if he could spend the rest of his days like this without feeling guilt for the destiny and duty he would be leaving behind, he would. 

Ever since Merlin’s secret was aired for all to see, the weight upon his and Merlin’s soul dissipated and they could finally breathe. They, thankfully, have fallen back into the sort of roughhousing, banter, and casual affection that Arthur had felt the loss of in each step he took these weeks past. Arthur didn’t think he would feel so rejuvenated by each “dollophead” when he purposefully collects the wrong herb to see the sorcerer’s amused chastisement or “clotpole” when he makes a smart arse comment about Merlin’s egregious obvious magic usage. Yet, he is. 

And it’s completely and utterly infectious, seeing the shift in Merlin’s demeanour now that the weight has been lifted. Merlin would always be annoyed in a wise beyond his years and fed up with bullshit sort of manner, that was never going away, nor would Arthur wish it. But what had been missing for so long and especially of late was the joy, hope, snark, and childlike wonder that made Arthur so intrigued — and dare he say, retrospectively, enamoured — with Merlin to begin with. And now that Pandora’s Box is open anew it’s flooded back in each step the sorcerer takes. 

Merlin hasn’t made a big deal of it, acting as if it does not affect him that he can now magically light a fire, heat a bath, or launder clothes now without fear.  But Arthur can tell it means everything to Merlin, as it does for him. The man is less tense and tightly wound now that the magic he has pent up for so long freely flows, allowed to be in his full element and authentic self in front of his closest friends and family. And Merlin is actually decent enough at his chores now that Arthur would have considered giving the sorcerer his job back when they retake Camelot, if not for the reason Arthur has other plans in mind.  

Magic has a place in Camelot, in both a figurative and literal sense, and considering Bridge Outer referred to Merlin as the concept of “Magic” itself, Merlin is no different. He will always have a place at Arthur’s side— and Arthur will be damned to let Merlin leave it unless it is of the sorcerer’s own volition— and in Arthur’s court. He can think of nobody better to advise him than the one who had been doing so for so long, especially now that he is starting to understand just by how much. It’s why he’s starting taking it in. Tallying the delicate blue butterflies he finds in the hut, Arthur starts to catalogue the ways Merlin’s gift manifests itself when he has moments to admire it at its purest. With each flicker of gold or spell easily used, Arthur gets to know the man he thought he had known everything about anew. If Arthur would deign to say the experience was indeed “ magical ,” Merlin might flicker those precious eyes and throw a shoe at him without touching it, but it would be fully worth it.

They still haven’t fully taken the time to talk things over, which is Arthur’s biggest hope for their stay in Ealdor. Merlin has always been most at ease here in his home village, as it is the one comfort and constant in their rapidly shifting lives. Arthur has spent some of his most cherished memories with Merlin here and Arthur knows that when they finally speak, despite the probable difficulty of the conversation, it too will be one of those. Things here have changed as well, but it is not unwelcome; the seasons had changed, the harvest had come and gone, and Hunith and Balinor had become more acquainted with rural domesticity and each other. 

Still, the hearth is where it has always been and he gets to work alongside Merlin as they prepare a simple meal for all of them. The village had started to slaughter pigs to start preparing for the coming winter, and while lots of the meat had been smoked and salted, they have enough fresh pork remaining to make a pork pie with acorns, and the cheese Hunith had been saving for special occasions. And all of them in one place without any secrets between them is the most special occasion one could have in this day and age and with what lies ahead. 

As Arthur minces the meat and goes to season it, before he can even tell Merlin to grab salt, it simply appears floating over his workstation and pours itself. The former prince’s shock at both their synchroneity and the gesture makes Merlin laugh, so much so that he loses concentration and drops the shaker. Thankfully, Arthur catches it before it can shatter and waves it at a sheepish Merlin. “Missing something?”

“Prat,” Merlin says with a smile that betrays him spread across his visage, before swiping the cutting board from Arthur and heading towards the bedroom. Seeing Balinor and Hunith tending to the garden together outside the window, Arthur cannot help but try and parry the blow. 

“Balinor!” Arthur calls in a sing-song voice, “He’s unlawfully exacting child labor again.”

“Arthur. It’s called training. Perhaps you should learn a th— Ow! ” Merlin yelps. The flurry of giggles erupting from the other room suggests the sorcerer was either bitten or slightly burnt again by the recently acquired baby dragon. Yes, the baby dragon that had decided the Dragonlord-in-training was its father the moment they set eyes on one another. 

Balinor, thankfully and obviously, had found success at the tomb of Ashkanar, joyfulling bringing home the last dragon egg, which he’d hatched with Merlin at his side. Aithusa hadn’t been the only spoil, though: Lancelot had picked up another stray for their travelling party in the form of an acquaintance of his named Percival, whom they were apparently lucky to run into. Unfortunately, Balinor’s quest had experienced all of the peril that Arthur had managed to avoid in the Perilous Lands with various traps and hazards within the tomb meant to protect the egg. Elyan and Lancelot were still recovering from the, thankfully minor, injuries they’d sustained, and when buying supplies, Percival had shown up and aided them. Arthur had just been happy the piece of triskelion had worked, truth be told, and watching Aithusa be called forth from her egg had been a powerful experience.

Aithusa though, once hatched, had been a menace. Despite the fact they are meant to be saving up supplies, the little thing has already scorched a number of tunics and found her way into the dried meat stores twice. But she only has to flap her little wings at Merlin and all is forgiven because “She’s only a baby, Arthur” and “Stop whingeing, we’ll take you to the tailor as the first thing back in Camelot, Arthur.” At least, any envy is marginally easier to deal with when it is over cooing at Aithusa and not actual or perceived flirtations with Morgana and subsequently Gwaine. Getting to fully witness the affection and frustration that comes with Merlin’s excessive parenting almost makes up for the divided attention he’s receiving. Almost . 

Merlin comes back into the kitchen with the no longer raw pork laying upon the cutting board and Aithusa protectively curled around his neck. The sleeves of Merlin’s tunic are slightly singed, embers on the right one still not fully put out. When Merlin sets down the cutting board, he raises his hand to summon a bundle of herbs to it, but Arthur impulsively catches Merlin’s wrist in his hand. He doesn’t know how it got there and Merlin doesn’t seem to either, cocking his head and eyeing Arthur with a content curiosity.  

When Aithusa hisses protectively, Merlin hushes her and stares back at Arthur with those pretty eyes— if there was one thing his drunk self had right that evening, it was that— awaiting his explanation. When the fact that Merlin is indeed waiting for him registers, Arthur loosens his grasp on Merlin’s wrist, gesturing at the embers that, like their own, have still not burnt out. 

“Fire,” Arthur stammers out, trying to find anything but Merlin’s eyes, specifically something to season the cooked meat with so they can start filling the pies. “Your irresponsibility could have burnt the place down, you idiot. Herbs?”

Merlin pats his sleeve down sheepishly before raising his hand once more, this time calling the bundle to him from across the kitchen. Unwrapping it, Merlin unveils the rosemary held within. As Arthur goes to grab each sprig, they seemingly teleport from one side of the cutting board to the other, always just out of reach. It would figure they would have some domestic tiff over the same herb as those mercenaries.

In what seems like an eternity, the frustrating shade of gold dims from Merlin’s eyes as he offers Arthur the sprig with a stupidly large smirk. He snatches the rosemary from Merlin, giving him a mocking smile as he does and turns back to the meal preparation. 

Merlin lightly nudges him with his shoulder, and Arthur mistakenly meets those eyes once more, not ready to be enveloped by the warmth that radiates off them. There’s a softness in the sorcerer’s teasing as he shakes his head. “And here you said I was the one fussing too much.”  

Who Arthur was when he left Camelot would rebuff the comment, but who he is today would nary deny it. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

The sun slowly dipped in the sky following the group meal they all shared that evening, casting a golden glow on the landscape around them. There had been several compliments to the chefs for the meal, which was one of their best yet. Whether that was because of the magic or not, Arthur is not about to consider. Everyone else finishes tidying the hut before they turn in for the evening, which he and Merlin thankfully got out of. Merlin, now, ever the parent, still needed to care for Aithusa so Arthur must settle for the divided attention that comes with feeding time. 

Merlin holds that pale little dragon-baby thing and coos at it as if it’s the most precious creature he’s ever seen. It’s kind of adorable, except for the fact that Aithusa is— God forgive him— ugly . She’s just so pale and scaly and looks like an overgrown lizard with leathery wings like some sort of creature from hell. But, nevertheless, Merlin looks at her like she’s a glowing golden babe, and coos at her much the same as he feeds her scraps from their meal. 

Arthur is content to watch them from the door frame for a moment, taking in Merlin’s carefree smile and his nonsense babbling to the dragon. He looks happier than Arthur has seen him in a long while, and it makes him look good. Merlin’s meant to smile, Arthur has always thought so, has always categorised each and every one and counted the spaces in between them. 

When Arthur’s heart grows too big in his chest at the feeling, he takes a quick breath in and then out before making his presence known, knocking on the door frame. 

“Merlin,” he greets, and the warlock jerks his head up from Aithusa. “Mind if I join you?” 

Merlin looks a little embarrassed to have been caught mid-coo, but waves at the seat next to him regardless. “Of course not. Come, sit.” 

So, Arthur sits. The seat is close to Merlin, enough that they’re brushing shoulders; Merlin’s pointy elbow encroaching into his space with Aithusa in his arms. He should move away, out of Merlin’s space like he’s been doing recently, but he can’t bring himself to. He’s happy, Merlin’s happy… Arthur wants to soak it all in, bask in the fact that there are no more lies between them. 

Well. Almost no lies. 

“So Merlin,” Arthur drawls. “When are you going to tell me about Emrys? And Once and Future King ? What’s that all about?” He leans over and bumps his shoulder against Merlin’s to show that he’s not hounding Merlin for answers, and instead just being playful. The feeling of it is intoxicating. 

Merlin, for his part, groans. “Of all the things you could have asked me, you choose that? You don’t want to hear the story of how I really met Lancelot, or the time I had to practice animating statues, or facing my first High Priestess? No? Not even the time I faced a ghost— or was Sigan a spirit?” 

Colour Arthur intrigued. Maybe he has selected the most boring avenue of conversation for Merlin to recount. “I suspect there are a lot of stories you could tell me,” he says after a moment. 

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees and sighs, his exuberance waning. “Yeah, I have done so many things.” His tone turns defeated, and Arthur doesn’t like that he’s causing Merlin to think about difficult times, but they might not have another opportunity like this, and Arthur thinks that it’s about time that he gets some answers. 

“You can tell me about them now, you know?” Arthur offers. 

Merlin tenses, his arms tightening around baby Aithusa. Arthur looks over at his face and watches emotions play out over his face, soulfulness darkening the blue of his eyes. 

“I suppose I can now,” he agrees, and something in his jaw moves mechanically. 

Arthur waits. He looks away, out into the familiar scene of Ealdor in front of him. He used to spend nights out here when he couldn’t sleep or when he needed a moment of respite when they’d first arrived. Although the scenery remains virtually unchanged, Arthur himself could not be a more different man if he’d tried. 

Merlin, however, is still up to his same old tricks. It seems like he’s about to say something several times, but nothing ever comes out. Arthur tries to wait for him to find the words to finally start telling Arthur his story, but eventually he cannot stand the silence anymore and breaks it himself.

“You could have told me earlier, too. Even in Camelot, Merlin, I never would have had you killed. Never. But especially after Mountmend. Why didn’t you say anything when I was questioning magic back then? I always wondered.” 

“Even in Camelot?” Merlin questions intently. “You would have— even in Camelot?” 

Arthur puts a hand on Merlin’s knee. “Yes, of course, Merlin. Even if I still thought my father correct, I never would have sold you out. To have you killed… no. I couldn’t. Why do you think otherwise?” 

Merlin lets out a small, shaky laugh. “I didn’t want to put you in a position where you had to choose between your father and I. I didn’t know whose side you’d pick, ultimately, and for whatever dangerous things I have done, I was not going to take those odds on my own life.” 

Arthur hears the words, feels the shake in the air that comes out of Merlin’s lungs, taking over the air slowly turning frigid as the sun continues to set. He has so many feelings about his father and his father’s rule and still wanting to kill him but wanting his love and acceptance even though that feels like it can only become true in a fever dream. But how he feels about Merlin? That couldn’t be more simple. 

“I understand why you did not say anything. Were I in your position, I likely would have done the exact same thing. But I want you to know: I wouldn’t have cared, Merlin,” Arthur says, the hand on Merlin’s knee squeezing before he lets go, laughing just a little bit, bitter but soft. “I mean, I would have cared, probably a lot. It would have taken me a while to come around, like it did this way. But I never would have blamed you and I never would have told my father. You’re my friend, you idiot.” 

Merlin just looks at him for a second, his eyes wide and incredulous as if he cannot believe that Arthur has said any of that. It makes Arthur feel a little bashful, a little embarrassed for how strong he’s come on, but then Merlin smiles at him, lovely and soft and full of as much light as the sun’s last rays on the horizon. 

Arthur can only look for so long until he has to avert his eyes lest he go blind, but as soon as he can his gaze darts back to Merlin, who has ducked his head over Aithusa’s small lithe body again, and he strokes her snout with one finger tenderly. 

“I never thought I’d hear you say that. I hoped with everything I am that I’d get to, someday, but I never thought I’d really get it.” 

Something sticks at the back of Arthur’s chest at the words, some sort of little thorn sinking into tissue and muscle that radiates pain enough that it catches in his throat. “Merlin…”

“I’ve used my magic for you. For you, almost exclusively, ever since the first day I arrived in Camelot,” Merlin explains, the devoted fool. Does he not know what effects words like this have on Arthur? On his being, on that thorn that only slices deeper into him? 

But he does not know, does not even look at Arthur as he continues, “You might think I got nothing out of it, but I didn’t. I got so much just from being your friend, not even counting Gaius or Morgana and Gwen and Lance. And now look at me: my father is back, we have Gwaine and Elyan, you know about magic and have accepted it. There is so little left for me to ask for. At this point, I’m just glad that I’m here. That I have this much.” 

God. Merlin is infuriating. He’s stupid and he’s infuriating and Arthur hates him so, so much. Because if he were Tristan and Merlin were Isolde, they would be kissing right now without reservation and Arthur wants to . He wants Merlin, so badly; wants to show him the depth of feeling Arthur holds for him that he keeps hidden under his chainmail. The thorn pulses in turn with Arthur’s heartbeat. 

He can’t, though. Not right now, not with the future so uncertain and Merlin finally at his side where he belongs. Arthur has so many things he can’t fuck up, and this is one of them. Merlin is one of them. 

And they need to talk. God, Arthur might hate it sometimes, but he and Merlin have said so few words of depth to each other recently. Except, now, Arthur wants to be the one reassuring Merlin, wants to be the one with pretty words flowing out of his mouth, wants to be the font of wisdom and the pillar of strength that Merlin has been for him. 

Starting now, he’s going to be. There’s the future for more, but for now? He’s just going to be to Merlin what Merlin was to him. The Tristan and Isolde in his mind burn with jealousy, but there will be time for that later. There has to be. 

Arthur finds himself drawn back to Merlin’s eyes and he tells him, “You deserve all this and more, and I’ll make sure you get it.” Perhaps it’s not the most eloquent, but he means it. He holds Merlin’s gaze a beat, two beats too long, and then he looks away. 

“Tell me one of your stories?” He inquires after a moment, needing to move everything along before he loses his grip and slips up. 

“Of course. Of course ,” Merlin says a little too quickly, rushed like he’s nervous. Aithusa crawls up his arm to lay around the back of his neck. “Which one do you want to hear?” 

Arthur wants to hear all of Merlin’s stories. As many as he can have. The ones he was there for and the ones he wasn’t and the ones that Merlin hopes to have in the future. He would listen to Merlin’s exploits when he was six with just as much rapture as he would Merlin’s life in Camelot. 

“Any,” he answers honestly. “Any you wish to share.” 

Merlin hums and the fingers on his right hand drift over his left arm absentmindedly as he thinks. The sun has almost set, and its rays alight on Merlin’s skin, making him look ethereal and like the sorcerer he is, full of magic and glowing from the inside out. 

“How about I tell you the story of the questing beast as I know it?” Merlin offers up, and Arthur agrees without hesitation. That’s a story he doesn't recall too well anyhow; he’d been dying for a portion of it, after all. 

“First, I’d like to mention that Morgana definitely had a vision the night before we rode out to vanquish the beast,” Merlin points out, and Arthur does recall her begging him not to leave and to be careful on his trip before going. He winces at how he’d brushed off her claims, but he did not know back then. 

Merlin continues, “You know the beginning of this story, so I will pick up after you were knocked unconscious by the beast. Um, I hope you’re not angry, but you did not deliver a fatal blow to it. It was quite the opposite actually. The beast… it chose you to die, and there was no way to save you, albeit exchanging one life for another.”

Arthur, all of the sudden, does not like where this story is headed. He hears his mother’s voice in his head telling him of the life for a life rule that magic of the Old Religion must follow. Obviously, Arthur is important to Merlin, but if his father’s bargain was his own mother, then who died? 

Arthur does not dare interrupt, waiting on the edge of his seat to hear what happened next, all while he’d been lying in his sickbed two steps away from death’s door. 

Merlin continues, struggling to find the words but solemnly continuing nevertheless, “Watching the whole of Camelot— watching you suffer like that… I had to fix it no matter the cost. When I went to the Isle of the Blessed, I thought that would be it, my life for yours. But it wasn’t. I didn’t get to choose; the magic doesn’t work like that, much to my dismay then.”

Arthur shudders at the thought of the magic working in the way the sorcerer would have wished. He tries not to let his own emotions remain unguarded, lest Merlin stop telling the story. “When I ensured your life was not held in the balance anymore it became my mother’s and later Gaius’s, as things seemingly spiralled beyond my control.

“It’s funny, I’m still not quite sure how I did it. I certainly didn’t have the control over my magic then as I do now. But when I returned to trade my life for Gaius’s to stop the seemingly unending cycle of those I love from suffering, my magic aided me in killing the High Priestess Nimueh and restoring the balance once more. In the end, it was a life for a life. I was just relieved that I could live to see the continuation of yours, Arthur.”

Arthur shakes his head. “God, you deserve more than that though, Merlin. You said you didn’t want to take chances with your own life just earlier, you stupid, idiotic simpleton! You’d been in Camelot for how long before going up against a High Priestess?” Arthur knows the number of months; he was there for it after all. But he wants Merlin to say it too, just to acknowledge how dangerous and foolish he’d been. 

“Four months,” Merlin admits, and Aithusa snaps a playful bite at his ear as if agreeing with Arthur’s reprimand. 

“Yes, four months, Merlin.” Arthur lets out a sigh of breath, but then asks, “I wouldn’t be here without you a hundred times over, would I?” 

He only needs to look at the slant and twist to Merlin’s mouth to know the answer to that question. 

“You know,” Merlin offers a moment later, “The Great Dragon Kilgharrah said something to me once, back when we first met and I thought you were the most arrogant person I’d ever met. He said we were two sides of the same coin, and I was so mad at him for thinking we could ever be connected like that. But I was wrong, back then. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Two sides of the same coin. Arthur tucks the phrase away, using it to pull out the thorn in his heart, bloody and raw, and he uses the phrase to wrap the wound shut. It’s much too fitting, after all; it too perfectly encapsulates how Arthur feels about this, about everything that he and Merlin are and could be. Incomplete without each other, two pieces meeting each other to make a whole in every capacity.

“I wouldn't be here without you either,” he reminds Merlin, “and quite literally so, with the whole questing beast business.” 

His promise to support Merlin comes back around, and so Arthur looks for the words he wants to say until he can infuse them with the devotion Merlin always gifts to him so freely. “Thank you. All that you’ve done for me, I’m thankful for it. I want to know it all, in time. I couldn’t be more lucky to have you at my side, nor would I wish it to be any other.” 

The sun dips below the horizon with both of them still sitting outside together. It feels like peace. It feels like what Arthur is fighting for, to gain more of. It’s what he wants his tomorrow to look like, and the tomorrow after that. 

When Arthur sleeps, he dreams in shapes half-formed in his mind, just enough for his brain to keep still images alive when he wakes. When he meets eyes with Merlin over breakfast, he knows: this is where it starts.

Chapter Text

Iғ Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀᴜᴅɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ғᴀᴛᴇ or the Triple Goddess or whoever else is in charge of the comedy of errors his life is made up of, he would like to say a very curt ‘fuck you’. They had been so close to leaving Ealdor without a hitch, though preparing had been a trial in and of itself to pack for what was becoming a small army. Using some of Ashkanar’s spoils, Balinor, Lance, and the rest had purchased a number of horses as well as armour, clothing, and weaponry to replace that which in their possession was lacking. While it would be lovely to also not have to wear tunics or shoes with an exorbitant amount of patched holes, their other resource needs are far greater and their travel time would increase if he insisted, so he’ll have to make do. 

And then of course right when they are supposed to leave and have a delightful little rustic village send-off before heading back to the capital, Cenred’s men wonderously decide to successfully ambush a village for once in their less than astounding history. Lance had mentioned that there were governmental complications with purchasing supplies in the town they picked up Percival in, which was part of how the giant of a man came to travel with them. At that point Arthur had mentally dismissed this detail as a fun part of their little dragon quest jaunt in Essetir. However, upon putting two and two together, it’s clear they were being tailed. Perhaps the guards were suspicious of why a band of travellers single handedly funded a number of local merchants for the next few months with their purchases or some of them recognized Lance, Gwen, and Morgana from the whole Cave Girl escapade. Either way, they were doing their job and doing it well, which spelt very bad news for the small farming village of Ealdor.

Wailing can be heard from the town’s centre where people mourn the livestock and crops from the harvest being held hostage until Cenred’s guard find the ‘fugitives’ they are seeking. And for the record, they haven’t done anything super illegal as far as Arthur is concerned. Sure, they’ve fought a number of bandits and thugs along the way but if anything, they’ve been doing a public good for Essetir that clearly outweighed the couple of guardsmens’ lives taken. And they can’t even prove the party had killed people as they only have oral reports, so the fact the guards are so insistent is a bit ridiculous. 

Still, unless the village betrays the ‘fugitives’ and turns them over to government hands, they will suffer a harsher winter for it, which they do not need. Before they started this journey Arthur wouldn’t have expected the village’s loyalty to run as deep as it did. It took a community to protect them, and because Hunith is a village staple and they had saved Ealdor before, the village did. However, Arthur and the party cannot let them suffer for whatever minor misgivings Cenred’s patrol have about their past actions. This means their planned rather wholesome public send-off has become a rather dramatic public flight, so that as little blame as possible can be placed on the civilians. 

A need for plausible deniability and drama means nothing other than magic. And a lot of it.

 Morgana is the obvious candidate, considering she is the most of an outsider of the party’s three magic users and her future residence in the village is not influenced by such a secret. So when the guards start to press the villagers harder, from the shadows behind her, Merlin channels a whirlwind to unseat the guards from their horses and gain their attention. Upon searching for its visual origin, the guards find Morgana in the middle of it all, eyes aglow with a fire as she telekinetically flings the dull unneeded weaponry at the patrol. As if a dancer among a storm of swords, she provokes the patrol’s attention to beckon forth where a number are quickly dispatched by Gwaine, Elyan, Percival, and Lance upon arrival. 

When enough guards are disgruntled and dead, all who are not already mounted do so, and they flee for the border with the surviving guard hot on their heels. It’s not pleasant to duck through the trees when arrows loosed from behind could sink into a vital and prove a fatal blow for any of them, but Arthur is comforted by the presence of sorcerers among them to heal the party, should need be. 

With the prayer for everyone’s safety on his lips, Arthur rides as fast as he can back to the place of his birth with an unprecedented vigour as the wind beats in his face and he eyes arrows meant to hit him fly away in impossible trajectories. Whether the urgency the former prince feels is because of the less than favourable circumstances of the pursuit or because he is returning home is unclear, it doesn’t quite matter. All that matters is that Ealdor is safe from those pursuing them and they can cross the border safely, as it is likely Cenred would not wish a war with Camelot for the lives of a few fugitives, especially when the same fugitives would be waging their own with the monarchy for their grievances in due time.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Arthur loves being back in Camelot. He loves knowing the woods, recognizing the underbrush and the slight trails that someone new to the woods would never pick up on. It’s revitalising to be present in such a way as this. 

It helps that Cenred’s men definitely are not following them into Camelot’s territory, but even if they do, Arthur is confident in his ability to lose any tail in these woods. He knows them like the back of his hand, and so does Llamrei. 

Arthur chances a glance behind him to make sure everyone is following close behind, and is relieved to see that there is no discernable lag between him and the rest of his motley crew. 

He rides the group’s horses hard and fast for a good while, until a sharp yell from the back of the line causes him to slow. 

“The new horses can’t take this speed,” Gwen relays to him, the message passed up from the back. “Hunith says that some of them were work horses a family could no longer afford, not ones bred for war like ours.”

Arthur doesn’t want to slow down, not now, but he knows that Gwen and Hunith are right. There was no time back in Ealdor to reshoe the new horses, nor did anyone have the energy or money to look for ones with good breeding. 

He is perhaps a bit overeager to be on his way to the capital to take the throne, though. With the trident sticking out of his saddlebag, he has not felt more princely in a while, despite his utter lack of royal-quality clothes. Truly, he’s said it time and time again, the dye is just different and the cloth itself is so much rougher, it truly is a shame. But, no matter. Arthur takes a deep breath and reminds himself to be patient. He has waited this long to reclaim his throne, he can wait a little bit longer. 

Besides, it’s not as if they won’t be moving at all. They’ll just be moving a bit slower. That’s all. It’s fine. 

He says back to Gwen, “Tell everyone we’ll take a short break soon, we’re about to come back to the river and we’ll water the horses then.” 

She gives him a quick affirmation before he hears her sending the message back, and Arthur turns forwards to keep going on, albeit more slowly than before. The rest of the day passes tediously; Arthur did not think of how much of a nuisance it would be to gather firewood for ten people instead of just five, but with the added manpower they all make do. 

They camp off of, but not close to, the river. If they keep following it upstream, they will eventually come up to the edge of the city, and it brings the added value of having a source of water for themselves as well as the horses. 

Other than the fires, it is a night spent in the rough. Arthur feels a brusque sense of impatience settle over him, mixing with anticipation and the constant fear, love, and hate that brews when he thinks of his father. 

Arthur can’t sleep, even when the rest of the group is sleeping (and snoring) restfully around him. Instead of looking to Merlin, where his eyes are all-too-tempted to stray, he looks up into the stars. They are plenty, and they watch him with the casual indifference and splendour he needs in order to set himself back on track.

Yet, there is a new magic to them, here. Perhaps it’s stupid that he can see magic in everything now that he is not opposed to it, but he can’t help it. They twinkle as brightly as mischief in Merlin’s eyes, and Arthur pointedly does not think of his father. He sleeps. 

The next morning, Arthur is woken up for his turn on watch as the sun’s rays begin to peek over the horizon, casting the world in dusky grey light. He sits farther away from camp than he normally would and gets out his whetstone to sharpen all of the blades he has on hand: his sword and five assorted knives. He does not care that some of them are only used in cooking, filled with anticipation for the fight ahead. At some point today, they’re going to have to talk about how they want to, well, essentially stage a coup against his father, the troll, and the goblin, but Arthur has already thought of how they’re going to get in. 

There’s a small entrance to the cave that Arthur now knows houses Kilgharrah. If they sneak in, free the Great Dragon, and then ambush the throne room from there, Arthur thinks they have a good chance of everything going seamlessly. The group does have five skilled sword fighters, three very powerful magic users, and the two kindest women who have the most common sense out of all of them. It balances out. Arthur thinks they have a real chance at this, and it feels a bit unreal, but he’s ready for it. He knows he is. 

It seems a bit soon, however, when Arthur hears clanging in the distance. Immediately, he is on his feet, and goes back to camp to lightly kick a still-sleeping Lancelot in the calf. 

“Wake up,” he hisses, “someone’s here.” It shouldn’t be a patrol; Arthur knows the patrol schedule and the paths they take and this is not the time nor the place according to that. It is the same schedule his father has used for years; he has no idea why the troll or the goblin would see fit to change it. 

Lance, thankfully, is able to read something of his urgency in his expression, and they split up quietly to wake the rest of the group and start shoving things into their packs before the group draws any nearer. 

The noise level continues to increase, the sound of men on horses and in armour clanging down the riverside they are not completely out of sight from. Arthur’s anticipation continues to rise as it dawns on him that there could be his own knights in that patrol. 

He freezes at the thought, wondering if they will be men that he has trained with since he was a child. Will they see him and put down their weapons? Can he get the patrol to turn a blind eye to their group, even here as a disinherited, banished prince back where he doesn’t belong? Or have his knights turned on him too? 

Arthur does not want to know the answer. He does not want to find out. 

He does not have a choice. The party becomes visible, and they have only a mere moment or two before they are noticed for good. 

Arthur springs back into action, thankful that most everyone seems prepared to run, bedrolls over their shoulders and Gwen, Hunith, Percival, and Elyan untying the horses as rapidly as possible. 

They are spotted.

“Who goes there?” An unfamiliar voice yells out, and Arthur is filled with dread and relief as he lashes his bedroll to Llamrei’s saddlebag. 

“Move, move, move!” Gwaine chants lowly, leaving off his usual witticisms with urgency. 

“Halt!” The voice calls again, and Arthur glances over his shoulder to see rich red cloaked men drawing swords, some on horseback and some walking on the ground. The group looks like it’s holding diversified weaponry, which Arthur curses; it’ll make them that much harder to run from. Of course, his party has no intention of stopping or talking to this patrol at all, and even though Arthur does not want to fight them, he will if he must. 

But before that, he has to try for peace. Arthur swings up onto Llamrei’s saddle and brings her to the front of their group. If this does not work, it also gives his companions in the back another minute to ready themselves to run. 

“It is I, Arthur Pendragon,” he announces and surveys the patrol. He does not recognise any of them, and there is a twinge in his heart. “I have come to you as a friend today, and I have come to—” 

Arthur is cut off abruptly by a loud call of, “Forbærne!” and a ball of fire shooting directly at him. 

Startled, Arthur barely moves out of its way in time not to get hit, feeling the heat of it crackle by his skin. It takes him a moment to realise: that fireball was from the other side. Camelot’s side. 

The blood drains out of his face. Fuck. It only takes him about two beats to come to the conclusion that this is very bad for both him and his companions. Arthur’s brain moves faster than a horse at full speed, connecting several points and strategies and laying out what his next move should be in between the space to two heartbeats. 

This patrol cannot know that he has magic users on his side. The troll or the goblin or somebody must have wisened up about something , that much is clear from the use of magic by Camelot’s knights. And since Arthur unfortunately announced himself by name, that surprise for Camelot’s rulers will be long gone. Therefore, the magic in his group must be kept secret at all costs, or the element of surprise will be well and truly lost for them.

So, no magic on his side. The other side does have magic and is using it freely. There are roughly twenty of them and ten of his own. They are a mixed group, and technically so is his, but not now, when they also have ten horses to take care of. 

It all spells out only one option for them to take: retreat and gain the higher ground as soon as possible to have any chance at winning. 

Arthur sets his sights on a nearby hill and calls out for his group to follow, hastily making his way towards it while dodging the subsequent fireballs and arrows that come after them, men with swords and on horses gaining at their back. Additionally, there must be a second sorcerer, because everywhere he goes branches conveniently, for the enemy, fall from the trees into Llamrei’s path and hit Arthur with blunt force. It suddenly becomes clear to him exactly why Merlin performs such seemingly ridiculous and inconsequential magic from the sidelines because it is really fucking annoying. 

In trying to get Llamrei to pick up her pace, she stumbles over a log and almost falls to the ground. Another fireball whizzes towards them without mercy. Burning brighter as a sun, Arthur braces himself for the magical onslaught and mythologized moment of one’s life flashing before their eyes. If this is to be where he falls, he hazards to guess what he will see but is immediately pulled from said thoughts by what lies before him.

A white figure darts in the way of the fireball’s trajectory and Arthur cannot make out what it is until her small wings are silhouetted against the flames. The moment Arthur processes the figure as Aithusa, she is gone. Another figure who has encircled her and taken the hit of the flames, falling to the ground.

Arthur’s heart stops. He doesn’t need to look to the ground to know who has saved her and uses what precious seconds that would have been wasted to dash towards the pair. 

Narrowly avoiding the arrows raining down that go un-parried without Merlin’s magic, Arthur quickly unhorses himself so that he can sling the wounded sorcerer and frightened dragon over Llamrei’s back. When he ensures they will be secure enough for the ride as they are unfit to do so on their own, Arthur frantically searches for answers in the eyes of his most trusted compatriots and finds none. Merlin seems more shaken by the fact that Aithusa almost died than the fact that his blistering burn wounds will likely scar if they had not almost killed him. If not for that reason, Merlin would probably be as worried about magic usage among the Camelot guard, but everyone else is frightened enough by the implications or suffering from the reality to more than make up for it. 

Arthur of House Pendragon knows he is unlike his father in so many ways, but they are alike in the vein of never backing down from an affront to one’s strength, duty, and honour. And it hurts him more than anything to back down, but the only way to ensure the safety of the party is to flee. Despite knowing the potential for goodness that magic holds, Arthur and his father had been subjected to enough assassination attempts via sorcerer and seen his own wield such power to fully realize magic's dangers if mismanaged. 

He is not about to lose any member of his cadre because he underanticpated the strength of magic users, especially those that replaced almost every man he had trained with his own blood, sweat, and tears. In the past, those grave mistakes were almost countless; he almost lost his homeland for a unicorn’s passing and been aligned with the lesser of two evils, but an evil nevertheless for misassessing Morgause’s danger. 

So as much as it wounds his pride to back down in the face of their friends turned foes, he must order a retreat for the protection of his own. The party is already more scattered from and scathed by the ambush than Arthur is comfortable with, especially Merlid who made that  split-second and stupidly noble sacrifice for Aithusa with no regard for anything else, including what Arthur would do without him should he not survive this. At this point, all they can do is lick their wounds and pray said injuries are not cursed in such a way that their resident sorcerers cannot heal.  It does not matter how unbelievably close they had come if it meant they all would not make it if for some rash judgement of his to press on. 

That’s something his Uther would do, nay had constantly done. At every turn, Uther was willing to sacrifice a good man for the need of the kingdom’s greater good, which translated to the stability of his rule and safety of his line. It’s why Gwen’s father had been killed. It’s why Ealdor was originally forsaken. It’s why Merlin almost died in Arthur’s place would it not have been for the magic guiding him to the Morteaus flower. It’s why Merlin had almost died a number of times that Arthur may die before he could finish numerating.

And Arthur is not his father. 

Uther had robbed Arthur of the family he deserved to know and lied to him about the one member who was at his side all those years. Arthur had forged his own family and by God will he fight to protect each of its members. To keep up this fight, they must flee. If they go far enough west they’ll reach the Valley of the Fallen Kings, and even if Camelot has changed, sacred ground is still sacred. 

With no safe way into the citadel’s heart and to judge what lies ahead, Arthur prays they will all live to see the castle’s silhouette in the distance once more. When Arthur orders the party to flee west, they leave the promise of the citadel and any thought of peace in their wake.

Chapter Text

Tʜᴇʏ’ʀᴇ sᴀғᴇ, or at least Arthur supposes that they are, in the eerily calm valley where the dead’s stone eyes watch over the wounded. Arthur had been so confident that they’d make it back to the citadel with some ease but it has all washed away now that magic is on the side of Camelot and he has three injured men at his feet. While Elyan and Gwaine are better off than Merlin is, being unhorsed and spraining one’s sword arm or having an arrow piece one’s chainmail through to the bicep is nothing to sneer at. While Balinor’s healing magic is able to ease their recovery to an extent, Merlin is burnt to hell and beyond the help of magic alone.

Balinor had taken everyone, except for the wounded as well as Arthur and Morgana who were tending to them, to find the herbs necessary for a healing ritual past the woods in the Vale of No Return. The name does nothing to quell Arthur’s nerves that have been rampant since they fled from the ambush and haven’t slowed since. It’s been quite the opposite really; every time he watches Merlin wince or hears him groan in pain, Arthur’s stomach tries to attack his heart. He tries to put on a brave face for Aithusa, who still is shell-shocked from the ordeal, trying to curl further into her adoptive father to provide what little comfort she can. 

Arthur cannot recall the last time he’s seen Merlin in such a state. Thankfully, the sorcerer has taken well enough care of himself since leaving Camelot— except for now , of course, the idiot— and the way he’s convulsing is reminiscent of the poisoning with the chalice. Then, he was able to do something and feel useful by retrieving the Mortaeus flower. But now? He only can sit, practically useless, as he watches the man’s lack of self-preservation finally catch up with him. 

Morgana has made him well aware of how pathetic he looks as he attunes to Merlin’s movements and noises to try and provide any and all necessary care. But it isn’t voluntary; he and Merlin are linked as the sorcerer said and Arthur isn’t about to lose him. Even if Balinor had asked for his aid in the Vale, Arthur doubts he could have wrenched himself from Merlin’s side. 

And it is different this time as much as it is altogether the same. He deeply cares for Merlin as he did then, but understanding those depths has made it ache all the more. Back then, Merlin was an idiot who Arthur needed to protect. If a prince cannot protect one dutiful, helpless servant then who can trust him with the realm? Now, Merlin is still an idiot who Arthur needs to protect, but the sentiment has a lot less to do with who he is as a ruler and a lot more to do with who he is as a man. And Arthur is a man who will drown in sorrow if he loses Merlin. There is no doubt in his mind about it, only a prayer that it will not have to come to that. 

Their camp in the Valley of the Fallen Kings thankfully goes undisturbed, which is as nice as it is unsettling. Where they recuperate lacks the loud chatter of wildlife, as if they too respect the sanctity of the hallowed grounds and the wind dares not whistle. It is harrowing as well that he remains in the shadow of past leaders in attempts to share their mantle having just led his own company into a disastrous battle. And there is still more to come. If a small patrol had wiped out a third of them, what will happen when all of Camelot’s forces, now aided with magic, are turned against them? 

There may be casualties. There will be. People among them will not be safe and they could die in defence of the realm. While they all would claim their lives are being given freely, none of them would be at the same risk should they not have been involved with him to begin with. Arthur doubts destiny will allow him to disentangle himself from the relationship threads that have propelled him thus far, and even if he wanted them to, his comrades are far too stubborn to let him. Damn loyalty. 

Travelling the countryside has made them all thoroughly aware of the suffering that ravaged Camelot’s every acre. Citizens are starved to the bone and their fields are stripped of the crops being demanded as tribute to the crown. Refugees are fleeing to Caerleon, Mercia, and anywhere else that isn’t imposing the oppressive rule of martial law on those guilty only of living. It is hard times in the world of men and nobody wishes to slow their push once they are able to move again. Arthur doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t want to either, but he fears for Merlin. 

When Merlin is well, Balinor wishes to take Merlin into some cave to help the warlock ascend into his full potential as a Dragonlord: sacrificing himself for Aithusa had proven Merlin was worthy of such not freely given powers. Arthur doesn’t quite understand why Merlin’s rite of passage had to also include petrifying him, but if they are truly two sides of the same coin it would only seem fair that one’s triumph would be the other’s tragedy. He’s proud of Merlin. He always is even if he dare not say it— lest it inflate Merlin’s ego— but with every additional weight upon the sorcerer’s shoulders, Arthur aches. How many more burdens can Merlin take before he falls beneath the weight of the world as Arthur almost has time and time again? There has to be a breaking point and—

No! Arthur, for one, is not going to dwell on the oppressive sadness running through his veins. He is going to be useful. Do something. Anything to put his mind at rest. He turns to the fire, hoping it has burnt itself out enough so that he needs to add more firewood, but finds it burning brightly and hotly as ever. 

Right, there are sorcerers for that. So he’s still useless.

Hearing a groan, Arthur averts his gaze to the noise’s origin, finding Merlin trying to sit up in his makeshift bed. Aithusa tries to help him up, attempting to support his back with her little snout which would be almost cute if Arthur wasn’t vicariously hurting for Merlin and upset with Aithusa for the recklessness she’s learning from her frustrating father. He’s honoured by their regard for his safety, he truly is, but Arthur never wants to feel the aftermath of it again if they are negatively affected in the process.

When Merlin is upright, Aithusa flutters towards the cache of healing supplies and brings back a jar of salve that Balinor had prepared to soothe the burns. The tonic hasn’t dulled Merlin’s pain as much as it should have, which is evidenced in his stifled movements and struggle to do anything. He tries to remove his scorched tunic to apply the salve to little avail, getting his limbs tangled up in the process. 

“Lest I remember incorrectly, burn wounds don’t addle your brain, Mer lin. Do remember where your head is,” Arthur chastises as he approaches Merlin. Arthur tugs the garment over Merlin’s head to free him of it. He opts for teasing, per usual, to hide how absolutely gone he is at the fact the sorcerer is this battered. He hopes it will work on lightening Merlin’s mood as it certainly isn’t quelling any of his own fears. 

“My brain is quite well,” Merlin states, before his face contorts into a smug grin. “Still know you’re a prat.” 

Arthur tosses the tunic at Merlin in retaliation, who tries to defend himself with an arm but winces at the movement which immediately fills Arthur with guilt. When Aithusa returns, she perches on Merlin’s shoulder, dropping the jar in his hands. He takes it, thanking her both verbally and physically with a small kiss on her snout. And well, if Arthur knew that was to be the reward he could have— Focus.

He’s quickly pulled from his thoughts by Merlin’s groaning at both the attempt to put the salve on and the burn of it against his skin. Arthur would ask if Merlin is okay, but he knows Merlin will lie to him to spare Arthur’s feelings, not that that is at all possible anymore. But since it is unlikely that Merlin will let himself be aided, Arthur takes it upon himself to aid him. He smugly snatches the jar from Merlin’s grasp and sits down behind him, much to Merlin’s surprise. 

“What are you doing, Arthur?” Merlin asks, craning his neck to try and meet Arthur’s gaze. Noticing just how close the sorcerer’s face is to his, Arthur ducks his head and tries to busy himself with the salve. 

“You have eyes, idiot. You tell me,” Arthur grumbles and when he looks back up, his chest drops. Arthur is aware that Merlin was severely injured, but seeing the full force of the damage, he cannot help but shudder. Merlin’s skin is painted in a variety of gruesome colours, fluids, and textures that would make even the strongest of heart sick to their stomach. At the site of most intense impact, the skin is blackened with protruding bone almost visible under what little charred skin remains. From the impact’s epicentre, the burns radiate out as the black gradiates into a red, where the skin is swollen, shiny, and wet. It burns to the touch, as if the flames that burned the sorcerer still haven’t left him. And where the skin doesn’t buckle, it blisters. 

But what strikes Arthur with more than the disgust at the wounds themselves is the fact that those marks are not the only things that mar Merlin’s skin. Arthur has barely seen Merlin without his tunic on and neckerchief tied tight. He had always assumed Merlin was just insecure about his physique or worried about propriety, but not this. Never this. Merlin had always stayed out of conflict and off to the sides to drop branches and trip enemies from the shadows. How did he collect all these battle wounds when Arthur hasn’t seen him attain one before this?

“Letting me suffer,” Merlin states in a petulant tone that implies the glare that he would give Arthur would it not pain him to do so. “I really don’t think you ca—”

Merlin winces at the sting of the salve the second Arthur touches him. Arthur doesn’t notice that he’s stopped until Merlin urges him on so he can get the brunt of the pain over with and move towards what little recovery he might find. Arthur tries to be featherlight yet firm with his touches, so as to spare the sorcerer any additional and unnecessary pain from the whole ordeal. Merlin has clearly been through enough physical pain, and Arthur would wager it is all because of him. Arthur does not have any marks from his time in Ealdor aside from the calluses on his fingers and tan on his skin, so he doubts Merlin would have earned them there.

And the wounds all blend together. Where the burn wounds from the attack stop, another gnarly scar wrapping around Merlin’s side and ribs starts where the flesh doesn’t seem knotted together correctly. Where that scar points north on Merlin’s skin, a black and reddened scar, akin to that on his back, sears in the middle of his chest. The colours aren’t as bright, dulled with time but making it apparent that this isn’t the sorcerer’s first time being scorched like this. 

However, the previous time, Arthur was unaware of it and Merlin had probably suffered in silence, still going about his day and answering to Arthur’s every foolish whim. And where Merlin’s skin isn’t red and scarred, it’s all shades of blues, greens, and yellows from sustained bruises in some sort of grotesque painting that Arthur wants nothing more than to strip away.

“This is why you aren’t allowed on the front lines. Best stick to branches or whatever else you do,” Arthur grumbles as he applies the salve and tries not to wince every time Merlin shudders in pain at the stinging. 

“Really, Arthur?” Merlin snorts with a forced joy to try and mask the groans elicited a moment later. “The fiercest army in Albion has magic and you want her most powerful sorcerer to stick to branches?”

“You fancy yourself rather powerful for someone who almost died,” Arthur says snippily. “What the hell were you thinking?” When he hears the beginning syllables of Aithusa’s name fall from Merlin’s trembling lips, Arthur cuts him off, “Oh right, you weren’t.”

“Has anyone complimented your bedside manner lately?” Merlin self-satisfiedly hums before cursing madly under his breath. 

“Would you prefer writhing like a fool to my care, right now, Merlin?” Arthur parries, catching the way Merlin lowers his head and his face seems to flood with a red that the sorcerer doesn’t need any more of on his body. When he received no response, Arthur states, “I thought so.”

They sit in a comfortable silence as Arthur works his way up the back, ensuring the full injured area is treated. As he reaches Merlin’s right shoulder, Arthur grumbles, “You know, you could have told me this is why you wear the damn neckerchief all the time. How did you even get all these?”

“To be fair, that one’s your fault,” Merlin chirps in, as he massages Aithusa’s wings with one of his hands, the salve finally seeming to render him partially mobile. He must sense how taken aback Arthur is, as he tuts, “The mace.” 

Fuck. Arthur had clubbed Merlin with a mace when they first fought in the market, but he didn’t think it would scar like that. It stings that what was rising to a quasi-friendly if not emotionally-charged challenge had led him to mar the sorcerer’s skin with the same pain and markings of their enemies. He knew Merlin had suffered physically for him, that is apparent enough with Merlin’s torso laid bare, but he wasn't aware he had any direct responsibility for any of it. 

He cannot make up for it and purge Merlin’s skin of such damages as much as he wishes to; he would even hazard some of the shoddy healing is because Merlin tried to do it himself. Merlin did nothing to deserve such wounds, especially those that went unnoticed and untreated all this time for the sake of keeping the secret that festered inside him like poison. All Arthur can do is ensure that he does all he can to keep Merlin safe. 

But Merlin won’t stay safe because he is Merlin. Stupid, self-sacrificing, reckless, beautiful Merlin who jumps in front of fireballs to save dragons and drinks poison to save princes with no regard for his well-being. So if he can’t prevent Merlin’s foolharty actions, Arthur will staunchly provide care when the catastrophes happen as he is now. Maybe then Merlin can perhaps understand a fraction of the depths Arthur feels. 

“I suppose I must take it upon myself to ensure not a single new scar bites itself into your flesh?” Arthur says quietly as fingers ghost over the scar from the mace once more. 

“Do I mistake my ears, or does that sound like you caring?” Merlin asks with an airness in his voice that simultaneously makes Arthur feel calmed and anxious by all at once. 

“Go to bed, Merlin,” Arthur says, jostling Merlin’s arm lightly enough not to cause any pain but enough to brush off the man’s comment. He, regretfully, gets up and puts the slave back into the medicinal cache, hiding his face so as to not wound his pride.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Merlin says with once last forced content smile before lowering himself down onto the bedroll. Aithusa gives Arthur a small wave with the flap of her wing, before curling herself into Merlin to help the injured man rest. 

As Merlin lies down with his back, scarred and burned, turned to Arthur to sleep, the former prince tries to not let his eyes linger. Each second he does, he is flooded with far too many emotions to count or name: the anger that he couldn’t have prevented this pain; the frustration that they don’t have the supplies to dull it; the fear that he will not recover from it; the sting that he cannot comfort Merlin in the way he wishes. 

And the love that supplies them all. 

Exhaustion is also there, to be fair . But it is the one he is adamant to not give into. Even with Morgana keeping watch over camp, she isn’t keeping a constant watch over Merlin, who could need him at any time. So Arthur bites back at any attempts that sleep makes to take him, adamant to be at Merlin’s beck and call and dutifully waiting at his side, just as Merlin has been for Arthur since the moment they met. 

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

“Arthur! Arthur, wake up!” Merlin says, and he kicks Arthur’s ribs in a way that actually fucking hurts , thank you very much. Arthur groans for a second, disoriented and still half-asleep.

He’d needed to stay up for some reason, why had he fallen asleep? And when?

“Arthur, you clotpole, wake the fuck up!” Merlin hisses, and reaches down to shake Arthur’s shoulders with prejudice. 

Oh shit, Arthur recalls with sudden clarity, Merlin . Merlin is hurt and injured, he has awful burns and so many scars and— now he’s trying to wake up Arthur. 

He jolts upright. “Merlin— fuck— Merlin, are you alright?” 

It’s brighter outside than it should be for the middle of the night, so he must have slept a few hours— why did he sleep for so many hours — and he can see Merlin’s face. He looks panicked and scared, sweat beading on his forehead and jaw clenching every two seconds in pain they were not able to fully treat. His eyes are wide, darting around and not landing on any one spot, but once they meet with Arthur’s they slow down enough for Merlin to speak, words jumbling together as he rushes to get them out. 

“There was this man, this place feels like magic, and I just, well, the man took me to this cave, the Crystal Cave that my father mentioned. The birthplace of magic, it was beautiful—”

Arthur reaches out and grabs Merlin’s forearms where they’re wildly gesticulating in front of his face, pulling them down. This is extremely worrying behaviour. “Merlin—”

“—but it was also awful because in all the crystals in the cave you can see the future, did you know that? So I looked because I couldn’t help myself, I needed to know this is all worth it, that everything works out and—”

Arthur grips Merlin’s arms tighter and gives them a small shake. “Merlin, I need you to calm down,” he says, but Merlin just keeps talking right over him, nervous energy causing him to shake in Arthur’s hold. 

“—we don’t win. I saw Camelot burn, Arthur. I, I saw you— I saw such horrible things—” he cuts himself off with a gasp, and his eyes screw up tight, his face turning away. 

“Merlin!” Arthur yells, and finally the other man stops, breathing still too fast and too light. There’s rustling behind him, and he knows the others have awoken but he cannot care about that right now.

“You are going to sit down,” Arthur says, strain and worry making the words sharp, “and you are going to rest, because you are injured .” He walks Merlin slowly towards the sickbed they’d made for him, Arthur sacrificing his own bedroll for the warlock’s added comfort. These ramblings of his sound mad and half-crazed, and Arthur knew he shouldn’t have fallen asleep, not when Merlin apparently has been experiencing hallucinations.

The sorcerer wilts and takes a few steps with Arthur, looking at him searchingly and almost beseechingly before he straightens up again. “But we lose! I saw you, you, er. Your father, I saw him using magic!” 

The blood in Arthur’s veins runs cold, his grip on Merlin’s arms slackening. 

Morgana pushes her way into his view, her wild hair tangled and messy around her head like she’s going mad too. “Did you say you saw Uther using magic? It was in your vision too?” 

Merlin turns to look at her like a spooked deer. “Too?” He echoes. 

“Yes,” Morgana confirms urgently. “I had a vision back before we met Morgause, but I thought it was just a nightmare and Arthur confirmed, because we thought Uther would never use magic, but it did feel like a vision. You must have seen the same future as I did.” Her face distorts in obvious panic, and her hands come up to her hair to pull at it. “This is horrible. This is awful .” 

Overwhelmed, Arthur lets go of Merlin fully and takes a step back. His father would never use magic. He would never learn how to wield that which disgusted him. What kind of court jester logic could he use to rationalise that to himself? No, the Uther of the future still must be enchanted. 

“You saw it only the once?” Merlin asks. 

Morgana nods thoughtfully, before a realisation crosses her face and she rips a bracelet off of her wrist, throwing it to the ground. “The dream bracelet from Morgause!” She spits. “Traitor! She must have known—”

Arthur bends down and picks the bracelet up. “But I thought Merlin cleared this thing in that book. Unlike mine that tries to kill people, this really does work at blocking visions that come in dreams, doesn’t it?” 

“That’s the point!” Morgana snarls. “Can’t learn about Uther’s magic plans if my visions are blocked, now, can I?” 

Merlin goes even more pale and sinks down onto his knees on his sickbed. “So it’s true,” he says. “It’s almost entirely certain what I saw will come to pass.” 

How defeated he sounds makes Arthur throb with sympathy and worry. He doesn’t know how visions work still, but he recalls Morgana saying that they can be incredibly hard to change. If Merlin of all people, one of the most optimistic men that he knows, thinks they’re fucked? 

Arthur doesn’t like his chances.

“Um, does someone mind explaining to Elyan and I what the actual fuck is going on here? We are both very confused and extremely worried. Not to mention, we have absolutely no context,” Gwaine says. 

“Merlin, while suffering from extreme burns, left camp in the middle of the night to go to the birthplace of all magic and get some magic vision in which he saw my father using sorcery and us failing our mission to retake Camelot,” Arthur summarises. “Morgana also had a vision of Uther using magic before either of you joined our party, which means they both saw the same thing. That seems unlikely, so it means nothing good for us.” 

He hears Gwaine swear under his breath, and he scoots over to Merlin to help the man lay down and get more comfortable, an unusual scowl overtaking his usually easygoing features.

Elyan, on the other hand, looks at them all grimly. “To think I could have stayed with Tristan and Isolde,” he sighs. “Is there anything we can do to fix this?” 

Morgana paces back and forth, her hands still worrying through her hair. “I’ve never had anybody else receive the same vision as me before. That suggests that what we’ve seen is very likely to occur… it might even be too late for us to change it.” 

In better spirits, Arthur would make some sarcastic comment about how if Uther has sought the aid of magic that anything could change. But apocalyptic dreams and nightmarish hallucinations are nothing to sneer at; even if they are just visions they still shake Arthur to his very core.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Balinor’s group returns much later than Arthur had hoped they would, so late that Gwaine is out collecting more firewood since they’d burned through almost all of it already. Merlin’s pain relief had worn out long ago, and now he shivers unseeing on the ground, groaning and feverish enough to heat through a cooling rag several times over. 

Arthur is worried he’s going to die on and off every few minutes, but especially when he reapplies the very last of the salve that was left for him to put on Merlin’s wounds. 

Aithusa’s pitiful mewling does not make matters any better. When she crawls into Arthur’s lap, though, he doesn’t protest and just lets her sit there, petting her head in a manner that probably gives him just as much comfort as it gives her. 

When the group bustles back into the camp, Percival and Lance go with Elyan as their guide to the nearby stream to fetch water. Balinor, who has already prepared his poultice, wastes no time in tending to Merlin with Gwen and Hunith’s help, blocking him from Arthur’s sight. 

“Did you get everything you needed?” Arthur asks frantically. 

Balinor doesn’t look up from his inspection of Merlin's sores. “Yes, though it took longer than I’d hoped.” 

He gets out a mortar and pestle and starts mixing several pre-ground herbs up together. Arthur offers up his own waterskin, and Hunith accepts it gratefully, adding a few drops as her husband directs her to. 

Morgana approaches them. “Tell me the spell you’re going to use, and I’ll cast it with you,” she demands. “We need this to be powerful enough to heal him completely.” 

Balinor hands his pestle to Hunith, who keeps stirring while Gwen takes over adding ingredients one by one into the mortar. 

He stands up and begins to lead her away for a moment. “Good idea, thank you. Let me teach you the incantation.” 

Arthur ceases to pay attention to their conversation, and turns back to Hunith and Gwen. “Do you need any assistance?” He asks them, but both of the women shake their heads. 

Instead of bothering them further, Arthur goes back to what he was doing before: looking at Merlin. Aithusa has already beaten him to the task, curled around the back of his head protectively, but not quite touching it. Her face is close to his hairline, and she looks so sad, like this is all her fault. 

Arthur doesn’t blame her. She’s a baby; the blame lies solely with the Camelot patrol’s sorcerer who thought throwing fire at them was a good idea. Besides, Aithusa appears extremely pathetic, giving off an aura somewhat like a kicked puppy. She’s perhaps growing on him just a smidge; he couldn’t stay mad at her if he tried.

Merlin, however, just looks like shit in the same manner he has all day, the manner that worries Arthur. His eyes flutter behind their closed lids, and his breaths come out shallow and fast like he’s having unpleasant dreams. 

Arthur takes the cooling rag off of the left side of his face, the part that’s upward, and gets up to fetch Morgana’s waterskin to douse it anew in cool water before returning it to Merlin’s forehead. 

He guards Merlin’s breath like it is his sole job in life, taking in every hitch and furrow in Merlin’s brow. It helps him stop his outward worrying to focus intently on something as well as to track Merlin’s worsening state. 

He knows not how long he sits there until Gwen touches his shoulder. “We need you to move so we can apply the poultice,” she says kindly, and Arthur nods numbly, backing up and sitting down. Aithusa, similarly shuffled away, crawls back into Arthur’s lap, and he holds her. Elyan, Percival, and Lancelot also sit nearby, clearly told to stay out of the way.

Arthur watches intently as Hunith and Gwen spread the pale green paste on Merlin’s back. Once they finish, Morgana and Balinor lift their hands over him and chant with intent, “Ahlúttre þá séocnes. Þurhhæle bræd . ” 

Both sets of blue eyes flash gold and Arthur holds his breath for a moment, leaning forwards to try and see the extent of Merlin's recovery. 

“The water,” Balinor beckons, and Lancelot trips over himself to bring three full waterskins over, uncorking one to hold at the ready. Carefully, Merlin’s back is cleared of paste. Arthur cannot see what it looks like, only that Balinor makes a grim face and motions for Gwen and Hunith to add another layer of paste to Merlin’s back. 

The spell gets recited again, and then the whole process is repeated one final time, both Balinor and Morgana looking haggard as they finish. 

Gwen and Hunith wipe off Merlin’s back yet again, and this time Balinor looks satisfied. The tension in the air eases at the small relieved smile on his face. 

“He will be fine,” Gwen announces, and Arthur lets the tension fall out of his shoulders. He runs one finger down Aithusa’s head, closes his eyes, and then smiles for a moment. 

Then, Arthur picks up the small dragon and gets up to walk over to Merlin’s back, now perfectly unblemished. The sight alone is enough to make Arthur want to weep. 

“Hey, you got rid of his scar from the mace!” He points out to Morgana.

She looks down in surprise. “…So we did,” she says mildly. 

Arthur is incredibly grateful to have her as his sister. He glances back down at Merlin, and only hopes that his warlock will wake soon.

───── ⋆⋅ ♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

Merlin does wake soon. Too soon, in Arthur’s esteemed opinion. Sure, the man was magically healed, but that didn’t mean that his body had fully and completely recovered, had it? He had still gone through the strenuous event and therefore needed rest. But, instead of resting, Merlin had awoken a mere two hours after his back was fully healed while their supper was on the fire, newly stoked from Gwaine’s replenishing wood.

At first, Arthur is not opposed to this, because it means that Merlin can get some food in his system, and it is good to see him up and about without lines of pain creased into his face. 

Aithusa also goes running back to Merlin, the little traitor, but Arthur can forgive her for that one; if he could run into Merlin’s arms without repercussion, he would take the chance too. 

However, what Arthur does take issue with is the fact that Merlin turns to his father over the meal and says, “So, can we do the Dragonlord ritual tonight?” 

Balinor takes a moment, offering Merlin a scrutinising look, and Arthur is very sure that Balinor is just looking for a nice way to let Merlin down easily until he replies, “Of course. You have proved yourself ready, son.” 

“What?” He interjects, and the two men turn to look at him oddly. “Balinor, my apologies, but Merlin had the most severe case of burns I’ve ever seen on his back and a fever only two hours ago. You cannot seriously be considering letting him take part in an important ritual so soon after that.” 

Shaking his head, Balinor laughs. “That’s not how magic works. He’s been healed, he doesn’t need any more recovery time. Merlin is good as new, perhaps even better than; I heard you say we got rid of a scar?” 

Merlin yelps. “You got rid of one of my scars?” 

“Yes, thank God. It was that unseemly one from the mace,” Arthur says with some measure of relief. His guilt over being the one to gift that scar to Merlin has lessened now that it no longer exists. 

Immediately, Merlin crosses his left arm over his chest to reach his back, palm resting on his right shoulder to feel for the scar that no longer exists. “I liked that one!” Merlin protests. “You couldn’t have gotten rid of the one on my ribs from my first attempt at self-healing magic?” 

Arthur isn’t sure to be offended that Merlin is mad about the scar being removed, honoured that he didn’t seem to mind it because Arthur had given it to him, or furious because Merlin is generally infuriating. 

He goes with furious, and sends Merlin an unamused glare.

Balinor somehow seems to read Arthur’s mind, and also looks at Merlin sharply, going on to say, “Self-healing? Merlin , that is extremely foolish! Did Gaius approve of you using that spell?” 

Merlin looks away sheepishly. “No,” he admits. 

“Maybe I should reconsider holding your initiation tonight, then,” Balinor remarks casually, and why did Arthur ever dislike this man? He’s great. He’s amazing . Arthur is a big fan of Merlin’s father. 

“No, please! I promise I’m more responsible with magic nowadays!” Merlin protests, and Balinor’s face softens almost instantly, and he caves, much to Arthur’s displeasure. 

As half of the party cleans up from the meal, Arthur pulls Merlin aside. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

Merlin looks at him intently. “We need to make big changes if we want to counteract those visions. If this can level the playing field, I have to.” Arthur reads into the set of his eyebrows how serious Merlin is about this, and he knows that his friend is right.

“I understand.” He offers Merlin an arm. “Be careful, okay? We just healed you. I expect this ritual to leave you as unharmed as you are right now.”

Merlin lightens just a bit and clasps Arthur’s arm back. “I will be. And when I return, I expect you to refer to me with my proper title.”

Arthur snorts at the joke. Dragonlord. “You never stood on formalities, so neither will I.” He lets go and cuffs the back of Merlin’s head playfully. “Now on you go.” 

Merlin smiles at him one more time, and then he turns around to join his father and they walk into the ruins of the Valley of the Fallen Kings, mist slowly eating up their figures. 

Arthur watches until he can no longer see them, and then turns his eyes to the sky and says a quick prayer to the Triple Goddess. He cannot lose Merlin, not now, when the future looks so bleak.  

No matter who he has to pray to in order to get him back, Arthur will unashamedly.

Chapter Text

Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴡɪᴛʜ Pᴇʀᴄɪᴠᴀʟ. Percival seems like a nice man. Good with a sword and strong, if the tales from Balinor’s trip are true. And, best of all, Percival would not be an utter annoyance to Arthur’s general person. Percival would respect his boundaries. 

But no. Arthur does not have the privilege of having his watch shift with Percival. Instead, he is stuck with Gwaine, and the peace does not last Arthur much longer than the time it takes for him to polish off all of the water in his waterskin. 

“Why are you looking so blue, princess?” He asks from across the fire with that infuriating smile on his face. 

Arthur is busy worrying about Merlin. Since he and Balinor left, Arthur couldn’t think of anything else if he’d tried. He’d scrubbed dishes with Hunith and Gwen at the river and hadn’t said a single word, but thankfully the two women just let him be. 

Arthur knows Merlin might be magically okay or whatever, but something always goes wrong, and what will happen to Merlin if this “Dragonlord ceremony” fails? Will he be killed? Logically, he knows it makes no sense for Balinor to have taken Merlin to do the ceremony if there were a large amount of risk involved, but the two of them are going to the birthplace of all magic. Excuse Arthur if he’s a little paranoid. 

“Not tonight, Gwaine,” Arthur returns sullenly. He looks away from Gwaine down into the fire burning bright and cheerfully, watching the flames dance. 

“C’mon, don’t be so sour. Your eyes look even more vacant than usual tonight. What’s got your skirts all twisted?” 

Arthur looks up sharply. “Fine. If you want to know so badly, I’m worried about Merlin. I had to watch him while he was hurt and he laid there being burned and he has so many scars— did you know that when I told him Morgana and Balinor got rid of one of them he was upset ? As in, he wanted the scar on his body.” Arthur shakes his head and shivers. “He has zero self-preservation and now he’s doing some magic ritual right after being healed? Yes, I’m not too pleased about it.” 

A thrum of vindictive pleasure runs through Arthur as Gawine’s face twists up during his declaration, wiping off his smug little smile. Humbling the annoying man, he thinks, has been much overdue. 

However, the emotions sharpen after a moment, and Gwaine stares at Arthur with malice, his gaze cutting in a way that Arthur has never seen before. “You think you’re the only one worried about Merlin out here? Get over yourself. I’m also his friend. I have feelings too. Why do you think I volunteered for watch so quickly?”

 Arthur is momentarily taken aback until he processes the words and is offended. Gwaine has only been with the group for two weeks. He and Merlin might have begun some sort of camaraderie when Arthur and Merlin were having that unfortunate… dispute of theirs, but Merlin is Arthur’s best friend, not Gwaine’s. And Arthur sincerely doubts Gwaine has gone and fallen in love with the man, either. 

“It’s not the same,” Arthur manages. He can’t explain any further than that. 

“Isn’t it?” Gwaine simpers meanly. 

Arthur shoots him a glare. “It isn’t. You wouldn’t understand our situation, my situation. You couldn’t .” But there is a niggling in the back of Arthur’s brain, and when he stops to pursue it, he recalls something the Fisher King had said that he wasn’t ready to delve into then that has now become relevant. 

“Or would you, Sir Gwaine? ” Arthur counters. 

Gwaine blinks at him for a moment, then deflates. “Shit,” he murmurs. 

“Maybe you do understand. A highborn, are you? Disgraced, obviously, and now a vagabond like the rest of us.” Arthur pauses, taps a finger on his lip. “And you said you wanted to fight your father. What happened?” 

Gwaine’s not even looking at Arthur anymore, and Arthur almost feels bad at the way that Gwaine has let his hair fall in front of his face, casting it in shadow that only exaggerates his brooding frown. 

There’s silence for a minute between the two of them, the crackling fire and nighttime noise of the wind in the trees their only companions. Arthur shifts uncomfortably; Gwaine has still not moved an inch other than his frown growing into a sneer, the flickering fire’s irreverent light turning him into something more monstrous and angry than he would seem under the sun. 

“My father is dead,” Gwaine whispers, but Arthur is listening. “That’s the problem. That’s been the problem. He was a knight in Carleon’s army. When he died, I was five years old. My mother and I were left penniless. We went to the king for help and he denied us, sat there in his fine cloak and laden with jewellery. Any one of those pieces would have been enough to turn our lives around, but he didn’t even look at us twice.” 

Gwaine looks up at Arthur, and there’s something accusatory there, as if Arthur and his own father had been the ones to turn Gwaine and his mother away. But Arthur refuses to feel guilty for this; he was banished for reducing taxes in Camelot, after all. He’s not a tyrant, no matter what Gwaine thinks. 

“We lived in the streets. We did whatever we had to do to survive until my mother met a man named Sir Charles II: my step-father. A wealthy man, low noble. Widower with two kids. He needed a wife and we needed money. Didn’t take her long after that to forget about me and move on with him, have another child, disrespect my father and her true husband’s name . At fifteen, I’d had enough and I left.” 

Even with the bare minimum of details, Arthur does feel bad for Gwaine. Even if Uther was awful sometimes, at least he didn’t remarry— of his own free will, that is— or try to sweep Arthur under the rug. And Arthur can guess how Gwaine had been treated in a noble household when he had been a child with no manners and no class. 

Arthur imagines a boy that is left alone all too much, neglected and treated with none of the gifts his siblings are given. He imagines a boy having one person all of his life and watching that person change right before his eyes. He imagines feeling unappreciated, unwanted, like a ghost of a memory from the past brought to life only to be ignored. 

Opening his mouth to say something, Arthur finds himself wanting to reassure Gwaine, to offer up his apologies for having to go through all of that, until the other man brings his gaze back to Arthur, still focused and mean.

“That’s why I am better than you,” Gwaine accuses. “When things got bad in my house? I left and I started making a real difference out in the world. You had to wait until you were kicked out to get your head on straight.”  

Arthur stands up, all sympathy gone. His hand flies to the hilt of his sword, and he almost pulls it out, but he knows the sound of it would wake everybody up, so he restrains himself, but it’s a close thing. 

“You don’t know me or what I’ve been through. What was I supposed to do? I was the prince!” Arthur hisses back. 

Gwaine looks up at him from where he’s still seated and cracks his knuckles. “So you wanted Daddy’s approval? So did I! But at some point I had to realise that I should cut my losses.”