Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur knelt beside the tomb and placed a soft kiss on the marble. The crown felt heavier today. He had always pictured Uther leaving softly and with a smile on his face, dressed in his favorite formal robes, pressing his ring into Arthur’s hands with his last moments. Never did Arthur imagine that it would be his fault. He’d turned to sorcery out of desperation, and this, undeniably, was his fault. Were he still alive, Uther would say the same. He would never have made the same mistake, would never have considered sorcery as an option. No matter the circumstances. Arthur leaned his forehead against the cold stone and felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. Never again would he be fooled by magic. This situation, at least, would serve as a reminder. He remembered the sorcerer’s face well. Kind, twinkling eyes, situated in the frame of an eccentric old man. All he’d asked for was to live in peace, and Arthur had agreed. He had seemed so harmless, so genuine.

Arthur felt a stab of anger. Never again.

He muttered a few mostly inaudible words of thanks to the image of Uther before rising to his feet. The urge to rip the crown off of his head and return it to his father’s came and went like a wave. As it always did.

“I’ll be better,” he said quietly, placing his hand on Uther’s stone visage. “I swear.”

Arthur turned from the tomb and squared his shoulders. The time for mourning was over. The people needed a king, not a scared little boy. Uther would be proud of his resolve, would understand the choices Arthur had made, would tell him he was pleased with the way things were going. Arthur allowed himself to smile at the thought.

Then, he felt a presence. A dark and malevolent energy enveloped him, radiating outwards from a point behind his back so strongly that he almost felt dizzy. It seemed like sorcery but felt unlike anything Arthur had ever experienced; this was rage incarnate, emanating nothing but malice and a wish to do harm. He gritted his teeth against it. His hand flew to his sword with practiced ease and he whipped around to face the source. The sword dropped to the floor immediately.

“You would kill me again?” His father said.

Arthur stared. He reached out, retracted his hand, tried to speak. Nothing came out. The tears that had begun to threaten him dried, knowing they weren’t welcome.

“How-?”

Uther stood before him, dressed in the same black robes and shiny jewelry they’d entombed him in just weeks before. His image shimmered slightly, as if he wasn’t quite there. And, when Arthur glanced down and saw the tomb through his body, the reality stole his breath from his lungs. His father’s eyebrows were arched in disapproval, the corners of his mouth curled in disgust. The dead king turned, gazing upon his tomb with a cold expression. The rage couldn’t be coming from him, Arthur thought wildly, struggling to retrieve his sword from the floor. His father was stern, authoritative, perhaps a bit harsh; but nothing like this. Not evil.

“Father?”

Uther raised a hand, moving his fingers slowly and watching the light refract through his gloves.

“Explain to me, if you would, where the sorcerer is.”

He turned, a hint of a hopeful expression etched onto his face. When Arthur faltered, it turned to ice.

“My killer, Arthur. Tell me where he is.”

“He got away,” Arthur replied dutifully, sensing rather than seeing his father’s anger grow in intensity.

“You let him leave.”

“We’ve searched everywhere, he-”

Uther turned, his unnaturally pale skin rippling in the light.

“If you had searched everywhere, he’d be dead,” The spirit hissed.

“Why are you here?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Unfinished business, I presume,” Uther snapped, venom dripping from his words. “I have been gone for scarcely a month and already you’ve made a mess of my kingdom.”

Any delusions Arthur had carried about his father being proud or even tolerant of his rule disappeared in an instant. Arthur felt the heat behind his eyes once again but blinked away the sensation. Not now.

“Father, I’m sorry. I won’t let-”

“You will. And you have,” Uther said. “There are peasants masquerading as knights, murderous sorcerers walking free, servants believing themselves to be above the law-”

“Leave Merlin out of this.”

Uther raised his eyebrows and laughed harshly.

“The girl, Arthur.”

When Arthur didn’t respond immediately, the dead king’s face contorted into something like disgust.

“She stands by you in hopes of becoming queen,” He continued, eyes narrowing. “It would not surprise me if she were plotting against you at this very moment.”

“Guinevere is a trusted friend. She is no usurper,” Arthur insisted. His father’s rage swirled around him as if it were tangible.

“You were always naive, Arthur, but this is no longer sustainable.” The ghost glanced around and hardened his expression. “You should be thankful that I was brought back to guide you. Now, at last, we can clean up the mess you’ve made.”

Something like panic must have registered on Arthur’s face, because Uther smiled.

“You will start by revoking the knighthoods you bestowed in my absence.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” Uther snapped, rounding on his son. Arthur remained defiant.

“They are more worthy than any noblemen I’ve ever encountered. They deserve the title.”

“They’re peasants.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. You will come to see that, in time.”

“Those men kept Camelot from falling while you sat in your room, defenseless and in need of care,” Arthur hissed. “We owe them our kingdom.”

“And they owe our traditions respect. You will do as I say.”

“I won’t.”

Uther’s cold eyes narrowed.

“Then you’ve left me no choice.”

“Father, please, can we just-?”

The spirit vanished in an instant, leaving Arthur alone and with a pit of dread in his stomach. It was only when Merlin burst in minutes later carrying a blood-soaked rag that Arthur understood the weight of his father’s words.

Chapter Text

The scene in the kitchens was chaos. Servants and cooks dashed back and forth in varying states of panic, either rushing to complete their duties or attempting to get as far away from the commotion as possible. A young servant stood off to the side, hands clasped over her mouth and eyes wide with shock. Arthur gave Merlin a confused look at this, but he received a shake of the head and a gesture across the room towards where Gaius was knelt on the floor, his back to the duo.

“It’s alright,” Gaius was repeating firmly. “Keep still.”

Whoever he was talking to let out a strangled cry in response. Arthur turned to Merlin with a questioning look.

“It’s Gwen,” Merlin said, voice low. He was paler than usual but stood upright with an almost practiced rigidity. Arthur would have made some sort of snide remark had his eyes not fallen on the blood pooling beneath the tables first. He fought the urge to look away.

“Leave us,” He said, addressing the servants. The few that still remained gave rushed bows and curtseys and took their leave eagerly, practically tripping over one another on the way out of the door. It occurred to Arthur moments later that this may have been a mistake; everyone in the room was technically a suspect. But, he reasoned, Guinevere could just as easily name her attacker once she recovered. And she would recover. She had to.

Guinevere’s eyes were only half open, weak hands curled around the knife that was still embedded in her abdomen. At this, Arthur cocked an eyebrow and glanced over at Merlin.

“I imagine we’re thinking the same thing,” Merlin remarked uneasily, nodding towards Guinevere. “Whoever did this left the dagger behind.”

Arthur nodded, not finding it in himself to speak just yet.

“Someone inexperienced, perhaps?” Merlin offered. “I don’t know of many trained assassins who would make that mistake.”

Arthur nodded again. He was too preoccupied with the churning in his stomach to give a better response. Merlin winced at the silence but continued regardless. He knelt down beside Gaius and pointed to the wound.

“But then I noticed; it’s just low enough to avoid any fatal damage.”

Arthur opened his mouth to ask a question but closed it when his composure didn’t return. Kings didn’t waver, he reminded himself.

“She’s going to be alright,” Merlin said hurriedly, correctly interpreting his silence. “A few stitches and she’ll be back on her feet in no time.”

“Not just a few,” Gaius interjected sternly. “But yes. She’s going to live, Sire.”

Arthur nodded. A silent thanks. The best he could do, given the circumstances.

“So,” Merlin continued, straightening up. “We’re either dealing with the most incompetent assassin on earth,”

“Or somebody wanted her to survive,” Arthur finished quietly.

“Exactly,” Merlin said, concern painting his features. “But there’s one last thing you should know.”

He knelt beside Guinevere and slowly peeled the rags Gaius was pressing over her wound away to expose the knife’s hilt. Arthur felt dizzy.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Merlin said quietly. “But wasn’t this dagger buried with your father?”

Arthur was impressed he didn’t faint on the spot.

He squatted down to examine the dagger, all the while pretending that it was sticking out of someone other than Guinevere. The dagger was an ornate thing with little red gems and carved silver dragons weaving their way around the hilt. It was too heavily decorated to be much help in a real fight; the dragons threw the whole thing off balance and the gems encroached on territory meant only for the user’s fingers, rendering it incredibly uncomfortable to strike with. Undoubtedly a royal weapon, all things considered. And, Arthur thought with a sinking feeling in his gut, undoubtedly his father’s.

“Yes,” He managed to say. “It was buried with him.”

Merlin closed his eyes as if the confirmation pained him to hear.

“Right. Fantastic. Notice any grave robbers sneaking around?” Then, when Arthur’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “Sorry. Has the tomb been disturbed?”

“It hasn’t been disturbed,” Arthur admitted, opting to omit the lecture Merlin’s comment would’ve usually provoked. “I’ve been there every day since he passed; I would know.”

Merlin tilted his head and squinted at the dagger, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Do you know for sure that this was Uther’s? All royal weapons tend to look the same to me.”

Arthur ran a hand down his face and sighed.

“I put it in the tomb myself.” Arthur stood and turned his back; the sight of Guinevere’s features contorting in pain was proving difficult to bear. It wasn’t his father. It couldn’t have been. Uther would never do this.

But, a little voice in Arthur’s head chimed in. It made sense. Uther’s distrust of Guinevere, the dagger, his vague threat, disappearing right before she was attacked… On top of it all, to stab someone nonlethally, you had to understand how to stab someone lethally. And Uther, of all people, would understand that intimately; having gained the throne by right of conquest. Perhaps his leaving Guinevere alive was confirmation that his threats were not empty.

It was too much to be a coincidence.

“Right. Invisible grave robbing assassin,” Merlin breathed, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts. “We’ve seen worse.”

No, Arthur thought. We haven’t.

He clasped Merlin’s shoulder with a hand, using it to steady himself but disguising it as a casual gesture. Merlin gave him a sideways glance and Arthur felt him stand up a bit straighter. Of course Merlin would notice, Arthur thought bitterly. He always did.

“She’s going to be okay, Arthur.” Merlin looked straight at him, so much intensity in his gaze that Arthur momentarily forgot to be irritated with him. He also, evidently, forgot how to speak, because he found himself incapable of anything but staring.

Gaius stood up after a moment and turned to address Arthur, who quickly reminded himself not to stare at the blood on Gaius’s hands.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Sire, I need willow bark and Boswellia from my chambers. They’ll be on the far-left shelf,” the old man announced, a strangely authoritative tone to his voice that Arthur was unused to.

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up but he said nothing.

“I won’t leave her,” Arthur insisted, hating the panic in his voice. “Surely Merlin can-”

“No.” Gaius tossed his rag to Merlin and knelt back down beside Gwen as if the matter were decided. “I need Merlin’s help here.”

“What does willow bark and Boswellia do?” Arthur asked, addressing his question to Merlin. Gaius shot him a murderous look. Merlin hesitated.

“It’s used for pain, but it’s really not for-”

“It’s for pain.” Gaius interrupted. “And Gwen is in a lot of it. So if you’d hurry, please.”

“Very well,” Arthur said, turning to leave and fighting the surge of irritation that threatened to swallow him whole. He was being lied to, that much was obvious. As he cleared the doorway, he heard the tail end of Gaius and Merlin’s hushed conversation.

“-won’t even work, they’re meant for headaches, not-”

“-know they won’t work, but he needed to feel-”

Arthur gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep walking. Typical. No wonder Uther was up in arms about his rule; if his own physician felt the need to safeguard his feelings, what kind of impression did that give to his people? To his enemies? Rage began to surge through his body like fire, tensing his muscles and filling him with vague urges to punch the odd passing servant. And why shouldn’t he? He was the king, despite his subjects’ affinity towards pretending that he wasn’t. What right had Gaius to treat him like a child? What right did anyone have? Just because Guinevere was hurt, he was suddenly incapable of performing his duties? Guinevere, who was nothing but a servant to him. It should be an honor for her to even stand in Arthur’s presence. Even Merlin, his own manservant, talked to him like the rules didn’t apply, like the threat of execution wouldn’t normally hang over his head if he so much as coughed in a disrespectful tone.

This, finally, gave Arthur pause.

“What am I doing?” He muttered, flexing his fingers and trying to release the tension. These thoughts weren’t his own. Gaius meant no harm. He was just looking out for Arthur; he always had. Guinevere was kind, with twice the heart of any noblewoman; her status meant nothing. He had even loved her, once. Merlin was his dearest friend, and Arthur, (Though he would never admit it,) rather enjoyed having someone around who outright refused to address him properly. He knew Arthur better than anyone.

They were his friends.

Taking deep breaths and shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts, he kept walking. Willow bark and Boswellia. Focus.

“Impressive,” a voice behind him drawled. He felt the rage triple in intensity.

Arthur closed his eyes and focused on breathing slowly. It didn’t work.

“What do you want?” He snapped.

“Such self-control,” his father said. “Pity you don’t use it when it matters.”

So it was Uther, he thought wildly. Those were his thoughts, not Arthur’s. He felt a sliver of the rage diminish.

“Did you do this?” He demanded, despite knowing the answer. Uther swept his robe aside in response, revealing a ghostly version of the dagger used on Guinevere.

“I warned you,” The spirit insisted, sighing wistfully. “I don’t wish to see the girl dead, Arthur. Truly. I know what she meant to you.”

“You stabbed her,” Arthur growled.

“I could’ve done much worse,” his father said, holding up a finger. “And I will, should you continue to disrespect me.”

Uther took a few steps forward and placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. It felt like freezing air. He shivered.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” Uther said, speaking slowly and with a dangerous edge to his tone. “Revoke the knighthoods you bestowed upon those peasants, or I’ll kill the girl.”

“Father, they-”

“Your actions have consequences, Arthur. Think carefully about what you say to me.”

Arthur stared, searching Uther’s face for any hint of remorse, any indication that he was bluffing. Perhaps even a trace of the kind man who appeared occasionally while he was alive. Instead, all Arthur found in his father was rage. Rage so pure that it seeped into his bones and made his own emotions feel dulled in comparison.

Uther stared right back, his gaze unforgiving. Images of silver dragons and blood flashed through Arthur’s mind.

And yet, somewhere in his father's expression was a hint of relief, as if he really did feel some sort of joy at getting to see Arthur again. Buried beneath whatever dark force had twisted him beyond recognition. Perhaps he could be saved. Perhaps Arthur could apologize once this was over and his father’s spirit was finally at rest. He began to form the makings of a plan.

He bowed.

“I’ll do as you say.”

Chapter Text

Revoking a knighthood in Camelot was always big news. It was the ultimate stain on a person’s reputation, second only to treason or sorcery. It was viewed as a marker of intense disrespect towards the crown, and those unlucky enough to call themselves disgraced wound up unable to find work anywhere else in the kingdom. For fear of further upsetting the King, most anyone with sense turned their backs on disgraced knights, leading many to leave town while they still could.

Arthur had seen this in action once, when he was 15 years old. Uther had caught a sorcerer among his ranks and revoked twenty-four knighthoods in an effort to cleanse his forces of disloyalty. Those that were dismissed either left or took up jobs as stable hands in the countryside.

So, when Arthur revoked four knighthoods and gave no reason, it was even bigger news.

And, since Arthur happened to employ the only servant in the five kingdoms with enough audacity to enter the King’s chambers unannounced, it was really only a matter of time before he made his opinions on the matter known.

Thus, when the aforementioned servant burst in with fiery eyes and squared shoulders, Arthur couldn’t even feign mild surprise.

“Evening, Merlin,” he said pleasantly.

If looks could kill, Merlin’s middle name would be Regicide.

“You’ve truly outdone yourself this time, Sire,” Merlin spat, flinging aside the laundry he was carrying with little regard for the mess it created. The mess Merlin would have to clean up, Arthur wanted to point out, but he didn’t envision that conversation going very well for anyone.

Merlin sank into the chair across from Arthur and fixed him with such a pained look that Arthur momentarily forgot he was supposed to be acting like he didn’t care. Arthur quickly averted his eyes and cleared his throat.

“I haven’t got the faintest idea what you mean.”

Merlin pointed an accusing finger at him.

“Pardon the treason, but if Gwen decides to kill you for this, I might actually lend her a hand.”

Arthur blinked.

“What’s Gwen got to do with this?”

“You just dealt her brother the biggest insult a knight can receive,” Merlin scoffed. “Do you really think she’ll take that lying down?”

Arthur hadn’t considered this. It must have shown on his face, because Merlin almost laughed. He caught himself, though, and the line between his eyebrows returned.

“I thought you were past all of this,” He snapped. “What happened to you?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. That wasn’t exactly the response he was expecting.

“Past what?” It sounded stupid to say out loud, and the humorless grin that stretched across Merlin’s face in response all but confirmed it.

“Every knight of the Round Table dismissed for no reason and with no warning. All except for Leon,” Merlin snapped. “What do you think that looks like?”

“It’s not about nobility,” Arthur insisted.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Merlin slapped his palms on the table in front of him and stood up in one swift movement. Arthur opened his mouth to explain but closed it almost immediately. Uther could be anywhere.

“I have a good reason,” he said quickly. Childish thing to say, upon reflection. It seemed to have the intended effect, however, and Merlin froze in place.

“Let’s hear it,” he said in a low voice.

Arthur hesitated. He hadn’t thought this far ahead.

“I can’t tell you.”

At this, Merlin cocked an eyebrow. He turned slowly and frowned, visibly fighting a mental battle for a few moments. Finally, he sat back down with some hesitation. Arthur released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“You can’t?” Merlin repeated, giving him a calculating look.

Damnit, Arthur thought. He’s thinking.

He hated when Merlin did that.

Arthur hardened his gaze and did his best to look kingly.

“I can’t tell you because it’s none of your concern.”

The damage, despite Arthur’s masterful efforts, was done. Merlin’s eyes were blazing with a newfound resolve, and Arthur could practically see the wheels in his head turning. Much to his horror, Merlin smiled.

“I knew it,” he said quietly. His posture relaxed and any anger he was carrying seemed to melt away instantaneously.

Arthur frowned. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to happen.

“You’re not mad?”

At this, Merlin laughed.

“Of course I’m mad. Furious, if you want the truth.”

“You don’t sound furious,” Arthur pointed out.

“I’m angry, just not with you,” Merlin amended. “And a good thing, too. I was about to poison your next breakfast.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur admitted.

“If you can’t tell me, it’s because it wasn’t your choice,” Merlin said simply, and Gods, sometimes Arthur hated him. How could Merlin read him so easily when every choice he had made thus far was to keep him away from the truth?

“And, judging by the lack of dents in your door or drunken screaming in the hallways as of late, Gwaine either had no problem with your choice,” Merlin continued thoughtfully. “Or you must’ve done something to keep it from him.”

Arthur was, genuinely, very impressed. He’d sent the knights, (Well, technically ex-knights,) to patrol the entire perimeter of the kingdom and ensure it was secure, citing some made up fears about Morgana amassing an army to justify keeping it both top secret and urgent. It would take weeks, months even. Hopefully, this would buy Arthur time to release his father’s spirit in as peaceful of a way as possible. As an added bonus, the knights would return to the news that yes, their titles had been revoked in their absence, but that they would be restored immediately. No lasting betrayals needed.

Arthur longed to thank Merlin for understanding, to say he was exactly right, to tell him of the rage that was wearing his father’s face; but he couldn’t risk Uther figuring anything out. Or, more importantly, Uther couldn’t begin to see Merlin as a threat. So instead, Arthur smiled tersely.

“You’re wrong, as usual.”

He hoped the gratitude would show through, despite his words.

Merlin frowned but the glint didn’t leave his eyes.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” He asked quietly. Arthur blinked, suddenly overwhelmed by just how transparent he was in Merlin’s eyes.

“Everything is fine,” Arthur insisted, attempting a smile. Judging by the slight wince that the smile was met with, it had done more harm than good.

“You would never betray your friends like this,” Merlin said. “If I know you-”

And you do, Arthur thought.

“-then I know you’d only do all of this if you were forced,” Merlin finished. He raised his eyebrows and fixed Arthur with a sincere gaze that the king found himself utterly incapable of looking directly at.

“What a charming boy.” The presence behind him placed cold hands on Arthur’s shoulders and chuckled, a low gravelly sound. He felt the warmth drain from his body, sending shivers down his spine and causing his fingers to go numb. Arthur gritted his teeth and flexed his fingers to try and regain feeling. He smiled once more, eager to ensure Merlin didn’t see any signs of trouble.

“Such faith in you, too,” Uther mused. “I wonder where that comes from.”

Arthur tensed. Merlin watched him carefully, a strange aggression in his gaze. Always so observant, Arthur thought bitterly. Sometimes, he wished Merlin was actually as dense as he pretended to be.

“I appreciate the concern, Merlin,” Arthur said as pleasantly as he could manage. “But you’d do well to remember that you are not entitled to information about affairs of state.”

“Shall I expect to be excluded from future council meetings, my lord?” Merlin said venomously.

“So waspish,” Uther said, chuckling gleefully. “He’d make a fine fool if he weren’t so utterly intolerable.”

Arthur remained silent. The delicacy of the situation was not lost on him; on the contrary, it was more accurate to say that it was eating him alive. Uther couldn’t be provoked to target Merlin. It simply couldn’t happen. If it did…

He chose not to consider that possibility.

Silver dragons and blood.

“You’re dismissed,” Arthur said quickly.

Merlin met his gaze slowly and nodded. Carefully and with more grace than he’d ever known the servant to possess, Merlin bowed low. Arthur tried to act like this was normal. Uther hummed quietly. Finally, Arthur thought. Surely Uther had seen basic enough decorum to deem this dynamic safe, Merlin was leaving, and then he would be free to enact the next stage of his plan. It was all going to work out.

“Are you sure you wish to be left alone, Sire?” Merlin asked suddenly, a strangely urgent tone to his voice.

Shit.

Arthur plastered on a smile and waved a hand dismissively.

“There’s laundry to be done. You’ve made sure of that.”

Uther narrowed his eyes. Arthur felt a corresponding stab of anger towards Merlin. Not mine, he thought. Not mine.

“Look at how he questions you with no thought,” Uther hissed into his ear. “Why do you allow him to address you like this?”

Merlin glanced between the laundry basket and Arthur. His eyes remained trained on the floor and he stood with his hands behind his back.

Arthur hated seeing him like this.

Gods, Arthur thought suddenly. The strange behavior must be because he suspected something was wrong. Merlin was attempting to act like a proper servant in an effort to pacify Arthur. To spare his feelings. Pathetic, wasn’t it? His own servant was treating him like a scared child. Who gave him the right? Why did Merlin get to-?

Not mine, he reminded himself. Not mine.

“Impressive,” Uther mused. The rage subsided.

“Are you quite sure, my lord?” Merlin asked again with slightly more force. “I would be happy to tend to your laundry tonight if you had more tasks in mind for me.”

He sounded almost as if he were pleading.

Uther laughed cruelly, his voice a harsh sound right by Arthur’s ear that startled him. Merlin’s eyes darted to Arthur’s face for a second, concern etched onto his features. Arthur cursed himself quietly; now Merlin would never drop the subject.

He must look like a madman, all things considered. Revoking the knighthoods, jumping at nothing, shivering in a sweltering room… it would be a miracle if Gaius didn’t pay him a visit next.

“You look unwell, my lord.” Merlin made a move as if to take a step closer but ultimately decided against it.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Arthur said quickly. “You’re dismissed.”

Merlin didn’t move. Of course. Why would he follow orders now and betray years of pretending they were just loud suggestions?

“His devotion to you is truly touching, Arthur, but you must recognize how weak he makes you,” Uther snarled. “I can feel how much it would hurt if you lost him.”

Arthur felt nauseous. It must have shown on his face, for Merlin’s eyes widened. He bowed again and set about picking up the laundry from the floor, his face much paler than before. He hung up the clean clothes and threw the dirty ones into the basket, all the while sending concerned glances Arthur’s way. Uther crossed the floor to stand beside Merlin and unsheathed his ghostly dagger. He waved his free hand in front of Merlin’s face and, when he didn’t receive a response, nodded as if satisfied. Then, he placed the dagger against Merlin’s neck, who continued to rearrange the wardrobe with small, uncharacteristically careful movements.

Arthur’s throat felt tight. He shook his head imperceptibly, a silent plea, which only caused his father’s smile to grow.

“That fear you’re feeling,” Uther said, pointing at Arthur with an accusatory finger. “Is weakness.”

Arthur fought the urge to rush to Merlin’s defense. It would only confirm his father’s thoughts about him, and that would be a death sentence for the both of them either way.

The spirit grinned.

“But fear, as you’ll soon understand, can also be a powerful motivator.”

“What?” Arthur said aloud, forgetting himself. Merlin’s head snapped to face him, narrowly avoiding the dagger’s edge.

“Did you need something, Sire?” He asked, a strange tilt to his voice.

Arthur waved a hand, doing his very best to ignore the dizziness that now threatened to overtake him, and Merlin turned to continue working.

“You have failed to find my killer, which is no doubt the reason I am trapped in the mortal realm,” Uther continued. “Redouble your efforts to find him or Merlin will die in his place.”

Arthur nodded immediately. This, at least, was an easy decision. He’d wanted that sorcerer dead from the moment his father’s eyes had closed for the last time. Not the last time, exactly. The official last time.

“You have a week.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, and he almost spoke again before stopping himself. No use, he reminded himself. This changed nothing about the plan, except perhaps accelerating it.

He nodded again.

Uther smiled, satisfied, and retracted the knife.

“Good luck, son.”

He disappeared as soon as the words had left his mouth. Merlin turned around and tossed the basket away from him, having finished with the wardrobe. He looked almost as faint as Arthur felt.

“Are you feeling alright?” Arthur asked.

Merlin, who was bracing his hands against his knees and breathing as if he’d been holding his breath, waved a hand in response.

“Never better.”

Chapter Text

Arthur had only two thoughts at the moment, a fact which was already proving to be too much to handle.

Thought number one was that the situation was hopeless. He had a single week to catch a man who had eluded him for over a month; a man who just so happened to be an incredibly dangerous sorcerer with the prior king’s blood on his hands. Not ideal. Should he fail, his own father would kill his closest friend. Also not ideal.

Thought number two was that it was a nice day.

That was all Arthur wanted to focus on.

He rode a few feet in front of Merlin and Leon, the latter of which was very obviously struggling between being furious at Arthur and trying not to say anything too treasonous. Arthur could practically feel the angry eyes boring a hole in the back of his head, but explaining himself wasn’t an option and it wouldn’t matter anyways once the other knights’ titles were restored. In truth, he hadn’t actually expected Leon to let his opinions show on his face. Compared to the likes of Merlin, Leon was well-practiced at keeping his mouth shut regarding the king’s more controversial decisions.

The urge to explain everything and damn the consequences reared its head and was quickly suppressed by the stab of anger that seized him soon after.

Hello, Father, he thought. Nice of you to join us.

His horse suddenly gave a panicked whinny and started to veer off course, shaking her head frantically and pawing at the ground like a madman. (Madhorse?) Arthur dug his heels in and gripped the reins tighter, all the while feeling the animal resist with every ounce of strength she had. She let out a strained cry that was halfway between a scream and a whinny and started bucking like her life depended on it.

“Easy!” He hissed.

The horse didn’t seem too keen on listening, and Arthur’s cheek hit the dirt before he knew what had happened.

His horse calmed ever so slightly but still danced from hoof to hoof restlessly where she stood.

“Thanks for that, father,” Arthur muttered bitterly. He thought he heard a ghostly chuckle from somewhere behind him. Uther was in a good mood today, it seemed.

“She hates you.” Merlin remarked with a snicker. Leon snorted before catching himself and pretending to be very interested in the stitching on his saddle.

Merlin hopped deftly off of his own horse, shooting Leon a look that was somehow caught halfway between approval and disapproval. He offered Arthur a hand which the king swatted away with all the dignity and grace of a five-year-old.

“I’m fine.” Arthur snapped, and clambered to his feet to prove his point.

“Suit yourself.” Merlin turned and took a few careful steps toward the panicked horse. Leon quickly held up a hand.

“Careful, she’s- oh.”

His warning was cut off by the horse practically melting into Merlin’s touch. He cooed to her gently and stroked the end of her nose with delicate fingers, smiling softly when she eventually settled down. He gave her one final scratch behind the ears before turning to face the other two men with an embarrassed grin.

“I like animals.” Merlin’s tone may have been sheepish, but there was an undeniable hint of smugness in his expression.

Arthur quickly reminded himself that staring was undignified and plastered a scowl onto his face, hoping to disguise whatever horribly stupid expression had been there moments before.

“Don’t be bitter,” Merlin chided him. “It’s not my fault I’m so naturally charming.” He passed the reins back to Arthur and began the climb back onto his own horse.

Arthur tightened his mouth into a line and chose not to respond, both out of indiginance and an inability to think of a witty retort.

“We need to keep moving,” He finally said. This seemed to satisfy everyone, and the journey continued in relative silence for about twenty minutes. Such things never seemed to last when it actually mattered.

“This is an unfamiliar route,” Leon said suddenly, shooting Arthur a sideways glance.

Arthur clutched the reins a little tighter and neglected to respond. It wouldn’t change the situation and it would only serve to make everyone even more tense.

By everyone, he mainly meant himself, but that was a given.

“Convenient time to leave, too,” Merlin cut in airily. “Gwen will have to wait a whole week to pitch you off the castle walls now.”

Leon raised his eyebrows.

“You’re talkative today, Merlin.” He commented, a slight edge of disbelief in his voice.

Arthur winced.

Leon likely counted on Merlin to throw a fit when he couldn’t, and having that small sense of satisfaction taken away seemed to be taking its toll on the poor knight. The cold spot behind his right shoulder confirmed that explaining the knighthood decision would be impossible.

“M’always talkative,” Merlin insisted. “You lot just don’t listen very well.”

Leon cracked a small smile in response before it faded to the slightly irritated expression he’d been wearing the whole trip.

“May I ask you something, Sire?”

Arthur nodded, bracing himself for a truly uncomfortable conversation. Every conversation seemed to be uncomfortable these days, however, so it wasn’t too far out of the ordinary just yet.

“Where are we going?”

Then, when Leon received no response:

“I’m sorry, my lord. I noticed that we’re traveling in a straight line, not sweeping the area like you said we would.”

Any hint of accusation in Leon’s voice was deliberately ignored on Arthur’s part. He sighed.

“The sorcerer who killed my father lives in Camelot.”

Leon’s eyebrows shot up.

“How did you find him?”

Arthur’s mind went blank. He hadn’t expected that question. No one but him, Gaius, and Merlin knew of Arthur’s role in his father’s death; and he certainly wasn’t ready to admit to anybody else that he’d personally sought out Uther’s killer.

“I found it.”

Arthur’s head whipped around to face Merlin, who was grimacing as if he hadn’t quite expected to say what he’d just said.

“You did?” Leon said, obvious awe in his tone.

“I’m from Ealdor,” Merlin said slowly, eyes darting to Arthur once or twice before settling on the path ahead of him. “We tell stories about a sorcerer that once burned all of Ealdor’s crops down by accident. Before the Great Purge. Some sort of lightning mishap, if I remember correctly. He felt so much guilt for his mistake that he remained in Ealdor for just shy of twenty years and tried to help out anywhere he could. He tried to use his magic to fix things, but it never seemed to be enough to rectify what he’d done. I never thought he was real until he killed the king.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to stare in awe. If he didn’t know the truth, he’d have believed Merlin, too.

Merlin had a strangely haunted look in his eyes that both Leon and Arthur seemed to pick up on. They exchanged a concerned glance.

“The sorcerer in my mother’s story was said to be very kind but very foolish. He made mistakes often. Terrible mistakes. Sometimes fatal.” Merlin’s voice shook slightly, harshly contrasting the smile that he gave the other two. “In the story, he leaves Ealdor so that he can’t hurt anyone else. Sort of a sappy local tragedy, if you buy into that sort of thing. The story said that his home was somewhere on the outskirts of Camelot, approximately where we’re headed.”

“My father’s death wasn’t a mistake.” Arthur said coldly. “He was murdered.”

“Of course, Sire,” Merlin replied with a wry smile. “It is only a story, after all.”

The cold spot behind Arthur seemed to triple in intensity, and he fought back a shiver.

“How do we know it’s the same sorcerer?” Leon asked. “We have no way of knowing if the man in your story is even real.”

“Uh, right,” Merlin continued with a harsh chuckle. “The stories, uh, described him looking about the same as the sorcerer we’re after.”

Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn’t suspicious about Merlin’s choice to sympathize with the sorcerer in his made up save-Arthur’s-ass story, but he certainly wasn’t about to draw attention to himself by pointing it out. And, he reflected, the story did tug at his own heartstrings a bit more than he’d like to admit.

“Alright,” Leon said after a moment, obviously sharing Arthur’s eagerness to change the subject. “And if he isn’t there when we arrive?”

“We keep looking.” Arthur said matter of factly.

“Why is this a priority all of a sudden?” Leon asked with more force than was probably necessary. He winced. “Apologies, my lord.”

“No need. It’s a priority because my father is dead and nothing has been done to avenge him.” Arthur answered semi-honestly. Upon reflection, his main motive was to keep his father from going on a ghostly murder spree, but avenging his death was also high on the list.

“Let us hope the sorcerer is in an agreeable mood, then,” Leon sighed.

Merlin let out a snort, causing Arthur to whip his head around to face him.

“Something funny?” He snapped.

“No,” Merlin said quickly. “Not at all.”

He grinned to accent his point, but it didn’t work in the slightest.

Arthur decided to let it slide. It was a nice day, he reminded himself. A nice ride with his two good friends. That’s all this had to be, for the moment.

“Are the others going to join us out here?” Merlin asked.

Of course. Always annoyingly to the point when it served the least purpose. Arthur really shouldn't have expected anything else.

“Others?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know what I’m asking.” Merlin gestured to Leon, who frowned and gave his reins a slight shake. His horse slowed down considerably until he lagged far behind the other two.

Arthur groaned. It was a miracle he hadn’t been usurped yet.

“No,” He replied when he’d recovered. “The others have been sent away.”

“I thought they’d been disgraced; why would they need to-?” Merlin’s jaw snapped shut and he coughed. “Right, sorry. Sent away. Of course.”

Leon gave a very audible scoff and then immediately pretended to wonder which direction it came from.

Arthur glared to no avail. The stab of anger grew colder but he ignored it. Leon was not wrong for how he felt, he reminded himself. He had every right to act this way.

“If we find the sorcerer,” Leon said suddenly. “What are-?”

“When.” Arthur corrected.

“When we find the sorcerer,” Leon relented. “What are we going to do?”

“Kill him where he stands.”

At this, Merlin was overcome with a coughing fit that took several seconds to recover from. Leon and Arthur exchanged a worried glance.

“Of course,” Merlin finally choked out, extending a thumbs up. “To Hell with him.”

Leon raised his eyebrows and fixed Arthur with a calculating look.

“Without trial, Sire?“

“I witnessed him murder the king with my own two eyes; there is no evidence that could convince me of his innocence.” Arthur said. He felt a cold breeze beside him as the familiar stab of anger at remembering the sorcerer’s face overtook him. He prayed that his father could feel it too.

“Right,” Merlin chimed in. “He’s a sorcerer, though. We should approach with extreme caution.”

“I don’t remember asking for your input, Merlin.” Arthur said.

“Of course,” came the quiet reply. “Whatever you think is best, my lord.”

At that moment, Arthur’s fingers went numb and he fought the urge to shiver once again. Right on cue, the image of his father appeared before him, floating just far enough above the ground to be at his eye level. The dead king crossed his arms.

“It appears you can’t even keep your legitimate knights from acting uncivilized,” He spat.

Arthur bowed his head in acknowledgement and forced his face to remain neutral. He really disliked when his father popped in while other people were around. It left Arthur feeling powerless to speak up.

“It might interest you to know that I can feel your doubts,” Uther said, gesturing towards Merlin. Arthur couldn’t stop his eyes from snapping up to meet his father’s. “They reek of fear.”

Arthur tightened his mouth into a thin line and lowered his gaze to the path ahead of him.

“You fear facing my killer. You fear failure,” Uther said with a hint of amusement. He laid an icy hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “But above all else, you fear losing him.”

His voice carried an unfamiliar sincerity that caused Arthur to look back up in awe. He frowned, a question on the tip of his tongue that he didn’t dare ask in front of the others.

Uther, understanding, smiled sadly.

“To fear losing someone is to give them power over you,” the spirit said. “I loved Morgana beyond my doubts and she betrayed me. I loved your mother beyond reason and she was taken from me. I would sooner burn my kingdom to the ground than watch you make the same mistake.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to frown. This wasn’t right.

“I don’t wish for you to feel like I did,” Uther said quietly, retracting his hand from Arthur’s shoulder. “But I will not allow my life to have ended in vain.”

With that, he vanished, leaving Arthur with nothing but a pit in his stomach and ringing in his ears.

Behind him, Merlin cleared his throat loudly.

“We’re nearly there, my lord.”

Chapter Text

The hut looked exactly the same as Arthur remembered it, with the exception that it seemed much smaller than before. The thatch roof was messy and half caved in, the little chimney puffed out smoke merrily, and the outside was littered with clumps of dirt and plants in varying states of decay. The sorcerer didn’t seem to care much for the state of his home.

The sight of the hut filled Arthur with less rage than he’d been expecting; in truth, the most prominent emotion he could pinpoint at the moment was dread. It was as if the house itself were enchanted to break a man’s resolve.

He knew, of course, that this probably wasn’t true. The reality just happened to be a little less grand than the war stories Arthur used to be privy to as a child. This was, after all, the residence of his father’s killer; it seemed only natural that it should be a tad more imposing than a hut the size of a broom closet.

“Don’t even give him a chance to speak.” Arthur turned to address Leon. “In and out.”

Leon drew his sword and loosened the straps on his cape, letting it fall to the ground in a heap. Arthur followed suit and opted to fold his own cape rather than throw it down haphazardly. Ironic, he thought, that the colors of Camelot would have no place in avenging its former ruler.

The two approached the door from either side, keeping themselves out of view of the dingy windows and holding their swords at the ready.

From a few paces behind them, Merlin coughed.

“I need to pee.”

The king groaned. Merlin must be allergic to making things easy for him.

“If you’re a coward, just say so,” Arthur hissed. “Make it fast.”

“Why? Afraid to go in without me?”

“I hope you get mauled by a bear.”

“There aren’t any bears around here, my lord.”

“Go find one, then. Take the horses with you.”

Merlin grinned and bounded off into the woods with the reins in hand, moving a bit too fast for what the journey allegedly entailed. The horses slowed him down considerably, unwilling to move any quicker now that they had finally been allowed to rest.

In truth, Arthur was relieved to get Merlin out of the line of fire. With the horses out of the way the sorcerer had less chance of spotting them and no way of knowing how many people were here. Should things go south, they could pretend half the kingdom was waiting in the woods if they wanted.

Now back to business, Arthur extended a hand towards the doorknob and waited for Leon to get into position. They locked eyes and nodded.

The door swung open to reveal an empty hut.

Arthur stepped inside first, peeking behind the door as he went. No sorcerers, unless he was invisible. Which, Arthur thought for a moment, might not be impossible.

“Fantastic,” Leon said with more than a little bitterness. He ran a finger along one of the rickety shelves lining the room and cocked an eyebrow at the trail it left in the dust. Looking almost vindicated, he turned the finger towards Arthur with a hint of smugness in his tone.

“It seems as though nobody’s been here in awhile.”

Arthur glared but didn’t comment.

“Search the room. He can’t have gone far,” He said, and set about rifling through the sorcerer’s things.

Leon was right; everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and lifting any objects revealed dust-free silhouettes on the shelves that indicated nothing had been moved in ages. Arthur cursed under his breath. Of course the sorcerer wouldn’t be stupid enough to return. He chastised himself silently for not searching the hut sooner, but felt undeniably relieved that the sorcerer hadn’t been hiding here the whole time. After all, he’d avoided the hut during the initial searches both out of an inability to explain why he knew exactly where it was and an unwillingness to return to the sight of his greatest mistake.

On the other side of the room, Leon was flipping over cups and digging through cupboards. After a moment, he hummed and held up a large leatherbound book. It had been lying in the center of the table, propped up against two ceramic bowls. Leon shot Arthur a strange look and produced a folded piece of paper from between the pages.

“My lord?” He said, his voice much more grim than before. “This is addressed to you.”

Arthur sheathed his sword.

“Read it.”

“To the young Pendragon,” Leon began uneasily. “You have no doubt come into my home with the intent to kill me. For this, I find I cannot rightly blame you. However, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I have no intention of allowing you to succeed. I will return shortly to discuss further. In the meantime, keep your hands off of my things.”

Now finished, Leon glanced up.

“It’s not signed. There’s a little drawing of you getting struck by lightning, though.”

Arthur’s expression remained cold.

“Here.” Leon held the note between two fingers and extended it to Arthur, who opened it to reveal a crude stick figure wearing a crown and waving a sword in the air. A single zigzag line stretched from a cloud to the figure.

“Charming.” He tossed the note behind his back. It occurred to him that perhaps he should save it; Merlin would certainly get a kick out of the drawing. It seemed very closely in line with the type of things he usually found entertaining.

He remembered just then that Merlin would also be uneasy about owning the writing of a man Arthur had killed, so he opted to leave the note on the floor.

Arthur didn’t remember the sorcerer acting quite so childish, but then again he wasn’t entirely sure of the accuracy of any of his memories as of late. Factoring this in, he decided to focus his energy on more important things. At the moment, this included going over the precise ways in which he could run the old man through the second he walked through the door.

Outside, a twig snapped.

Arthur froze. He turned, locked eyes with Leon, and slowly put a finger to his lips.

As if reading his mind, Leon took up a position beside the door with his sword drawn. Arthur opted to keep his own sheathed but on hand.

A sound of rustling and somebody swearing quietly was growing ever closer. Eventually, the noise paused right before the door. They watched with bated breath as the door wobbled a bit, causing whoever was behind it to curse again. The knob turned slowly, and the door eventually eased open at a snail’s pace. Leon shot Arthur a grim look and raised the sword above his head with both arms.

The second a head of white hair popped into the room, Leon swung with deadly accuracy, making contact right at the base of the sorcerer’s neck.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut on instinct. It was done. It was over. Merlin was safe and his father was avenged. It was all over.

“Oops!” Someone cackled, followed by what sounded like a pile of coins being dropped.

Arthur’s eyes snapped open, revealing an incredibly shocked Leon and a pile of twisted bits of metal on the floor. In the knight’s hand was the hilt of his sword. Only the hilt.

“Hm. Didn’t mean for it to break into so many pieces.” The sorcerer brushed bits of metal out of his beard and shrugged. Then, as casually as if he did this every day, he extended a wrinkled hand and snatched the hilt from Leon’s grasp. He squinted at it for a moment before chuckling and tossing it out the window.

“Forgive me, sir knight,” he snapped. “It’s not often I almost get beheaded walking through my own front door.”

Leon stood frozen, caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.

Arthur couldn’t stop his hands from shaking as he drew his sword. It was him. The only thing standing between Uther and peace. His murderer.

He took a careful step forward.

The sorcerer turned his back to him and sent the metal pieces soaring out the door with a quick spell. He nodded, satisfied with his work, and eased the door shut.

“S’pose you lot don’t believe in respecting your elders anymore,” he grumbled, oblivious to Arthur stalking ever closer. Leon’s eyes darted between the two, his gaze unsure.

The old man seemed different than Arthur remembered. His physical appearance was more or less unchanged; atrocious posture, long white hair with a beard to match, ragged red robes and a wrinkled face that always seemed faintly annoyed. The new part, however, was his eyes.

They’d always seemed familiar, always giving Arthur the feeling that he was being carefully scrutinized as well as cautiously supported. There was always equal parts kindness and frustration, or so it had seemed. Arthur could never really be sure if he was imagining that particular set of feelings; especially given that the bearer of those kind eyes had caused the death of his father.

Currently, however, the sorcerer’s eyes were tired. Arthur couldn’t remember if they’d ever looked so dull before. The familiar mischievous glint was gone, replaced by something that more closely resembled exhaustion.

And when the sorcerer turned those weary eyes on him, Arthur faltered.

The blue eyes held his gaze for a moment, unreadable and familiar as ever. They fell to the sword and made their way slowly back towards Arthur’s face, every second feeling like a millenia. The old man cocked an eyebrow.

“Well?” He said.

Arthur stared. The blade began to feel heavy in his hands. For a moment he could’ve sworn he was being enchanted, but the sorcerer’s eyes never left his and never changed color.

“My lord?” Leon said, snapping Arthur back to reality.

The king turned. He didn’t know what his expression carried, but whatever it was caused the knight’s face to fall. Leon nodded as if he’d understood something and dropped his own gaze to the floor.

Arthur sheathed his sword, ignoring the nauseating waves of rage that began to emulate from within his chest.

At this, the sorcerer’s eyebrows shot up.

“Good start,” He said. Then, he gave Leon a heavy pat on the shoulder and pointed towards the door. “Out with you.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Arthur said, though his voice lacked the venom that he meant to convey. The combination of anger, nausea, and freezing cold was making it difficult to focus on anything but not passing out. His fingers went numb, followed closely by his feet. The cold crept through his body almost mechanically, forcing Arthur down into one of the rickety wooden chairs beside the table. The sorcerer blinked, unfazed.

“I’m not leaving,” Leon said fiercely.

The sorcerer rolled his eyes.

“It’s up to you,” He said, looking at Arthur intently. “Anyone may be present, but be sure that they are trustworthy. The information I have is intended for you alone.” His harsh, gravelly voice had lost a bit of its usual derision. Not much, but enough to be noticeable. Arthur shivered, trying his hardest to ignore the rage.

“What?” He said, barely audible over the ringing in his own ears.

The sorcerer frowned.

“Oh, you didn’t listen to me? I’m shocked.”

“I heard what you said,” Arthur snapped. “I’m… hang on a moment, alright?”

“Decide quickly,” the sorcerer replied, crossing his arms. “I’m not getting any younger and you’re not getting any wiser.”

A particularly painful stab of anger ushered a slight gasp out of Arthur. He gestured to Leon and pointed to the door.

“Find Merlin.” He said slowly, placing a hand over his heart and grimacing. This gesture seemed to unnerve the other two men. “I want him here for this.”

“NO!” The sorcerer blurted out. He retracted the hand that he’d extended towards Arthur in his haste and plastered on a painfully fake smile. Leon and Arthur exchanged a confused look.

“I beg your pardon?” Leon asked.

“He’s busy with the horses,” the old man said hurriedly. “Terribly busy. I’m afraid his hands are too full to leave them unattended.”

Arthur’s eyes snapped up.

The rage locked into place. The nausea vanished along with Arthur’s resistance. It was as if the anger swirling within him was screaming for a purpose, begging to be acknowledged and released in kind; it kicked and snarled and bit and was finally calmed, having slotted perfectly into the space that was made for it. The temperature had dropped significantly in the hut.

With chattering teeth and blue lips, Arthur rose from his chair and drew his sword again.

“You saw Merlin?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

The sorcerer’s face pinched into an almost childlike expression of ‘Oh shit.’

“He was doing a great job! Really keeping those horses in line, let me tell you. A natural horse-sitter. Truly one for the ages.”

“What have you done to him?” Arthur asked in a low voice, eyes never leaving the sorcerer’s. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. Leon began to shiver, causing him to direct his attention towards the increasingly less confident sorcerer.

“What’s going on with the air?” He demanded.

“I haven’t done anything,” the sorcerer insisted, throwing his hands up in frustration.

Arthur was no longer shivering, though his entire body had gone numb. He moved just as mechanically as the cold, taking measured steps toward the old man and raising his sword slowly as he went.

“Let’s talk about this,” the sorcerer said with a nervous smile, raising a tentative hand towards Arthur and taking several steps back. The king never broke stride, eyes filled with ice.

“When Merlin comes back,” he said quietly. “Then we can talk.” He jerked his head towards the door. Leon nodded, understanding, and ducked outside.

“If he isn’t here in five minutes,” Arthur said, grabbing a fistful of the sorcerer’s robes and aiming his sword directly at his heart. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Fine,” the sorcerer said, though his voice was quieter and his brow was furrowed as if deep in thought. “He’s unharmed, I swear.”

Then, with a sardonic chuckle.

“At the moment, anyways.”

The last comment sent all new pangs of anger and nausea through Arthur, and he momentarily lost his resolve. The sword clattered to the floor, its owner doubled over and pale. The sorcerer blinked.

“Oh,” he said, a grim look coming over his face. “There you are.”

“What the hell are you-?” Arthur was cut off by the immediate cease of all the negative feelings within him. The rage, the sickness, the cold; it all vanished in an instant. Which, of course, could only have meant one thing.

Uther appeared behind the sorcerer and lunged at his neck with the dagger. The old man ducked nimbly.

“How was the afterlife, your majesty?” He greeted pleasantly, digging around in his pockets for something. “I’ve heard the weather’s a lot warmer down there.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Uther growled, making another pass with his knife. He was dodged as easily as before, and the sorcerer even laughed this time, a high-pitched cackle that sent Uther into a state of near hysteria. He began to swipe at the old man left and right, each blow just narrowly missing being fatal.

The old man retrieved a pouch from one of his pockets in between strikes and emptied its powdered contents into his hand. He muttered a spell and blew the powder into the spirit’s face, filling the room with a cloud of white dust.

“Good night!” The sorcerer cackled again.

Arthur coughed and shielded his eyes from the debris. He heard his father yelling. When he lowered his arm, Uther was gone.

“What have you-?”

“Banished. For now,” the sorcerer said, offering Arthur a hand. “We haven’t got much time. Get up.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest but closed it almost immediately. He clambered to his feet without accepting the help. The sorcerer rolled his eyes at this. He twirled a finger once in the air and a chair skidded across the floor, coming to a halt just as the sorcerer sank down into it.

“To keep things easy, I’m going to do the talking. Got it?” He didn’t wait for Arthur’s response before continuing.

“Uther can’t hear or see you right now. Don’t ask where he is, either. He’s not going to stay there long. Your situation is-”

“My situation?” Arthur cut in.

The sorcerer narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t play dumb; it really doesn’t suit you. I already know everything.”

“Where’s Merlin?” He demanded. The sorcerer groaned and dragged a wrinkled hand down his face overdramatically.

“He’s FINE. I haven’t done anything to him.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Arthur said, glancing towards the door. Any minute now. Leon would return with Merlin and they’d kill the sorcerer and go home. Everything would be okay.

He entertained the idea of killing the sorcerer now, while his guard was down, but if Merlin was in any danger he couldn’t act just yet. The second Merlin was back. Then it would be simple.

“You don’t know, I s’pose,” the old man admitted with some reluctance. “We don’t have much time and I’m not letting you waste it. Do you know how hard it is to stuff a vengeful spirit back where he came from? Even for a minute?”

“That’s not my problem,” Arthur snapped.

The sorcerer gestured for Arthur to sit down once again, but he still opted to remain standing. The now familiar pangs of anger were still absent. Perhaps Uther really was banished.

“I’m just going to say my piece then,” the sorcerer said, irritation obvious in his tone. “You want to free your father’s spirit, correct?”

Arthur hesitated, not sure if he was willing to give that information up. Particularly to a sorcerer.

The sorcerer who, additionally, had murdered his father.

“Not talkative today, I see.” The sorcerer hummed and clasped his hands on the table in front of him as if this were a casual conversation. “No matter. I know the answer anyway. You think killing me will free him.”

“It will.”

“Wrong.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Wrong.” The sorcerer snapped. “It’s talk like that that’s keeping him here.”

“What?” was the only thing Arthur could think to say.

“Don’t talk. Your father’s spirit is haunting you, yes, but the issue isn’t the spirit at all. It’s his influence.”

“What?” Arthur repeated, understanding even less now.

The sorcerer pulled a face that was caught between pity and frustration. He looked even more familiar in that moment than usual, momentarily distracting Arthur from his confusion. The old man continued, oblivious.

“Even in the weeks following Uther’s death you felt his presence, and it was this that allowed him to take a more powerful form.”

“I know that he’s dead,” Arthur said irritably. “I’ve accepted it already.”

“Wrong again. You’re angry. You’re vengeful. You’re lost.”

“Am I not permitted to grieve?” Arthur snapped. “He’s my father.”

“Of course you should grieve. But he isn’t allowing you to. He is unwilling to let you process his absence for fear that you will outgrow his control.

“That’s absurd.”

“You live in fear of him even while he lies in his tomb.”

“I don’t fear him,” Arthur scoffed. The sorcerer smiled sorrowfully and rose from his chair. He came to stand in front of the king before speaking in a voice far quieter than Arthur had ever known the old man to be.

“You fear what he will do to your friends.”

Arthur faltered.

“How do you-?”

“I know everything,” the sorcerer said matter of factly. “Your father does not remain here because you’ve failed to avenge his death. He remains because he is unwilling to give up the power he has over you.”

Arthur scoffed.

“He has no power over me. He’s dead.”

“Why are you here?” The sorcerer asked, crossing his arms.

“To kill you,” Arthur answered immediately. “And I still intend to.”

“And you wish to see me dead because?”

“Because you killed my father,” Arthur said, not entirely sure how the sorcerer had managed to forget already.

“What’s the real reason?”

“The real reason?” Arthur repeated, dumbfounded. “The death of my father isn’t reason enough?”

“You have never returned to my home until now. What changed?” the old man asked. He cocked an eyebrow in an expression that read loud and clear as a challenge. A challenge to do what, however, was anyone’s guess. To tell the truth? To explain himself? What did he even want from this interaction?

Arthur set his jaw and tore his eyes away from the sorcerer’s face. He wasn’t about to be told off by a pathetic little man with cold blood on his hands.

“Your father threatened your friend,” the sorcerer supplied after a few too many moments of silence. His expression was unreadable, and yet filled to the brim with something that lay just beyond Arthur’s comprehension. He was suddenly overcome with a feeling of dread.

“You would not have returned if your father hadn’t intervened.” The old man crossed the room and began to neatly tear a page off of a book. The same book, Arthur realized, that the madman had left the letter inside.

“You’re insane.” Arthur turned to leave.

“He’ll be back in a few minutes,” The sorcerer replied, ignoring his comment. “Remember what I’ve said.” He folded the page of the book into a small square and placed it in the center of his palm.

“Take it.” The hand was extended to Arthur, who pocketed it carelessly with full intent to burn it later. He made for the door but stopped just short of the threshold.

“Is there a problem?” The sorcerer asked, a shred of confusion breaking through his irritated facade.

Arthur turned. The old man seemed small, even in a room of this size. He sighed.

“You haven’t harmed Merlin?”

“I haven’t.” came the answer.

He searched the blue eyes for any shred of malice. He found none.

Chapter Text

When Arthur emerged from the hut, he found Leon waiting with all three horses in tow. Merlin was nowhere to be seen.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the tips of the trees, turning the sky a soft pink and filtering rays of light through the leaves to form strange shapes all over the ground. It felt like years since the air had been so warm.

Arthur took a few steps forward, drew his sword, and stabbed it into the dirt beside him. He glanced up at Leon with a look that he hoped was more inquisitive than desperate.

“I couldn’t find him,” Leon said, guessing correctly. If he noticed the way the king’s hands shook, he didn’t mention it.

Behind him, the door to the sorcerer’s hut creaked open. Arthur didn’t turn. He heard the telltale rustling of the sorcerer traipsing away into the woods but made no move to pursue him. Leon watched this unfold with increasing disbelief, no longer caring to mask the incredulous expression that crept across his face.

“You spared him?”

Leon glanced out into the forest a few more times before cracking a small smile. In one fluid motion, he drew his own sword and stabbed it into the ground as well.

Arthur couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the solidarity; his thoughts were too filled with nightmare scenarios to think about much else.

What would become of Merlin now, once Uther returned? Arthur could lie and say that he’d succeeded, but if Uther really was being held here by the sorcerer’s life then he’d know immediately. Perhaps he’d act early and hurt Merlin before the week was up.

Arthur felt nauseous.

A few moments later, he heard more rustling coming from the woods, which eventually gave way to the soft pad of footsteps approaching from behind. They stopped just behind him.

“How did it go?”

Merlin looked almost as exhausted as Arthur felt. With a quick visual once-over, Arthur took in his appearance. No injuries. The sorcerer had been telling the truth.

“He’s still alive.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking.” Merlin gave him a long, searching look. Wordlessly, he reached down and tugged the sword from the dirt. He held it for a moment and flicked a bit of grime off of the blade before offering the handle to Arthur.

The king accepted it and nodded his thanks. Merlin didn’t comment on the situation, thankfully. He could usually be counted on to understand when his quips were unhelpful. One of his better qualities.

“We should head back,” Arthur said quietly.

***

The door to Gaius’s chambers was cracked slightly. It had been six days since Uther’s threat.

Guinevere stood with her back to the door, conversing with Gaius in hushed tones. Her torso was wrapped tightly in gauze, the majority of which was still perfectly pristine. There was no evidence of any injury at all, save for the small spot of red that sat just above her left hip. She moved around the room unhindered, bending down to retrieve bottles and ingredients at Gaius’s behest, no trace of pain or even effort present on her features.

Gaius stood off to the side, watching her incredulously. He seemed just as surprised at how well she’d recovered.

Upon seeing Merlin, Guinevere’s face lit up. She threw aside a bottle of clear liquid with enough force to usher a gasp out of Gaius and smiled brightly.

“You’re back.” She extended her arms and locked Merlin into a bone-crushing hug which he eagerly returned. Arthur waited at the threshold, unsure if he was welcome. When Gwen opened her eyes and spotted him over Merlin’s shoulder, her features hardened.

“How are you feeling?” He offered.

Guinevere released Merlin and crossed her arms.

“Like I’ve been stabbed.”

Merlin nudged her arm and her expression thawed slightly. She plastered on a smile.

“How was the journey?” She asked.

Arthur smiled, already relieved beyond belief. If she was willing to speak to him, he would happily ignore a bit of venom. Not like he didn’t deserve it, at any rate.

“It was agreeable enough.”

“Elyan would’ve loved to have been there.” She smiled, only a slight arch of her eyebrow to indicate that she wasn’t sincere.

It became rather easy, when faced with Guinevere’s kind eyes and warm smile, to forget about her impressive capacity for quiet anger. It was part of what drew Arthur to her in the first place, if he was being honest. He’d always appreciated her unwillingness to put up with things that were wrong or unfair, though he wasn’t all that fond of being on the receiving end.

Arthur sensed the cold coming before he felt it begin and excused himself before his father got restless again. He left the room as quickly as possible. How dare she, his thoughts hissed, followed by vague urges to exile Guinevere from the kingdom. Arthur recognized his father’s tone, even if it wasn’t in his voice.

“Stop it,” he muttered, waving his hand as if to shoo his father away.

Anger at no one flared up in response. He sighed. It was getting more and more difficult to control the longer Uther remained.

From behind Gaius’s now closed door, he heard Gwen’s voice rise in volume.

“It isn’t my job to fix this.”

Arthur recognized that he was angry at Uther. However, the malicious thoughts that rose to answer Gwen’s tone were directed at her.

Not mine, he thought. Not mine.

It was a strange thing to wrestle with thoughts that weren’t his own. Arthur reached up to rub his face and froze upon realizing that his hand had been on the hilt of his sword. He couldn’t remember putting it there.

He had little time to process this revelation, however, as Gaius stepped through the door. Merlin emerged a few moments later and gave him a strained look.

“Gwen wants to speak with you,” Gaius announced. “I’ll make myself scarce.”

He gave Arthur a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before taking his leave.

“Do you want me in there?” Merlin gestured to the door. “She isn’t happy, but I’m sure you’ve managed to figure that one out for yourself.”

Arthur hesitated before answering as steadily as possible. Anything to keep Merlin from pulling that concerned face he always made when Arthur was lying.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

Judging by Merlin’s expression, it hadn’t done the trick.

“Fine. Stay by the door. Please,” Arthur amended. Merlin nodded, more than a little bit of amusement in his eyes.

Arthur paused at the threshold for a moment before unbuckling the scabbard from around his waist and handing it off Merlin.

“Hang onto this, will you?”

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Why?”

Arthur felt a sting of rage and bit the inside of his cheek to prevent the barrage of insults that threatened to fly off of his tongue.

“Back pain,” he said, and walked into Gaius’s chambers. Guinevere was waiting for him with her arms crossed and an expression that had lost the earlier venom and now more closely resembled defeat.

The second his foot crossed the threshold, she began.

“Elyan dropped by, you know.” Gwen looked up and smiled wryly. “Day before you left, actually.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said immediately.

She hummed in response, unfazed.

“Do you know what he told me? Before he left?”

“Guinevere, I’m sorry. I can’t-”

“He told me that he finally feels as though he has a purpose.” She turned her back to him and sank into one of Gaius’s chairs. “He said he’s happier than he’s ever been.”

Arthur could only stare. He felt the truth in her words and longed desperately to make things right, but his father’s threats that echoed in his mind were too loud to hear much else. Gwen watched him carefully, a thin line forming between her brows.

“Why did you do it?” She asked. “And don’t tell me it’s nobility. I wouldn’t believe you, anyways.”

Arthur shook his head, trying desperately to convey his regret without saying anything incriminating. He was already shivering.

“I’ve known you for years, Arthur,” Guinevere said simply. “I can tell the difference between the things you do because you’re an idiot and the things you do because you’re scared.”

Arthur’s legs abruptly went numb at the revelation, forcing him to stumble into the chair across from her. She didn’t even blink.

Her normally warm eyes were sharp with carefully reserved anger. Arthur envied her more so than ever in that moment; her rage had a purpose and allowed itself to be released in measured increments. If only.

His hands followed his legs’ lead, and his breath came out in visible wisps of mist. The shivering grew worse.

Slowly, Guinevere’s eyebrows raised as she took in his appearance.

“You’re cold?”

“N-no,” he forced out between chattering teeth. Alarm registered on Guinevere’s face and she stood, snatching the tablecloth off as she went. She wrapped the cloth around Arthur’s shoulders and set off towards the door.

“No!” Arthur called after her. “Please, I need to speak with you.”

Gwen considered this for a moment with a torn expression before eventually settling back down across from Arthur.

“This isn’t normal,” She pointed out, concern painting her features. “It’s the middle of summer and you’re shaking like a leaf.”

“I know,” Arthur admitted.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Gwen asked. “Something so bad you can’t tell me. Am I right?”

“As usual,” Arthur chuckled.

Guinevere frowned and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms once again. The rage inside Arthur’s chest flared up again with seemingly no cause, and his father’s voice began screaming in his ears and using words that he either couldn’t recognize or couldn’t pick out from the drone of screeching. The anger directed itself at Gwen, vague impulses to fire both her and Merlin filled his thoughts, and he felt the cold creep up the back of his neck

“-me?” Gwen said suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Arthur paled, unsure of what he’d heard.

“What?”

Gwen gestured to her bandages.

“Do you know who attacked me?”

Arthur could hardly breathe. She had no right to ask him this when he… No, she had every right. It was Gwen. She was hurt. She had every right.

“Yes,” he finally said. His lungs seemed to catch fire in response, the only sensation he could feel anywhere in his body at this point. He fought back a coughing fit.

“Who was it?” Gwen asked, pulling a face at the king’s state but choosing not to comment on it.

“I can’t tell you.”

She sighed.

“So many secrets,” Guinevere said with a sad smile. “Be careful that they don’t grow too heavy.”

Arthur nodded. She understood. She always did.

“Thank you so much.”

Gwen must have caught something in his tone that concerned her even more, because she frowned.

“May I be blunt?”

“Of course.”

“You seem like you’re asking me for something,” she admitted. “But I can’t figure out what it is.”

Arthur’s tongue felt frozen, but he took a deep breath. The cold was unbearable.

“Our journey went poorly.”

Gwen took this in.

“Your father’s killer.”

“Yes.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

“I- he didn’t,” Arthur began to stutter, his lips chattering violently. Gwen’s face lit up with concern but she remained quiet.

“He didn’t escape,” he blurted out. “I let him go.”

The revelation hung in the air for a few moments. Sunlight streamed in through the window and refracted off of the hundreds of multicolored bottles. Arthur didn't dare breathe.

Guinevere’s eyes finally regained their usual softness, and she reached forward to grasp his arm tightly.

“I’m proud of you,” she said fiercely. “I’m so proud of you.”

Arthur moved away. Her hand was burning his skin.

“Don’t be. Please,” he muttered.

Gwen faltered slightly but still managed to give him a reassuring smile.

“It took tremendous courage to face him, and I imagine it took even more to spare him.”

“It’s not the fact that he’s alive. It is, but I can’t-” Arthur’s voice trailed off. He didn’t even know what he meant to say, exactly. Merlin was his primary concern. The sorcerer could live or die for all he cared, but he shouldn’t have spared him if it meant putting Merlin in danger.

Arthur took a deep breath. The cold was oppressive.

“I fear that I’ve put someone in danger by sparing him.”

Gwen nodded knowingly.

“Of course. I should have guessed. Where’s Merlin?”

Arthur’s ears began ringing again, bringing with it an unbearable headache. He gritted his teeth and blinked through the pain as best he could.

“What are you-?”

Arthur couldn’t even finish the thought. Ice began to form on the table where his fingertips lay. He snatched his hand back immediately, praying Guinevere hadn’t noticed.

“Sorry. I just noticed you were looking at him like he could disappear at any moment,” she said, oblivious. “Is he alright?”

“He’s- yes.” Arthur managed to say. It was so cold. How dare she? She had every right. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong. Merlin was still alive. Nothing was wrong.

“The sorcerer should be dead,” he said venomously. His throat began to feel tight. Those weren’t his words. Were they?

Gwen frowned.

“But you spared him.”

“I don’t forgive him.”

“It’s alright. I’m not sure anyone would if they were in your position.”

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” he said, running a hand down his face. “Can you-?”

“What is it?” Guinevere was growing steadily more concerned. She was already half-standing, eyes darting to the door.

“Please be safe.”

“Be safe? Arthur, what are you saying?”

“I’m not sure,” He admitted. If only he could explain.

“I’m sorry,” he added, and rose to his feet. He shook so violently that he could scarcely stand, let alone walk. Despite this, he made his way to the door. Towards Merlin.

“Whatever this is, Arthur,” Gwen said to his back. “I hope it gets easier.”

Chapter Text

In the days following Uther’s death, Merlin felt heavy.

He tried. He knew that he’d tried.

It was working, the king’s eyes had opened, he’d even smiled… but something deep within Merlin’s magic seemed to lurch violently backwards, seemed to grow cold and wither away. It felt alien, something deeply unsettling that treated Merlin’s magic as an enemy and attacked it like some desperate feral beast. Corruption in its purest form sank its teeth into his magic, briefly turning it the color of malice. He’d never felt that before and would sooner die than feel it again.

Uther’s skin turned grey and his eyes rolled back in his head, and when Arthur turned to look back at him Merlin wanted to disappear on the spot. Fear and resentment unlike any he’d ever seen before filled the prince’s eyes. Tears, too. Merlin could count the number of times he’d seen Arthur cry on one hand, so well-practiced was he at pretending he never felt much of anything.

And when Merlin tried to explain, tried to make him understand that it was an accident, tried to insist that magic couldn’t be blamed for the mistake of one idiot who kept believing in himself beyond reason, Arthur responded the way he always had: anger.

It was hard to imagine any future in Camelot after that moment. Merlin returned as himself and was greeted by Arthur with open arms, all the while feeling so guilty that he thought it might suffocate him. To watch Arthur mourn, to see him redouble his hatred for magic, to understand the blame that he felt for his father’s death more intimately than perhaps anyone else; it all proved incredibly difficult to bear.

The pain eased slightly after a week or two. Arthur regained bits of his usual personality day by day, the kingdom’s mourning period ended, and Merlin found himself able to walk around town without hearing too many reminders of his mistake. It seemed, for the first time, as if things might be able to return to normal.

Until Uther came back.

The first time Merlin saw him was in Arthur’s chambers, two weeks after he died. He stood off in the corner, his eyes unseeing and his body so translucent that it was easy to miss him entirely. Merlin had seen spirits before but never thought much of it; he was smart enough not to mention this to anyone who may deem it too close to sorcery for comfort. Arthur didn’t seem to notice Uther, so Merlin dismissed it as unfortunate but harmless. It didn’t seem like a good idea to point out the king’s recently deceased father standing around only two weeks after his death. It would probably have an adverse effect on the mourning process.

Uther was always there when Merlin entered Arthur’s room at mealtimes and to clean, never moving from his corner and never giving any sign that he even understood where he was, let alone that he recognized anyone around him. Merlin debated talking to him, sometimes, but the empty stare discouraged him from trying.

He learned later that this was a good thing; Gaius nearly had a heart attack when Merlin mentioned Uther’s recent appearance.

“Very few people can see spirits, even the most powerful of sorcerers,” Gaius had said, a strange trembling in his voice that Merlin was quickly growing used to. “Uther mustn't know that you’re one of them.”

With that, he clammed up and refused to discuss the matter further, a fact which Merlin was irritated by but ultimately understood. Uther was Gaius’s friend, after all. He needed time to mourn, too.

Uther grew less transparent by the day. He began to move around Arthur’s chambers, even inspecting his own arms at times with a faint sneer on his face. Arthur never noticed him, as far as Merlin could tell. The king ate silently, the weight of the loss still preventing him from being as talkative as usual. Occasionally he’d glance up and frown, sending stabs of fear through Merlin that he’d somehow figured out who was really responsible for all of this. He’d be halfway through planning his escape route when Arthur’s eyes would return to his food, not uttering another word.

Then Gwen was attacked.

Merlin was leaving the kitchens at the time. He’d passed Gwen on his way out while she was headed the opposite direction. She was carrying a stack of plates half her height but still managed to stop and chat for a few moments.

“I offered to help some of the others,” she had explained wearily, giving him a good-natured chuckle. “I’m afraid I’ve got more free time than I know what to do with these days.”

They exchanged tense smiles and went their separate ways.

Merlin heard the screaming moments later.

Uther was not his first thought. Morgana, a rebel sorcerer, perhaps some rogue assassin… not the former king. The former king who happened to be dead. Details.

When Merlin arrived to tell Arthur what had happened, he looked horrible. More than usual, anyways. Merlin felt something radiating from him, something faint but unmistakably magic in nature. It was cold. His eyes were distant and it didn’t take a sorcerer to tell he’d been crying. Urgency prevented Merlin from addressing it, but the look on Arthur’s face stuck with him long after Gwen had begun to recover.

Later, in his chambers, Gaius cleaned off the knife used on Guinevere with a small rag and debated returning it to the tomb. Eventually, it was decided to keep it in the catacombs, far away from the risk of reopening both literal and figurative wounds.

“Do you think it was him?” Merlin had asked, trying his best to sound as if his mind wasn’t already made up. Gaius responded only with a sorrowful expression, filled to the brim with emotions that Merlin couldn’t begin to comprehend and that Gaius obviously had no intention of explaining.

***

The knighthoods hurt more than he was willing to admit.

He felt slightly bad for his anger when he burst in to see Uther standing behind Arthur like some deranged bird of prey, though. Of course it would be his doing.

The fear in Arthur’s body language was obvious. He moved slowly, shivered violently whenever the spirit was near, and carefully avoided the spots where Uther stood. It was this that clued Merlin in to the fact that Arthur could more than likely see his father, a fact which complicated things tenfold. Based on Arthur’s recent behavior, Uther didn’t know that Merlin was his killer. This was confirmed, for better or for worse, when the deal became “Merlin’s life or the sorcerer’s.” It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so deadly.

No problem. Dead sorcerer or dead sorcerer. An easy choice, really.

The issue then became one of research. Uther had to go, that much was obvious. Gaius combed through every book in his collection and half of the royal library with such fervor that Merlin had to wonder if Uther’s presence threatened something more than just his life. Not that he’d attempt asking; Gaius was more tight-lipped and vague than usual surrounding this topic specifically.

It was generally agreed that Merlin dying was an unfavorable outcome, though, so they continued to search frantically in the hopes that they’d stumble across an answer before Arthur got serious about finding the sorcerer.

Merlin petitioned Kilgharrah for help with little success, the dragon just giggled about the situation for twenty solid minutes before admitting he had little to no clue how to banish a spirit. What he did manage to say through his glee was that Uther’s banishment would likely depend on Arthur’s cooperation. And how fantastic, Merlin thought, because at least it wasn’t as if there was anything that had happened recently concerning Arthur’s willing involvement with sorcery that would prevent him from seeking it out ever again. Something like a father’s death. Thank the gods for that lucky break.

***

Gaius found a banishment ritual in time, one that was as old as dirt and had the vaguest instructions known to man accompanying it.

“It’s all I can find on the matter,” Gaius said, sliding the book across the table. Merlin read the passage quickly and groaned.

“Great.” He looked up and noted Gaius’s uneasy expression.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted quickly.

Gaius didn’t answer, instead giving him a small nod and turning away to begin his work.

***

The preparation for Arthur’s visit to the hut had been dangerously close to enjoyable. He’d written the sorcerer’s note twice, having scrapped the first one when he realized Arthur would likely recognize his handwriting. The treasonous drawing was an afterthought, and one which he regretted ever so slightly in the moments immediately after. Perhaps a drawing of a king getting struck by lightning was in poor taste given recent events. It was getting late, though, so he propped up the book containing the ritual and snuck home, praying Arthur hadn’t noticed his absence.

***

Merlin really hated being Dragoon sometimes. Not least of all because it was the face his closest friend would recognize as a murderer, but another large part of it was the simple discomfort that came with being old. The robe was scratchy, his hair was too long, and it took immense effort to do literally anything. Except magic, at least.

The preparation may have been enjoyable, but it was useless in terms of readying Merlin for what came next. He wasn’t quite expecting Arthur’s face. He’d waltzed into the hut expecting an angry knight and an even angrier king; they’d likely take a few swings at him but could easily be redirected with a few simple spells.

When Arthur’s eyes met his, though, there was something desperate behind his expression.

Merlin waited, for he could think of nothing better to do.

When the king’s eyes grew misty and he lowered his weapon, it confirmed what Merlin already believed to be true: Arthur didn’t want revenge.

***

It became uncomfortably clear as the visit went on that Uther’s presence was more dangerous than anyone had originally thought. Arthur’s boots left icy imprints on the floor, his breath came out in wisps, and he stumbled around as if his legs didn’t work quite right. And perhaps they didn’t; it could hardly be easy to walk around normally with the spirit of your dead father leeching every last drop of warmth from your blood. When Arthur heard Merlin’s name, though, his anger increased to an inhuman level. The temperature in the hut had dropped by at least ten degrees, and Merlin had a sword against his heart before he knew what had happened.

The rest of the visit was a blur, but the paper containing the ritual left with Arthur and Merlin was alive. Good enough for the time being.

Merlin was displeased to later discover the ritual balled up in Arthur’s laundry. Typical. Never defeated, though, he tucked it away into his own pocket for later use.

Arthur’s temper grew worse by the day, and when Guinevere finally sent for them Merlin half wondered if Arthur would refuse. But he didn’t, and the snippets of conversation he’d caught via eavesdropping had seemed borderline civil. That is, until the door burst open, revealing a disheveled king with blue lips and icicles on his eyelashes.

Details.

Chapter Text

Arthur burst through the door with startling force, sending Merlin rocketing to his feet from where he’d been sitting against the wall. It didn’t take him long to register that something was wrong, and he immediately grabbed Arthur’s arm and shoved him towards the hallway.

“Come on.” His voice was ten times as authoritative as he had any right to be with the king, as Uther’s voice unhelpfully reminded Arthur. So overwhelming was the cold, however, that he found he could do little but stagger in the direction Merlin pointed him in. His clumsy footsteps echoed down the mostly empty hallways, bouncing off of the walls and earning him a few panicked glances from passing servants; Merlin redirected most of these with a winning smile and quick little excuses that sounded so natural that Arthur had to wonder if he’d done this before.

“Where are we going?” He choked out.

“Your chambers. Gaius is already waiting for you. Is that a tablecloth?”

A single shred of clarity cut through the haze and Arthur came to an abrupt halt. Merlin followed suit, narrowly avoiding colliding with Arthur’s back and turning to face him with a look that carried equal parts irritation and concern. It was an expression Arthur was all too familiar with.

“Why is Gaius in my chambers?”

“He’ll explain everything when we get there. Come on.”

“No,” Arthur said absentmindedly. His brain felt foggy, though he could still hear his father’s rambling behind it all. He tried to slap himself on the cheek but didn’t feel the impact on either side. His body scarcely seemed to be his own.

“Wasn’t asking. Come on.”

“Merlin, you can’t-”

You look like you’re going to pass out if we don’t hurry.”

“I might.”

“We’re in agreement, then. Get moving.”

“Explain first.”

“No time, sorry. If you do happen to pass out I’d rather not carry you.”

“You will NOT carry me.”

“Then let’s hurry, yeah? Otherwise I won’t have a choice.”

Arthur relented and stumbled along down the hallway, only feeling the impact of his feet upon the floor in an abstract way; the entirety of his body was still completely numb save for the pounding of his head and the fire in his lungs. He shivered despite the tablecloth, and eventually grew so clumsy that Merlin had to wrap an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright.

(“You said you wouldn’t carry me!” “This doesn’t count.”)

When they arrived at his chambers, Gaius was waiting with his back to the duo. He tore his attention from the window upon hearing the door and smiled wryly. Something seemed off.

“My lord.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Arthur snapped. He winced immediately, hating himself for the venom in his voice. He wished his ears would stop ringing.

Gaius held up a crumpled piece of paper and extended it to Arthur, who recognized it immediately with a particularly painful stab of anger.

“No. Absolutely not.” Arthur swatted Merlin’s arm off of him and began to hobble towards the door. A near impossible task when a man can no longer feel his own feet.

“Merlin found this in your laundry,” Gaius said to his back, unfazed. “We believe it might explain some of your recent troubles.”

Arthur shot Merlin a betrayed look, to which Merlin responded with a noncommittal shrug.

“Your concern is touching, but I assure you everything is fine,” Arthur insisted. “There’s no need for alarm.”

“Gwen was attacked,” Merlin pointed out unhelpfully. Arthur glared, less out of anger and more out of an attempt to disguise his guilt.

“That was unrelated.”

“Of course.” Merlin deadpanned.

“My lord,” Gaius cut in with a sharp glance in Merlin’s direction. “We only mean to say that recent… events… seem to be related to your father’s death.”

The rage tripled in intensity.

“My father has nothing to do with the mess that I’ve created,” Arthur said calmly, though his mouth seemed to be moving on its own. He felt an overwhelming sense of wrongness. The nausea followed soon after.

“You don’t believe that,” Merlin said matter of factly. “I know you don’t.”

“I’ll hear no more of this. Get out.”

He’d forgotten to burn the stupid paper when they returned home, and had all but managed to drive its very existence from his mind. Typical that this had been the one time Merlin was actually thorough with his laundry. He’d almost made it to the door, had grasped the edge of the frame and began to pull himself through, but was easily redirected by a hand on his shoulder that pulled him firmly backwards. He felt himself get shoved towards Gaius.

“Sorry,” Merlin said, and to his credit, he actually sounded like he meant it. It did nothing to undercut the rage that threatened to boil over with every passing moment, however.

“Did you even read it, my lord?” Gaius asked.

“I don’t need to,” Arthur scoffed. “What good are the words of a murderer?”

Gaius shot him a faintly annoyed look before opening the paper and beginning to read aloud. Most of it sounded like useless magical jargon, the majority of which Arthur wouldn’t understand at the best of times, let alone when his body was numb and his head was filled with his dead father’s screaming. Something about a ritual.

The part that caught his attention, however, were Gaius’s final words.

“To fully free the spirit, the anchor must accept the deceased for all that they are.”

“Gods, that’s vague,” Merlin groaned. Arthur barely heard him over Uther’s voice within his head. Had he not known better, he would believe that it sounded desperate. The space between his eyes began to sting as if someone was scraping their fingernails against it, ushering a pained gasp out of Arthur. His father screamed even louder.

He pointed to a chair and Merlin, understanding, dragged it over to him. Arthur collapsed. He put his hands over his ears but quickly removed them when it became clear that the sounds weren’t able to be muffled.

“If I am correct in assuming that my old friend is having some trouble letting go,” Gaius said slowly, giving Arthur a calculating look. “This is the only way to free his spirit.”

“No.”

“There are very few sorcerers alive with the power needed to complete the ritual and free your father’s spirit,” Gaius continued as if he hadn’t heard. “In fact, I know of only two. One is-”

“My father’s killer.”

The room fell abruptly silent.

“Obviously,” Gaius said uneasily. “And of course, there’s the other one.”

At this, Arthur perked up.

“Other one?”

“Mor-”

“No.”

“We have only one option, then.”

“No.”

“This isn’t something you can handle by yourself,” Merlin insisted. “Even if you’d like to believe that it is.”

“I don’t need your help.” Arthur pressed his palm against the side of his head and winced. Uther’s voice was starting to carry physical pain every time it increased in volume. Every harsh word caused a stinging pain to shoot through his temple as if his skull was splitting in half.

Merlin’s concerned expression was briefly overtaken by irritation at this, and he ran a hand down his face with a little more drama than was probably necessary.

“Right, and that’s why you’re shivering in the middle of summer and leaving icy footprints everywhere you go? Because you’re managing so well?”

At this, Arthur felt a flare of anger that made the rest feel dull by comparison. His hand snapped to where his sword hilt usually lay, but his fingers came up empty. It didn’t take long for the severity of the action to dawn on him, and guilt seeped in to replace the rage. His father’s voice grew slightly quieter. Some of this must have registered on his face, for Merlin sighed.

“You gave it to me,” He said quietly, gesturing to Arthur’s sword that was strapped to his own waist. “Remember?”

“You were right,” Gaius mused, eyes lit up with concern. He turned to Merlin, who nodded with the air of one who has tired of saying the same thing over and over.

How long had they been discussing Arthur behind his back? Days? Months? Years, even? Were they plotting against him? Perhaps this was all part of a scheme to…

Arthur shook his head and willed his father to please, just shut up.

“What are you talking about?” He asked, trying his best to keep his voice level. He looked to Merlin for clarification and received nothing but an unreadable shrug of the shoulders.

“This isn’t good,” Gaius said, glancing back down at the paper. “You must let us help you before it’s too late.”

“I won’t turn to sorcery. My father wouldn’t hear of it.”

“The sorcerer can’t very well kill your father again,” Merlin snapped, a new edge to his voice that carried equal parts exhaustion and frustration. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He could hurt you,” Arthur said immediately. “Or me, or-”

The cold left his body so abruptly that he slumped forward and felt his head thud against the table. The stabbing pain was replaced with a dull ache.

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up. He extended a hand forward to help but hesitated. He stood still for a moment, waiting, before retracting his hand and crossing his arms. Gaius noted this with a nod and followed suit.

The blood came rushing back into Arthur’s limbs, causing his skin to feel like it was on fire. He gasped in pain and felt his father’s presence before he’d even turned around.

“Please,” Arthur whispered. “Stop this.”

The spirit didn’t speak, only narrowed his eyes. Arthur turned and dragged himself to his feet. Carefully, he let himself sink into a kneeling position.

“I’m trying, father,” Arthur said, no longer caring to pretend in front of the others. They’d already figured it out, anyway. “You know that I’m trying.”

Uther sighed.

“I didn’t want to have to do this, Arthur.”

“Not him. Please,” Arthur begged.

Gaius’s face lit up with alarm, but was quickly reassured by a dismissive wave of Merlin’s hand that Arthur found himself incapable of interpreting. He thought he saw Merlin look towards him.

Uther tilted his head as if confused before producing his dagger. It shimmered with a soft blue light. It was almost beautiful.

He crossed the room to stand beside Merlin, who continued to stare straight ahead as if frozen. Arthur’s heart sank.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Just let him go.”

Uther positioned himself behind Merlin and pressed the knife against his neck. Merlin, if he even felt it, didn’t react. Gaius’s eyes were glued to the floor.

“It’s me who has failed you,” Arthur pleaded. “Not him. Please.”

“Failed me?” Uther repeated. “You haven’t failed me.”

Then, with a sad smile: “Not yet.”

Slowly, he opened his hand and let the dagger fall to the floor.

Merlin visibly relaxed.

“Thank you,” Arthur said breathlessly. “Thank you, I-”

“Do not mistake this for mercy,” Uther said, a hint of sorrow in his tone. “I’ve merely come to a realization.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked.

“It would not be enough for me to kill the boy,” the spirit said, placing an icy hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin shivered but continued to stare straight ahead. It occured to Arthur, just then, how odd it was that nobody had spoken in a minute. He looked to Gaius but found his eyes still trained on the floor.

“Gaius?”

The old man didn’t respond, though his expression was pained.

Arthur turned and locked eyes with Merlin, who shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“There is a hard lesson to be learned here, Arthur,” Uther said quietly. “I hope that one day you will forgive me for being the one to teach it to you.”

Uther placed his hand in the center of Merlin’s forehead.

The color drained from Merlin’s skin and he fell to the floor, unconscious.

Chapter Text

Arthur awoke the next morning in Gaius’s chambers with a dull pain in his head. He winced, forgetting for a moment the events which had led him here. The room was silent. Arthur placed a hand against his forehead and blinked the sleep out of his eyes, lifting his hand carefully as if to take stock of his own fingers. The room was filled with the soft light of early morning, with nothing but the unconscious man on the bed in front of him to suggest it was anything other than a beautiful day. Arthur blinked again. It was a few moments before the panic set in.

“Merlin?” Arthur grabbed his shoulder and shook it roughly. Merlin didn’t stir. He reached out and wrapped a hand around his arm. It was ice cold.

“No, no, come on,” Arthur muttered. He placed two fingers on Merlin’s wrist and waited. Nothing. He abandoned the effort and instead situated his fingers on the underside of Merlin’s neck, just below his jaw. A few seconds passed. Arthur felt sick.

Then, finally, a pulse. Very faint and very slow, but a pulse nonetheless.

He let out a sigh of relief and pulled back. Merlin’s expression seemed almost relaxed, despite the circumstances. His skin was nearly grey and his eyes fluttered restlessly beneath his lids, but the rest of his face was free of any other signs of discomfort. The corners of his mouth were even slightly upturned, giving him a look that Arthur couldn’t help but read as a little bit smug.

“Idiot,” Arthur muttered.

“Indeed.”

Arthur tensed, and turned to see Gaius sitting in a chair near the opposite wall. The old man closed the book he’d been reading and set it aside, obviously settling in for a lengthy conversation. Never a good sign.

“Gaius,” Arthur said stiffly. “What are you doing here?”

Gaius chuckled, his amused expression betrayed only by a faint narrowing of the eyes.

“In my own room, sire?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need,” Gaius said, rising from his seat and crossing the room to stand beside him. “Merlin is alive, but I’m not sure how long he’ll stay that way.”

Arthur had already figured as much, but he was still less than pleased at hearing the news out loud. He waved a hand in a circular motion, prompting Gaius to continue.

“It’s your father. I fear he’s more vengeful than we initially thought.” Gaius’s voice carried a strange tremor that Arthur had never heard before. He noted this with interest but thought it best to say nothing.

“Vengeful?” Arthur laughed, though he felt an uncomfortable twinge of familiarity towards the word. It made more sense than he cared to admit. Gaius sighed and pulled up a chair beside him. He looked more than a little irritated, a fact which Arthur chose to ignore in favor of keeping both of their tempers in check. Besides, Arthur would be lying if he said he didn’t understand Gaius’s mood.

“Based on what little Merlin told me about your situation, I believe Uther may have been possessing you.”

This was enough to coax a bit of familiar anger out of Arthur.

“Possessing me?” He repeated. “That’s impossible; I haven’t had any gaps in my memories or loss of control.”

“Your view of possession is wrong.”

Arthur couldn’t help but be offended at the bluntness, but he sensed Gaius’s patience was wearing thin. Bitter though it tasted, he swallowed his pride.

“Fine.” was all he could manage, and Gaius nearly smiled. His expression sobered quickly though, and he began to speak in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“You’ve likely only heard about absolute possession. While possible, absolute possession is extremely rare and requires years of preparation during one’s lifetime. It needs incredibly powerful magic to even have the slightest chance of success. I can’t imagine your father forming a plan that so heavily involves the use of sorcery, let alone how he would’ve managed to keep it hidden from us for so many years.”

Arthur nodded. This, for once, actually made sense.

“Possession is, more often than not, only partial. It happens in milliseconds, altering a person’s decision making and emotions in individual moments rather than taking over their entire soul. Any spirit with a strong enough tie to the mortal world can do it.” Gaius sat back in his chair, indicating his spiel was complete.

“How do you know all of this?” Arthur asked.

Then, when the second wave of implications hit: “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I’ve only just learned it myself; it was all on the paper that the sorcerer gave you,” Gaius said smoothly. “The paper that, should you have actually read it, would have saved us both a lot of valuable time.”

A hint of a smile crept onto his face, evidence enough that his waspish behavior wasn’t personal.

Arthur glared but didn’t respond. He couldn’t say much in his defense, anyways.

“By chance, have you felt off recently? Quicker to anger?” Gaius continued, turning in his chair to face Arthur fully. “Strange changes in body temperature? Thoughts and actions that weren’t your own? Perhaps even hearing your father’s voice in your head?”

Arthur didn’t respond, which seemed to be enough of an answer for Gaius. He nodded. Then, he turned and laid a hand on Merlin’s forehead.

“No improvement.” He produced a notebook and jotted down a few words before returning it to the pocket of his robes.

“What do I do?” Arthur asked, his voice slightly more forceful than he’d intended. Gaius cocked an eyebrow but didn’t comment on the tone. Thankfully. The old man could be quite scathing when he wanted to be.

“Spirits are tricky. They can only remain in the mortal realm so long as they have an anchor that is unable to let go of them.”

“I HAVE let go. He’s dead, I understand that perfectly well,” Arthur groaned. He really couldn’t see how this was relevant. “I don’t have anything else to let go of.”

“In this case, I expect the answer is less obvious,” Gaius admitted. “But I’m afraid it’s one you’ll have to work out for yourself.”

“Perfect. It’s my fault he’s here and I can’t even get a straight answer on how to free him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Am I not permitted to miss my own father?” Arthur snapped. “All because I’m the only one who does?”

Gaius’s mouth tightened into a line and a flash of sorrow crossed his face. He fell silent for a few moments, staring at Arthur with an expression that seemed to say a million things, all of which Arthur was incapable of understanding.

“You aren’t the only one.”

Guilt seeped into Arthur’s heart immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean that.”

Gaius seemed deflated, but he smiled sympathetically and placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, I understand.”

Arthur felt the hand on his shoulder shake slightly, and he reached up to steady the old man’s arm. They remained in that state for a minute or two, staring down at Merlin and allowing the weight of the conversation to settle in. It was nice to finally share this with another person; Arthur hadn’t realized how lonely the mourning process had become.

“He was a good man,” he said quietly.

To his surprise, Gaius stiffened. What were intended to be words of comfort had apparently had the opposite effect, and as Arthur watched his old friend’s face changed from quiet sadness to something resembling anger.

“You aren’t intending to disagree, Gaius?” Arthur asked, chancing a slight chuckle. Gaius only sighed in response and clasped his hands in front of him.

“Uther was a complicated man,” he said, frowning. “I believe he tried his best for Camelot, for his friends, and certainly for you, but…” The old man’s voice trailed off. He gave Arthur a long, searching look.

Arthur felt a stab of anger that was all his own.

“What the hell are you implying?”

“Your father was a dear friend of mine, Arthur,” Gaius said slowly, an obvious air of caution in his words. “And I’ve been by his side since the beginning. I was there when you were born, I watched you grow up, and I’m incredibly proud of the man you’ve become.”

Gaius turned, his voice unfathomably sad.

“I saw how Uther raised you, too.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked, his temper quickly fading into dread.

“If I recall correctly, you spent most of your younger years in my chambers with broken fingers, concussions, and bloody noses,” Gaius said carefully. “I don’t recall any other young knight being so frequently injured.

“I trained with my father’s best men, Gaius,” Arthur scoffed. “Of course I would get a little more roughed up than the others.”

“Was it necessary?”

“I was the future king. Of course it was necessary.”

“You were six years old when you started.”

Arthur shrugged.

“It paid off, didn’t it?”

Gaius looked at him for a long time, expression unreadable. He reached a hand out and laid it on Merlin’s arm, mouth tightened into a thin line.

“Your father had his flaws, just like any of us. You would know that even better than I. Of course he loved you, he always did. But I do not believe you deserved what he put you through.”

This shocked Arthur into near silence.

“What?” He said, for he could think of nothing else.

Gaius sighed again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more back then. Gods know you could’ve used a friend.”

Arthur frowned, his temper flaring again in the absence of anything else he could understand.

“I didn’t need anything from you; my father was a great man. He taught me everything I know.”

“And at what cost?” Gaius asked quietly.

“What?”

“You had no friends growing up, you were constantly hurt or sick, and it seemed to me that no matter how much progress you’d made you would still receive no praise,” Gaius said simply. “I am truly sorry for not telling you this sooner, but I may as well say it now: You deserved better.”

Arthur could only stare, shellshocked.

Gaius turned back to Merlin.

“Had I ever been fortunate enough to have children,” he said quietly. “I would be loath to see them treated the way you were.”

Arthur bit back the defensiveness that threatened to swallow him whole and instead shook his head.

“I’m sorry it seemed that way to you,” he said. “But I’m grateful for your concern, Gaius. You’ve always been a loyal friend.”

Gaius nodded, suddenly looking older than Arthur had ever seen him. After a minute, the old man gestured to Merlin and continued as if the previous conversation had never happened.

“Their spirits are dangerously unstable. Should this continue for much longer, your father’s spirit may become inseparable from Merlin’s.”

Arthur frowned.

“What does that mean?”

Gaius didn’t answer. He rose from his seat, wrung out a rag from within a bucket of steaming water, and returned to place it across Merlin’s forehead. He waited for a moment, lifting the rag at intervals to check it wasn’t too hot. Arthur waited, arms crossed. Gaius glanced at him sideways and shrugged.

“To keep him warm,” he muttered as if it weren’t obvious.

Arthur sighed. He knew this routine.

“Gaius, please. Tell me.”

Gaius let out a heavy sigh and sank back into his chair.

“Uther’s spirit and Merlin’s will both be expelled by force over time. If left alone, that is. Uther would be gone, but he would take Merlin with him.”

Arthur paled.

“There’s more, unfortunately,” Gaius continued. “Because of their incompatibility, the ritual to expel Uther’s spirit has a chance of taking Merlin’s with it.”

Arthur stole a glance at Merlin’s sleeping form. Sleeping wasn’t the right word, though. Unconscious, more like.

“Why?” he managed to say.

“This ritual is intended to discriminate between anchor and spirit to ensure the correct soul finds its way home,” Gaius said quietly. “In a case such as this where there is no proper anchor, the magic may determine that Merlin’s soul is the unwelcome one.”

Uther’s plan suddenly became nauseatingly clear. Arthur turned to Gaius, eyes haunted.

“Before he did this to Merlin, he told me that it wouldn’t be enough to kill him.”

Arthur reached out and grasped Merlin’s arm, not caring to disguise his fear any longer.

“Is this what he meant?”

Gaius hesitated.

“I can only speculate, sire.”

“I’d like to hear it. Please.”

The room suddenly felt very small. Gaius shifted uncomfortably under his gaze but eventually brought his eyes up to meet Arthur’s.

“If I am correct in assuming that Uther means to stay until both he and Merlin are expelled,” Gaius said carefully. “Then he may be concerned that Merlin’s spirit would have returned after death.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up.

“He believes I would be an anchor for Merlin as well.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Arthur clenched his jaw and nodded. Whatever had happened to him between life and death had changed Uther beyond recognition. He couldn’t be allowed to stay.

“So that’s it then?” He groaned. “I wait and ensure both of their deaths or I expel the spirit myself and risk Merlin dying by my own hand?”

“If we move to perform the ritual as soon as we can, it has a better chance of working,” Gaius cut in helpfully.

“And if it fails?”

“We wait. And we pray that your father is not yet beyond reason.”

“Very well. I’ll set out for the sorcerer’s home at once.”

“NO!” Gaius retracted the hand that he’d extended in a panic and coughed.

“The sorcerer… died.”

“He DIED?”

“Of course not, I misspoke my lord. I meant to say that he… disappeared.”

Arthur frowned.

“Disappeared?”

“Yes. Vanished, I’m afraid. Thin air.”

“How do you know this?”

“I… heard it from someone.”

“From who?”

“There’s no time, my lord. We must save Merlin.”

Arthur decided to let it go, seeing no other option. Gaius was impossible when he got like this.

“If the sorcerer is gone we can’t. There’s no one else who can perform the ritual, you said so yourself.”

“I said there were only two.”

Arthur laughed for a few moments, stopping only when it became clear that Gaius had not joined in.

“She wished Uther dead more than anyone,” Gaius added helpfully. “Perhaps she’d see reason if it meant getting rid of him for good.”

“You can’t be serious,” Arthur scoffed. “You’re forgetting that she wants me dead just as badly.”

Gaius shrugged.

“I’m sorry, but we have no other options, my lord.”

Chapter Text

If someone had told Arthur a year ago that his father would be killed by a sorcerer, he would probably agree that it made a certain amount of sense.

If someone had then told Arthur that he’d be traipsing around in the woods months later with the intent of finding his estranged and possibly murderous sister in order to expel his father’s vengeful spirit from Merlin’s body, he likely would have had a more difficult time believing it.

It was oppressively hot. Even Merlin was starting to feel like a normal temperature, something which, in Arthur’s experience, should be impossible with his father lurking about in the depths of his mind. Merlin was slung over Arthur’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, causing the king to reflect that perhaps Morgana’s true cruelty was setting up shop in a forest that was too dense for horses to pass through.

“I hate to complain,” Gaius piped up from behind him, picking his way over a particularly gnarled set of roots. “But we haven’t stopped in hours and we still don’t know where we’re going.”

“Morgana has scouts everywhere,” Arthur said without stopping or turning around. “She’ll come to us.”

“Of that I have no doubt, sire,” Gaius replied, a barely detectable hint of irritation in his tone. “My only hope is that we haven’t died from heat stroke when she does.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Guinevere chimed in, jogging to catch up and walk by Arthur’s side. “We should stop for a moment. Morgana will find us whether we keep going or not.”

Arthur came to a halt.

He’d been vehemently opposed to either Gwen or Gaius coming with him, but Gaius was the only one who could make sense of the ritual nonsense and Guinevere simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. Arthur had tried to tell her how dangerous it was, how he couldn’t guarantee her safety, how they couldn’t know what the outcome of the ritual would be, that Morgana had changed, but she wouldn’t hear of any of it. When that failed, he’d explained the whole situation with his father and the possession and the fact that it had been Uther who attacked her, hoping to scare her out of coming.

That had only doubled Guinevere’s determination.

Arthur’s attempts to leave earlier and not tell her had failed as well, since she’d anticipated that move and beat him to the courtyard. He’d crept out with Gaius in the wee hours of the morning only to find Gwen with a pack full of provisions and an incredibly smug smile.

“We’re on a time limit,” Arthur said apologetically, keeping his eyes trained on the unending expanse of green before him. Somewhere out there, perhaps watching them at that very moment, was Morgana. “You can stop if you want, but I won’t risk it.”

“Unless Gaius stops, that is,” Gwen pointed out. “You can’t very well perform the ritual without him.”

Arthur turned, caught for a moment between fondness and frustration. Guinevere smiled, as she always did when she could tell she’d won.

“You’re not much use to Merlin if you’re too exhausted to walk, you know,” she teased, looping her arm under Merlin’s waist and easing him off of Arthur’s back and down to the forest floor.

Gaius practically melted with relief and carefully lowered himself to the ground.

“I’ll find more water, then,” Arthur said. He turned on his heel to stalk away and pout somewhere where the other two couldn’t see him but was stopped by a tug on his sleeve.

“We have plenty,” Gwen insisted. “Sit.”

Arthur stopped walking but stayed standing, earning himself an eye roll from both of his companions. He felt a stab of anger but reminded himself that they were technically correct. Walking may help draw Morgana’s attention quicker, but it wasn’t strictly necessary to find her.

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Guinevere said quietly, leaning her head back and letting out a small sigh. “She seemed to forget about me once she was sure I wouldn’t be queen.”

Arthur winced.

“I imagine that’s a good thing,” Gaius mused. “The alternative has proven to be fatal in the past.”

Arthur began to pace back and forth, feeling more and more uneasy the longer he stood still. He shot a glance at Merlin’s unconscious form, finding himself slightly jealous that the idiot would get to sleep through all the rough bits. He’d be so smug when he woke up.

When he woke up. Because he would, eventually, wake up.

Guinevere tugged on his sleeve again from where she sat and frowned, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts.

“I meant to ask earlier, but how can we be sure she’ll help us?”

Arthur gently pried her fingers off of his arm and kept pacing.

“We can’t be sure.”

Gwen considered this for a moment, a line forming between her eyebrows. She was a calming presence ninety-nine percent of the time, with the last one percent being when she gave Arthur the look she was currently giving him. It was confusion, with a hint of disbelief. Her eyes shifted sideways towards Merlin, who was slumped against a tree and snoring softly. She seemed to come to a conclusion, and her features softened.

“You wouldn’t be out here if it was hopeless. We’d be back home, making him comfortable.” She gestured to Merlin. “But we’re not. That means something.”

Arthur felt sick. He smiled, hoping to disguise his hesitancy.

He wanted to say that they would certainly be able to save Merlin, and that there was no reason to worry because everything would be okay, no matter what.

“I don’t believe Morgana will kill us,” he said instead. “At least not immediately.”

This, at least, was true.

Gwen let out a startled laugh.

“That’s very kind of her.”

“If she learned anything from our father, she’ll try and assess how desperate we are. From there, she can work out how much we’re willing to give her in return.”

Sensing the change in Arthur’s tone far before he was aware of it himself, Gwen stood and smiled sympathetically. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“He’ll be okay,” she said. “He always is.”

Arthur found he could do nothing but nod halfheartedly.

Gaius rose to his feet then, and fussed with Merlin’s blankets for a moment.

“What would Morgana want from us?” He asked, his tone conversational but his eyes sharper than daggers. Arthur felt his gaze boring holes into the side of his head. He sighed.

“I don’t know. I’d guess she wants Camelot. Or my head on a spike. Perhaps both.”

“Let me rephrase,” Gaius said. “What are we willing to give her?”

Arthur didn’t answer. Gaius seemed to understand.

It was at that moment that a sharp whistle rang out through the woods, echoing above their heads as it was joined by a chorus of similar tones. The trees came alive as black-clad figures emerged from the woodwork with swords drawn and surrounded the group.

Gwen and Arthur drew their swords while Gaius moved to shield Merlin’s body with his own.

The attackers formed a circle around them, inching closer with weapons aimed to kill. A few were armed with nothing but their bare hands, which were extended forwards with open palms in a stance that looked ridiculous if Arthur was being honest. These men wore no gloves, a marked difference from all of the others.

Sorcerers, Arthur thought bitterly. Fantastic.

Guinevere seemed to realize this at the same time, and let out a small curse under her breath. Under less stressful circumstances Arthur would have laughed. It was rare to hear such words from Gwen.

He tightened his grip on his sword and felt his nerves cool suddenly, as if all the anxiety from the day was flowing down through his feet and dispersing into the dirt. The feeling was familiar. Combat, of all things, was his comfort zone.

He was granted no chance to indulge, however, as an even sharper whistle than before pierced the air.

“Easy, boys. Let me deal with them.”

A dark haired woman with glinting eyes and sunken cheeks emerged from among the leaves, a cruel smile on her lips.

Gwen let out a barely audible gasp from beside Arthur.

Morgana raised a pale hand and signaled, causing the circle of men to completely disperse. They disappeared into the leaves almost immediately. She turned her cold eyes to the group and waved a hand lazily, forcing all three of them to their knees. Gaius hissed in pain; at his age, being sent to one’s knees with such force was sure to be far from comfortable. Arthur and Gwen’s swords were pried from their hands by an invisible force and sent sailing into the trees. It felt as though ten thousand pounds were acting on the back of Arthur’s calves, rendering any movement towards standing up utterly impossible. Arthur’s heart sank. Morgana must have grown significantly more powerful since the last time they’d seen her.

Merlin remained unaffected, still slumped against the same tree and blissfully unaware of the situation.

Morgana sauntered forward, her eyes flitting around suspiciously. Despite the years that had passed, she still gave off an unmistakable air of regality. Her face was set in stone and her movements were slow and deliberate. She smiled, only the sharpness of her eyes to indicate that she was far from sincere.

“It’s been too long, brother,” she said coolly. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten about me.”

Her icy eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly before falling on Guinevere. She smiled.

“Gwen.”

“My lady,” Gwen responded, her voice steady as ever..

At this, Morgana laughed.

“My lady?” She repeated, rolling the words around on her tongue. “I believe we’re far past such formalities.”

“We need your help,” Arthur cut in, seeing no point in delaying. They were still alive, which Arthur chose to take as an encouraging sign.

This seemed to give Morgana pause, and a hint of genuine surprise penetrated her stony expression. She moved to stand directly in front of Arthur, and crouched so that she was at eye level.

“I suppose you’re not here to kill me, then?”

Then, with a slight chuckle:

“Not that you could.”

Up close, Morgana was a terrible thing to behold. Her beauty had remained in the years she’d spent away, but her eyes surged with fire and ice in equal measures; the ferocity which was just barely visible beneath her well-practiced smile was unnerving. Arthur found that he couldn’t look at her directly without feeling afraid. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but something that more resembled dread.

“It’s Merlin,” he managed to say. “He needs help.”

He didn’t miss the way Morgana’s smile widened ever so slightly. She turned, agonizingly slow, and took in Merlin’s state.

“He’s unconscious,” She noted with amusement. “What has he done this time?”

Morgana stood and began to approach him, a reserved sort of glee in her expression. As she passed Gaius, she gave him a sickly sweet smile. Gaius did not return it; his gaze was glued to Merlin and filled with anxiety.

Relishing in his discomfort, Morgana crouched beside Merlin and ruffled his hair with a hand. It would have been an affectionate gesture from anyone else, but in this case it only served to unnerve Arthur further. He set his jaw and glared, unwilling to speak out of anger while Merlin was within her reach.

“Has he gotten paler?” Morgana asked airily. “Honestly, Arthur, he’s going to wither away if you don’t let him outside every once in a while.”

The king didn’t respond.

Apparently taking his lack of answer as some sort of victory, she grinned.

“Perhaps I could have worded that better.”

If Morgana was upset or even noticed that her teasing was falling flat, she gave no indication. She cracked her knuckles unceremoniously and hovered a hand above Merlin. Her eyes flashed gold and she placed her palm in the center of his forehead. To Arthur’s surprise, she gasped and recoiled as if she’d been burned. It took a few moments for her to process what had happened, and by the time her eyes had returned to their normal color she was laughing. She shot Arthur an almost impressed look.

“What on earth did you do to him?”

Arthur bit back the anger and forced himself to speak calmly. The implication of her phrasing was killing his patience.

“It’s our father.”

A hint of panic registered in Morgana’s expression.

“He’s dead,” she said quietly, glancing up and then back down with a scoff as if the idea were preposterous.

“His spirit is still here,” Arthur admitted. “It came back.”

Morgana rose to a standing position and turned. Her eyes blazed suddenly, white hot fury seeping through the cracks in her aloof facade.

“You.” She took slow steps forward, her voice a low growl. “You brought him back.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Arthur snapped. “I’m trying to get rid of him!”

Morgana froze. Her eyebrows knit together and she lowered the hand she had extended, understanding dawning on her face.

“You’re his anchor?” Her eyes were suddenly softer. “Why?”

At Arthur’s utterly confused expression, her gaze hardened once again.

“Right. I’d almost forgotten.”

Morgana knelt and laid the back of her hand on Merlin’s forehead again, grinning nastily when Arthur’s head snapped to face her.

“And Merlin?” She drawled. “What does this have to do with him?”

“His spirit is inside Merlin,” Gaius supplied when Arthur didn’t respond. His voice was pained.

Morgana’s eyebrows shot up.

“You trapped him in Merlin to get rid of him? Even to a woman like me that’s cruel.”

“I didn’t do anything; I’m trying to get him OUT of Merlin,” Arthur growled. “That’s why we need your help.”

Morgana frowned, processing his words. A realization seemed to descend upon her, and she laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound, entirely unlike the Morgana Arthur had once known. It put a pit in Arthur’s stomach, and he fought the urge to physically recoil at the sound.

“Oh, now this is just poetic,” Morgana sighed dreamily, wiping imaginary tears from her eyes. “I’ve spent all this time plotting and what do you do? You show up on my doorstep begging to destroy yourselves.”

“Will you help us or not?” Gwen snapped.

Her outburst seemed to invigorate Morgana, whose eyes filled with a manic glee that made Arthur’s blood run cold. She stood and looked down at Arthur with an expression that was dripping with mock sincerity and smiled.

“I must say, Arthur, I didn’t think you were capable of such rebellion. Seeking out a sorcerer for healing when you yourself punish magic use with death? It’s certainly a bold move.”

Her smile grew sharp.

“Especially since it worked out so well for you the last time.”

Arthur began to struggle against the magic that bound him, rage seeping into his eyes. Morgana just chuckled, clearly unintimidated.

“How do you know that?” He growled. “You couldn’t possibly have-“

“I’m afraid telling you would spoil the fun,” Morgana said airily. “Tell me, did you ever find his killer?”

There was a glint in her eyes that seemed almost inhuman. She watched him for a reaction, grinning all the while.

“Yes,” Arthur spat. “I did.”

Morgana inclined her head slightly and raised her eyebrows, an indication to continue. The mannerism was familiar, so reminiscent of the loud mouthed teenager that Arthur had grown up with. It made his heart ache. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

“I talked to him.”

Morgana’s face fell.

“What?” She whispered.

“He seemed like he was sorry,” Arthur said, meeting her eyes and setting his jaw defiantly. “And I believed him.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Morgana hissed. “No one could regret the death of a tyrant.”

Despite her words, she seemed conflicted for the first time. She looked to Guinevere and then Gaius as if they could provide any clarity. When she received blank expressions in return, her eyes narrowed. With renewed venom, she crouched down and looked him dead in the eyes.

“You must have frightened our father terribly for him to pull something like this. Why would he target Merlin, I wonder? What possible explanation could there be for desiring the banishment of Merlin’s soul at the cost of his own?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur snapped. “He didn’t exactly tell me what he was planning.”

Morgana tilted her head thoughtfully. A knowing smile stretched across her features and she stood.

“I don’t believe you.” She dusted her hands off on her dress and moved to stand beside Merlin. She nudged his unconscious body with her foot and fixed Arthur with an almost bored expression. The movement was so childish that she almost appeared to be her old self for a moment.

Morgana addressed Gaius then, with narrowed eyes and a slightly harsher tone.

“It might interest you to know that I’m familiar with the ritual you no doubt want to attempt,” she said coldly. “I’m also familiar with its success rate.”

“What is it?” Gaius asked, speaking up for the first time. His voice shook.

Morgana grinned.

“Let’s just say the odds aren’t good.”

“I don’t care,” Arthur begged. “We have to try.”

Morgana just kept smiling.

“Merlin was your friend!” Gwen cut in viciously. “How can you stand by and watch him die? He hasn’t done anything to you!”

Morgana rounded on her.

“You really think so?” She laughed and gestured to Merlin’s unconscious form. “I’m sure Merlin would be flattered by your unwavering loyalty. Or perhaps disgusted by it, given the fact that he knows he doesn’t deserve it. I imagine it won’t make much difference anyways, since he won’t live to hear it.”

“Will you help us or not?” Arthur snapped.

“Depends. What would I get in return?” Morgana drawled. “Beyond the satisfaction of seeing our father killed again, that is.”

“Anything,” Arthur said immediately, just grateful that she was still willing to compromise. “Name it.”

“I’m afraid the only thing I want is something you don’t have,” Morgana said airily. “I want the identity of Emrys.”

Arthur considered this for a moment. He glanced over at Merlin and sighed inwardly. Whoever Emrys was, he issued them a silent mental apology.

“Done.”

Gaius’s head whipped to face him, causing Arthur to wonder if perhaps he had just made a terrible mistake. Gwen, however, was looking visibly as confused as Arthur felt. This reassured him slightly.

Morgana took a moment to weigh the truth in his words. She frowned.

“You know his true name?”

“Naturally.”

“You’re lying,” Morgana growled. “If you knew who he was you’d have killed him already.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Arthur said, growing increasingly more confused but too desperate to dwell on the implications. “He’s my friend. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

Gaius looked like he was going to pass out. Guinevere had caught onto the fact that Arthur was more than likely lying and had assumed a carefully neutral expression. She would have made a hell of a queen, Arthur reflected, under different circumstances.

Morgana was livid, and trembled slightly as she produced a dagger from her belt and held it against Arthur’s throat.

Arthur wasn’t feeling particularly intimidated. That was not to say that he felt comfortable, only that he’d had his fair share of knives against his throat and had yet to be seriously injured thus far.

Right, he thought. Emrys. Morgana believes that, had Arthur known who Emrys was, he would be dead. Furthermore, if Emrys’s identity was such a massive deal for Morgana, then he must be capable of stopping her. That left only one option, unfortunately.

Sorcerer.

He groaned internally. No wonder Gaius looked so shocked.

“At least your willingness to use magic when it suits you makes sense,” Morgana mused. “It’s only natural that the hypocrite would side with the traitor.”

Traitor? Arthur thought. This Emrys guy must have really pissed her off.

“Why don’t I just kill you for his name?” Morgana continued viciously. “What’s stopping me?”

“I can’t say his name,” Arthur said quickly. “Emrys enchanted me to be unable to speak it.”

Then, as an afterthought:

“Or write it down.”

Then, after another moment of consideration:

“Or give any details about him at all.”

Morgana cocked an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know that was possible.”

“He’s very powerful,” Arthur said solemnly. “But of course, you’d know that by now.”

He was getting a little carried away with this lie, but it seemed to hit home at any rate. Morgana’s entire demeanor froze over abruptly, and she was suddenly all calculating and no anger. It was incredible in a strange way, how calm and collected she could appear at a moment’s notice. It was also incredible, Arthur noted with an increasing sense of triumph, how important this piece of information must be to her.

“How am I to ever know his name, then?” Morgana asked. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he thought he detected a hint of defeat in her tone.

“Should the ritual succeed, he has promised to lift the enchantment and allow me to reveal his name to you,” he said quickly. “He said he’d deal with the consequences himself.”

Morgana scoffed.

“He’s thought that far ahead?”

“Yes, apparently.”

“It seems you two are closer than I thought.”

“Very close.”

“Merlin must be important to him as well,” she mused. “If he’s willing to risk his life in such a way.” Her icy eyes locked with his, as if gauging his reaction.

He kept his expression neutral, drawing on the skills he’d developed during every single family dinner he’d had with his father and Morgana in the past.

Morgana hummed.

“Or perhaps he’s just afraid you’d pitch yourself off of the castle walls if he let Merlin die.”

When Arthur still stayed silent, she sighed, finally letting up on whatever she’d been doing. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure.

“If the ritual fails, I want Camelot.”

Arthur scoffed.

“If it succeeds you get the name of Emrys, and if it fails you get my kingdom? How is that fair?”

“It’s not,” Morgana admitted. “But it will have to do.”

Her eyes gleamed.

“For Merlin’s sake.”

Arthur couldn’t explain precisely what was happening in his head at the moment, but what he did know was that this was probably a terrible idea. Of this he was only vaguely aware, however, as millions of other nameless emotions surged through his mind like a hurricane. He gritted his teeth and bowed his head.

This seemed to capture Morgana’s attention. Her face fell, and she glanced around as if this was some kind of elaborate joke.

“You’d give up so easily?” She mused. “And with no heirs to succeed you? No one left with a right to the throne?”

A terrible smile creeped across her face.

“No one, that is, except for me.”

Gwen and Gaius both snapped their heads to face him but ultimately said nothing. Arthur was grateful for their trust now more than ever. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to explain what he was doing, otherwise.

“Let me make sure I understand you. If I help you, either Uther will be banished and Merlin will be saved, or Merlin will be banished and Uther will get himself a fancy new body. If I don’t help you, Merlin and Uther will be banished.”

Arthur nodded. The odds weren’t good, but he’d be the first to admit that.

“I look forward to seeing your misery play out slowly, brother,” Morgana chuckled. “I never imagined this would be so easy.”

“If the ritual fails,” Arthur said, ignoring her. “I will abdicate and leave Camelot forever. If it succeeds, I will tell you the name of Emrys.”

“One last thing,” Morgana added. “If Emrys goes back on his word and refuses to give me his name, I kill Merlin.”

She extended her hand for Arthur to shake. Guinevere and Gaius exchanged grim looks but still remained silent.

Arthur reached forward and accepted her hand. The spell holding his legs to the earth ceased immediately. Gaius let out a sigh of relief and crumpled to the floor, and Gwen immediately rose to check on Merlin. Arthur thought he saw Morgana wince slightly, as if the magic had been taking its toll on her as well. He frowned, opting to store that information away for later use.

Morgana pointed to the bag Gaius carried.

“I assume you brought everything I need?”

Gaius nodded.

“This is an old ritual,” Morgana said, turning to Arthur. “Older than anything you’ve ever dealt with. If Merlin has any chance of surviving we need to take him to the Isle of the Blessed.”

“Absolutely not.” Gaius snapped suddenly. He rose to his feet and squared his shoulders, though he was still by no means intimidating. Morgana only cocked an eyebrow in response.

“The Isle of the Blessed is the ideal location for the ritual,” Morgana explained dryly. “The power concentrated in that area might be enough to give Merlin a fighting chance.”

“I thought the ritual had to be performed as soon as possible,” Guinevere cut in. “Wouldn’t it be dangerous to journey so far out of our way?”

“Exactly,” Gaius said. “We must perform the ritual now.”

Morgana just smiled.

“You’re forgetting something. As usual.”

“And what might that be?” Gaius asked coldly. “I know this ritual inside and out.”

“Tell me, Gaius. How many times has this ritual worked? Total?” Morgana asked, looking more amused than her tone implied.

The old man glared.

“Six.”

“Very good!” Morgana exclaimed with mock sincerity. “And how many of those six involved a possession of someone who wasn’t an anchor?”

Gaius didn’t answer.

“We’re going to need all the help we can get,” Morgana insisted, turning to Arthur. “The Isle is his only chance.”

Arthur sighed.

“Let’s get going, then.”

Chapter Text

Traveling with Morgana was uncomfortable, to say the least. She seemed to realize the effect her presence had on the group and was more than delighted by it; she walked in near silence but continuously varied the position within the party, placing herself either directly beside or directly in front of both Gwen and Arthur. She sauntered back and forth, swayed lazily along the path and even took a seat on a fallen log at one point. She had allowed the others to get miles ahead before teleporting back to the group and startling Arthur enough to nearly drop Merlin. Gaius was seemingly exempt from whatever she was doing, perhaps because Morgana was worried he’d keel over from fear at any slight move from her.

Gwen and Arthur exchanged enough exasperated and confused glances at this behavior to keep themselves sane through it all, despite the constant simmering anger that Arthur had been finding it increasingly difficult to ignore. In a way, Morgana’s presence was not unlike Uther’s, if one was going only based on how frequently Arthur wanted to strangle someone.

Occasionally Morgana would offer to carry Merlin, though she extended the offer in a voice that ensured Arthur would let her nowhere near him. Her sharp smile never wavered. She reminded him of a wolf, in some strange way, and Arthur was less than pleased to realize he must be the sheep.

Gwen seemed the most comfortable (or rather, the least disturbed,) by Morgana’s antics. Her sword was still strapped to her waist and she hadn’t reached for it a single time, whereas Arthur’s hand had never left the hilt of his own. Merlin was still unresponsive, draped over Arthur’s shoulder and snoring softly, and Gaius brought up the rear, still visibly uncomfortable being anywhere near Morgana.

Morgana’s harmless little detours were just that: harmless. This, more than anything, was what disturbed Arthur. She could kill them all with very little effort, that much had been made exceedingly clear, and yet she hadn’t made any moves to harm them. Arthur wasn’t blind to the reality that Morgana could just as easily kill Arthur now and take his kingdom by force; the fact that she had made no moves to indicated that this Emrys character was paramount to her plans. Rather than snap her fingers and ensure her victory immediately, she had decided the name of one man was worth all of this trouble.

Arthur watched her with narrowed eyes for the majority of the trek, prepared to cut her down the moment she acted with any real malice. She never did, though, so he found himself relaxing against his will.

When the woods finally grew sparser and easier to pass through, Morgana turned to address Arthur, her face strangely devoid of hostility for what he’d been expecting. For a moment, she looked like his little sister again.

“What did you do to scare Uther so badly?” She said harshly, snapping Arthur back to reality. Morgana didn’t seem to notice the hardening of his expression, or if she did, she didn’t give any indication that she cared.

Arthur just glared, earning himself a snort in return.

“I know that look. Sensitive subject?”

When Arthur didn’t respond again, her grin melted to reveal the ice beneath.

“I’m not asking to be polite. If there’s any information that could complicate the ritual I’ll need to know about it beforehand to account for it. Magic isn’t easy, you know.”

Arthur decided that this made sense.

“Uther appeared to me two weeks after he died,” he admitted begrudgingly. “His spirit felt angry. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him.”

“Hard to believe,” Morgana said dryly.

“He told me to revoke the knighthoods I’d given to men without noble blood,” Arthur continued, ignoring her. “And I said no.”

Morgana raised her eyebrows and let out a surprised laugh.

“Look at you!” She grinned. “Such rebellion.”

“Then he stabbed Gwen.”

Morgana’s smile faded so abruptly that Arthur was sure he’d imagined its presence in the first place. She turned to Gwen for confirmation. Gwen, casting Arthur an almost apologetic look that he found himself incapable of deciphering, lifted up the end of her tunic to reveal her bandages. The wound was all but healed now, with very little blood left to indicate it had ever been there.

“He had the power to inflict physical harm?” Morgana asked, though it was directed at no one. Her expression was suddenly serious.

“Obviously,” Gwen said curtly. She covered herself back up and wiped her hand on her trousers, despite the fact that it was clean.

“You must’ve been one hell of an anchor,” Morgana said with an unreadable glance at Arthur. “It takes a lot of devotion to let them manifest so strongly.”

Then, with an almost suspicious expression.

“A lot more devotion than I’d expect from you, frankly.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Arthur snapped. He was growing tired of the cryptic talk that always seemed to accompany this subject.

From behind him, Gaius cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“If we’re going to breach this topic, may I at least suggest we stop for a break?”

“No.”

“No.”

Morgana and Arthur locked eyes, having spoken simultaneously. Something painfully recognizable flashed across her features and she looked away.

Gaius appeared to be caught between confusion and a small smile, but the unrelenting heat and exhaustion won out in the end. He groaned, took a moment to feel sorry for himself, and kept walking.

“To put it gently, our father deserves nothing short of eternal suffering for all of the harm he caused,” Morgana explained. She raised a hand lazily and burnt a small shrub to a crisp rather than walk around it. Gwen sighed heavily at that but said nothing.

“He was a pathetic tyrant,” Morgana finished airily. “And that’s all he should be remembered as.”

“That’s putting it gently?” Gwen snorted. Her tone was genuine, carrying very real traces of humor that left Arthur feeling more than a little hurt. You too? He thought, though he knew he couldn’t ask Guinevere to mourn the very man who’d almost killed her. It wasn’t fair to her, but he’d be the first to admit that.

Still, he felt the old sense of betrayal clawing its way to the surface like a mad animal. It tasted bitter.

“Very gently.” Morgana stopped walking abruptly and fixed Arthur with a grim look that was a bit too sincere for his liking. “And you, of all people, should know that.”

Arthur glared.

“My father was a great man.” His mouth moved automatically, the response reflexive. He’d been dealing with this type of talk about his father for long enough now that he had a whole arsenal of excuses at his disposal.

Not excuses. They weren’t excuses. They were… something else, something that Arthur couldn’t be bothered to name at the moment.

“Oh, yes, he was truly the greatest man who ever lived,” Morgana drawled. “He always treated his subjects just like his children, didn’t he?”

The edges of her smile grew razor sharp.

“Just like his children, they wouldn’t eat if they spoke out of turn.”

Arthur saw red.

Merlin was lowered to the floor in a second and Arthur’s sword was hurtling towards Morgana’s neck in another. He caught a brief flash of surprise on her face before instinct took over and she sidestepped his blow easily. She watched him regain his balance with an increasingly manic expression, hands half-raised as if she couldn’t decide whether or not he was worth defending against. The sight of it awoke an entirely new wave of pure rage within Arthur. He steadied himself, breathing heavily and filled with so much adrenaline that he barely understood what had happened. He raised his sword again and charged.

“Do you know what the best part of this is?” Morgana cackled, redirecting the next few swipes at her head with wordless spells. She moved as gracefully as a dancer, sidestepping and dodging easily and with minimal magic use. “All of this effort and he STILL isn’t proud of you.”

Arthur was growing clumsy, white hot fury guiding his every movement and dwarfing any real combat skills he had.

“Shut up,” he growled. He lunged at her again but was stopped by a sudden metallic clang as his sword collided with another and was thrown from his hands. He stepped back, breathing wildly.

“What the hell are you doing?” Arthur demanded.

Gwen lowered her sword but didn’t sheath it.

Morgana’s eyebrows were raised and her face carried equal parts amusement and shock.

“My hero,” she said, grinning. Gwen ignored her.

“You’re not going to kill her.” Her eyes were more intense than Arthur could ever remember seeing them. “Not before she saves Merlin.”

Arthur couldn’t tell if it was an order or a statement. He also couldn’t tell what he was meant to say to that.

“He was my father,” he finally settled on saying. “I won’t hear any more of her disrespect.”

Morgana scoffed from behind Gwen.

“Only a Pendragon would hear disrespect in the truth.”

You’re trying to turn me against him, aren’t you?” Arthur said quietly, a new theory dawning on him just as quickly as his anger had. “That was your plan, you brought him back like this, you made him angry, you twisted him until-!”

“I would never bring him back.” Morgana said firmly. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Especially not you.”

Arthur couldn’t begin to process the meaning behind those words. He grasped at his anger with everything he could muster, fearful of what lay beneath it.

Morgana raised a hand and Arthur flinched, but she held her palms up in a pacifying motion and rolled her sleeves up above her elbows. Visible for the first time were matching scars, around an inch wide and jaggedly encircling her entire wrist. They stuck out as paper-white bangles against her already pale skin.

Arthur’s throat felt tight.

“You remember how I got these,” Morgana said, barely contained anger causing her voice to tremble. It wasn’t a question, but Arthur nodded anyway.

He pictured Morgana, freshly nineteen and with eyes full of fire, jabbing her finger into the center of their father’s chest and screaming at the top of her lungs about his cruelty and blindness to the truth.

He pictured Guinevere’s face as they’d hauled Tom’s body into the courtyard.

“Uther was alive and well when he threw me into the dungeons,” Morgana continued viciously. Her eyes were wild. “He wasn’t enchanted when he tightened the manacles more than he would’ve for any other prisoner.”

“He was just-!” Arthur’s protest died in his throat when Guinevere wrapped a hand around his arm. She didn’t speak, but the insistent pressure of her fingers against his wrist told Arthur as well as any reprimand that he’d be better off not saying whatever it was he was going to.

Arthur faltered.

“I know it’s not easy,” Morgana admitted, watching him carefully. Arthur thought her voice was softer, but convinced himself he was imagining it. “But that horrible thing that’s gotten into Merlin is our father. He came back like this because that’s who he is. How he’s always been.”

“You’re lying.”

Morgana scoffed.

“I wish I was.”

“He loved me.” When the words left his mouth, everyone seemed to freeze in place.

The only sound left was the rustling leaves above their heads. Morgana’s expression was guarded, her jaw clenched in a way that mirrored Arthur’s own. Guinevere broke the spell first, albeit only by wordlessly releasing Arthur’s arm and crouching to check on Merlin. Gaius joined her, producing a small bottle from his pocket and muttering something that Arthur didn’t quite catch.

He’d meant to say “us,” but the slip didn’t seem to surprise Morgana. She pursed her lips slightly, seeming more curious than upset.

“Do you remember your 13th birthday?”

Arthur frowned.

“Yes,” he admitted, unsure of what she was getting at. “There was a banquet in my honor. Like always.”

“What did you ask Father for?” Morgana said, tilting her head with mock innocence. “Something dreadfully unreasonable, I’m sure.”

Arthur clenched his jaw.

“A day off from training.”

Morgana grinned as if he’d made some sort of clever joke, the punchline of which he didn’t understand yet.

“Tell me,” she said, voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Did you get your birthday wish?”

Arthur could only glare.

“Since your memory seems to be failing you, I’ll gladly recount the events for you,” Morgana drawled with a knifelike smile. “Father was furious. Appalled, really, that his own son could be so weak. He made you train for eight hours straight that day.”

Gwen looked back and forth between Morgana and Arthur, eventually turning to Gaius with a confused expression that he received with a slight nod. Yes, the old man seemed to say. It’s true. I was there.

“If I remember correctly, you collapsed from exhaustion during the banquet,” Morgana continued, eyes wide with faux appalment.

Gaius stood and moved to place a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, eyes filled with sorrow. The sight of it enraged Arthur, and he slapped the old man’s hand away before he even came close.

Arthur averted his gaze, choosing instead to focus on Merlin’s sleeping form. The space behind his eyes began to feel hot, but he ignored it. Crying would prove that Morgana had gotten to him, something which he would never admit.

Morgana seemed to notice his change in expression despite his best efforts, though, and she scoffed.

“How easily such things slip our minds once they’re dead,” she purred. “Wouldn’t it be easier to pretend he was the father we needed?”

“Shut up.”

“I know you’ve no reason to trust me, but I also know I’m your only hope,” Morgana said, putting a hand on her hip. “So if you want my opinion, I think I know what needs to happen.”

“What is it?” Arthur managed to say through gritted teeth.

“You need to let go of Uther,” she said. Her voice had taken on a much softer quality, and she wouldn’t meet his eye.

“I know that already-!”

“No, you don’t need to accept that he’s dead. You’ve done that.” Morgana turned abruptly and stood directly in front of Arthur, looking deep into his eyes.

“You have to let go of the man you wish Uther was.”

Arthur blinked.

“What?”

The corners of Morgana’s mouth quirked up into a wry smile.

“You’re grieving a man who never existed.”

“That’s not true.”

Gaius and Guinevere looped their arms underneath Merlin and began carefully propping him up against a tree much further away. It occurred to Arthur, then, that they were getting him out of harm’s way should Arthur lose his temper again. The guilt followed soon after.

“You’re a sorceress, you can’t be trusted,” Arthur said, though it was more of an affirmation for himself than anything directed against Morgana.

“That has nothing to do with this,” Morgana said viciously. Her brows furrowed as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “You know that, though, don’t you?”

It wasn’t a question.

Her voice was strange, resonating with something Arthur couldn’t name. Her eyes fell on Merlin, then, and she moved to kneel beside him. Guinevere and Gaius visibly tensed, but Morgana didn’t seem to care. She laid a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She frowned.

“Merlin is doing well, all things considered,” she said. “I can feel him in there. He’s stronger than he should be.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, hating every second of her hands being anywhere near Merlin.

For a moment her face was blank, but slowly, the sides of her mouth began to strain against the skin, and a terrible grin crept across her features. She laughed.

“I never understood him,” she chuckled. Then, as if the words had dealt physical damage, she winced.

Arthur wasn’t sure if she was referring to Merlin or Uther, but suspicion prevented him from asking her to elaborate. He fixed his gaze straight ahead and remained silent.

Morgana sighed heavily and retracted her hand, the grin fading to an almost sorrowful look.

“Please believe me when I say that I’ve missed you all.”

“I don’t believe you,” Arthur snapped. Everything about her was screaming deception, and he wasn’t about to be caught unawares again.

“I even miss our father, in a strange way,” Morgana said listlessly, ignoring him. “But I don’t miss Uther. I miss having hope that someday he would change. Start to love us more.”

She cast Merlin a dark look.

“But there’s no better proof that this is who he’ll always be.”

“You’re a sorceress,” Arthur said again. Like last time, it didn’t really help.

Morgana scoffed.

“The difference between you and me, Arthur, is that I had a reason for Father to treat me that way. I could tell myself that the harsh words and the punishments were because of my magic. I could pretend he knew, and was punishing me for it preemptively. But you didn’t have that. You have to accept that there was no reason for what you went through. None.”

“Shut up.”

“You didn’t get treated like that because you messed up at training, or spoke out of turn, or acted indecently. You got treated like that because he was a bad father. It was always his fault. Not yours.”

Morgana was practically spitting out the words like they were poisonous. Her eyes blazed with something resembling frustration.

And for a half second it felt as though Arthur believed her. For a half second, Arthur saw a nine year old boy, carrying a sword that was far too big for him and trying not to cry. He saw the boy hobble around on a broken ankle and fall to his knees before a knight three times his size. He saw the knight hesitate, turn sideways toward a man with crossed arms and a cruel face and ask if His Majesty was sure. The man cast the boy a disgusted look and turned away. The knight raised his sword and the little boy cried for his mother.

Arthur blinked the tears out of his eyes and wiped his face hurriedly, hoping no one had seen the cracks in his resolve.

Morgana’s eyes widened, and for a moment Arthur wondered if she could read minds. But then she pointed over his shoulder, a pleasantly shocked smile blooming on her lips.

Merlin was hauling himself to his feet, his movements jerky and unnatural. His skin was tinged blue and his unsteady steps sent frost creeping along the ground in strange spidery lines. He let out a low groan and rubbed his head, looking utterly bemused when a leaf fell from his hair.

Arthur could do nothing but stare. Morgana was doubled over and laughing as if this was all the funniest thing in the world. Gaius looked like he was afraid to even believe it.

Merlin turned to face him, then, and Arthur froze under his gaze. The blue of his eyes seemed fraught with emotions that were just beneath the surface, unable or unwilling to make themselves clear but real all the same. Then, they cleared all at once, leaving only one behind.

Relief.

Then he smiled. A dazzling, genuine, unhindered smile.

And Arthur could do nothing but mirror it.

Chapter Text

Merlin was still far from capable of walking on his own, but anyone who attempted to support his weight ended up shivering and covered in icicles that stuck painfully to the skin. Morgana attempted to melt some of the ice with magic at first, but it seemed to have no effect on Merlin at the moment. This seemed to disturb her greatly but she brushed it off with a shrug and suggested carrying him in shifts. Only the slight shiftiness of her eyes (a nervous habit Arthur shared and therefore could pick out easily,) betrayed her confusion.

Arthur ended up carrying him alone, gladly bearing the cold and ice despite the pain if it meant keeping Merlin out of Morgana’s hands. Gwen and Gaius offered to take over for him every few minutes or so, but Arthur always insisted he was fine. They didn’t seem to believe him.

The party continued onwards for hours, seldom taking breaks and leaving a trail of winter-like conditions in their wake. Gaius and Gwen eventually moved to the front of the group to avoid slipping on the ice that formed beneath Merlin’s footsteps. Despite being conscious, which was undoubtedly an improvement, Merlin cycled through stages of being incoherent and perfectly alert. His incessant chattering would sometimes cease mid sentence as his eyes glossed over and his blue lips froze together once again, leaving Arthur to hold his breath and pretend he wasn’t afraid he’d drift off again.

“Still here,” Merlin would mutter occasionally, as if he could sense when Arthur’s brain was sending him into a spiral.

He was scared at how much resentment towards Uther flared up in the moments when Merlin couldn’t speak. It had reared its head before during his years of foolish teenage rebellion, but never as violently as it appeared now. Arthur shook it off automatically, filing it under things he’d rather not address in this lifetime. Or the next, for that matter.

“Does he talk to you?” Arthur asked once, keeping his voice low enough that only Merlin could hear.

Beneath his grasp, Merlin tensed. His shoulder felt like ice beneath Arthur’s fingers.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Constantly.”

Arthur didn’t know what answer he’d been hoping for, but that wasn’t it.

An hour passed and it had been awhile since anyone had spoken; Merlin’s labored breathing was the only sound that broke the silence. Growing tired of this, or perhaps just missing the sound of her own voice, Morgana turned around.

“This doesn’t make any sense. He should be dead by now.” Her mouth tightened into a cruel line.

“My bad,” Merlin deadpanned, managing to pull a face despite the thin ice that coated his skin.

Morgana took exactly two seconds to allow herself to look irritated before her carefully aloof expression locked back into place. Gwen stifled a giggle, earning her a sharp glare in return.

“Can we not just count our blessings for once?” Arthur snapped. “Is it so hard to believe that we’ve finally caught a break?”

“Yes, it is,” Gaius piped up.

Arthur allowed himself to stop walking at that, and turned with a hurt expression.

“Gaius?”

The old man seemed weighed down by it all.

“I’m as relieved as anyone to see Merlin alive and well,” he explained quietly. “But Morgana is right. By all accounts, this makes no sense.”

“See?” Morgana grinned, wolflike, and gestured in Merlin’s general direction. “He’s walking around like he’s only got a head cold. Something’s changed in that pathetic little head of his and I don’t think it was to our benefit.”

Arthur began to walk again, shifting Merlin’s weight to his opposite arm and ignoring the rush of cold air that accompanied his touch. It didn’t matter what anyone said, anyways. What mattered was getting Merlin to the Isle of the Blessed.

“Brilliant. You’ve decided to ignore us, then?” Morgana scoffed. “Typical. You truly are Uther’s boy.”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding and continued to walk.

Hours later, when the sun had finally set and the others managed to talk Arthur into stopping for the day, they set up camp. Morgana lit a fire with magic and, deciding it was too cold near Merlin for any sane person to endure, lit a second fire a few meters away for the others to sleep around. Arthur declined, predictably, and set up his sleeping roll by Merlin’s.

Merlin took this in and cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. He stretched himself out against a fallen log and brushed a few snowflakes off of his shoulder, his movements slow and often interrupted by tremors. Arthur sat down beside him, choosing to focus his attention on the twin bedrolls that sat much too close to the flames for his comfort. They would probably be fine despite his worries; they were prevented from burning by the thin coating of seemingly unmelting ice.

“Can’t admit you’ve had enough of the cold, huh?” Merlin quipped. His lips were blue and the grin he gave Arthur was shaky.

“No,” Arthur replied, the snappy tone coming naturally after such a long day. “I don’t trust you alone.”

“Ah, so I should take this as an insult?”

“Of course.“

“Noted. I feel appropriately offended, then.” Merlin yawned and leaned his head back, letting out a puff of breath that carried a flurry of snowflakes with it.

Arthur smiled despite himself. He’d missed this kind of talk. Not that Morgana didn’t keep him adequately occupied, but there was a marked difference in the underlying intent of her jabs. They were meant to hurt. Arthur didn’t know what Merlin’s were meant to do, but he vastly preferred them regardless.

“I suppose I should thank you.” Merlin looked over expectantly, even going so far as to nudge Arthur’s arm when he didn’t get a response. “You’re going through all this trouble to keep me alive, after all.”

He grinned, but upon receiving Arthur’s silence his cheeky expression melted into one of soft concern.

“I know it’s not easy going against your father like this,” Merlin said. “I’m grateful for it. More than I can say, honestly. But if…”

He cut himself off with a long sigh and gave Arthur a sideways glance, obviously conflicted.

“If I don’t make it out of this and Uther ends up sticking around, just…”

“You’re not dying.” Arthur focused his gaze into the fire, telling himself he needed to make sure it stayed lit instead of needing to avoid Merlin’s gaze.

Merlin shrugged.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t given up yet. I’d rather die than… well, die.”

Arthur glanced up, decided Merlin’s tone didn’t sound too defeatist for comfort, and subsequently decided to ignore him.

“Tough crowd.” Merlin whistled a low note, sending another few snowflakes flying in its wake. “Honestly, I’m doing alright. I didn’t expect partial possession to feel so natural. You get used to the cold pretty quickly.”

Arthur glared into the fire.

“I know.”

Confusion, realization, and then regret flashed across Merlin’s face in the span of a single second.

“Right.” He laughed uncomfortably. Then, apparently not understanding when his rambling was being unhelpful, he continued.

“Your father isn’t very nice, you know.”

Arthur glanced over with a sardonic chuckle but didn’t respond. Merlin grinned, too pleased at receiving any sort of reaction to care that it was technically ridicule.

“Seriously. He keeps telling me how disgraceful I am. Going on and on about how I’ve poisoned your mind and all that.” Merlin examined his fingernails as if this were a perfectly normal conversation and Arthur felt like slapping him for it. “I keep trying to tell him that you’ve never listened to me a day in your life but he didn’t seem too keen on listening.”

“Sounds like him.” Arthur glanced over to the other fire, then, and let his eyes pan across the three forms that stood out orange against the dark. Gaius was already asleep. Gwen and Morgana were talking quietly on the other side of the fire, faces betraying a mixture of confusion and relief. Arthur couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Guinevere in particular was puzzling to him. She was completely relaxed; she was listening to Morgana with weary eyes, one hand idly tending the fire with a stick and the other supporting her chin. She chuckled at intervals, making steady eye contact with Morgana and not seeming to care that the woman beside her was a traitor.

Merlin, ever observant, rolled his eyes.

“If she wanted to hurt us she’d have done it by now.”

Arthur ignored him. As usual.

The fire between the two women fizzled out abruptly, and Morgana slowly raised a hand to relight it. She shot a hesitant glance at Gwen who gestured for her to continue. A soft smile crept across the sorceress’s face in response and she looked away, possibly to disguise the expression. Her eyes turned yellow for a moment and the fire roared back to life. Gwen didn’t even blink, just mouthed a “Thank you” and abandoned her stick.

“She isn’t even scared,” Arthur mused to himself. He winced immediately, becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that Merlin was still sitting within earshot.

“All Morgana did was relight the fire,” Merlin pointed out. “Nothing dangerous.”

“She’s lost herself to sorcery,” Arthur murmured, turning to face Merlin fully. The other man’s eyes were bright with an emotion that Arthur couldn’t pinpoint. “I don’t think Guinevere understands that.”

Merlin’s face fell, and he broke eye contact before Arthur could register what he’d said that was wrong.

“You have opinions,” he realized a beat too late. “What is it?”

Merlin shrugged.

“I want to hear them,” Arthur pried. “I promise I’ll listen.”

Merlin glanced up and smiled, though it seemed sharper than usual.

“That’s a start.”

The silence that followed dragged on for nearly ten minutes. Arthur spent the first five kicking himself for not realizing that Merlin was a terrible person to criticize Guinevere in front of. Those two had been friends far longer than Arthur was with either of them, and they were each other’s main confidants from what Arthur could tell. He spent the last five minutes letting himself feel slightly irritated at how long Merlin was taking to break the silence. Merlin was a chatty person by nature, so silences from him were usually a very bad sign.

The air around them grew significantly colder.

Merlin stared into the fire for most of the time, but eventually seemed to give up on holding anything back. He turned, literal and figurative ice in his gaze, and spoke matter of factly.

“I think Morgana’s problems lie outside of sorcery.”

Arthur cocked an eyebrow, excited for a response but taken aback by the actual words that were said.

“I think she did terrible things with magic,” Merlin explained. “But not because of magic.”

His gaze was cold. The blue of his eyes seemed to writhe deep into Arthur’s very core, uprooting the warm feelings that Merlin’s presence usually gave him. It was unnerving.

“She was fine before she started practicing magic,” Arthur countered.

Merlin sighed, pure irritation in the look he gave Arthur.

“Gaius told me there used to be healers before the Great Purge. Physicians that used magic instead of herbs. I don’t believe that those people were corrupted when all they did was help people.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes instinctively but allowed the words to sink in. He remembered the story Merlin made up about the benevolent sorcerer in Ealdor and began to wonder if it wasn’t made up at all.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Arthur said quietly, though Merlin’s frigid gaze was still eating away at his resolve. “But I’ve seen the damage myself. I lost both of my parents to magic. Morgana, too. My entire family, Merlin. All gone because of sorcery.”

Arthur reached out towards the other man’s shoulder but recoiled when his hand went numb from the contact.

“You’re freezing.”

Arthur held his palm out towards the fire, avoiding Merlin’s eyes. They were unsettling. When he finally turned back to look at him, Merlin’s face was tinged blue. His eyes had a strange white film over them, like frosted glass. His pupils began to disappear, as if the blue of his irises were bleeding into the rest of his eyes. Arthur’s stomach gave a violent lurch, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Merlin must have read some of this on his face, for he grinned, his breath stinging Arthur’s face with sharp pinpricks of ice.

“How many people lost their entire family in the Great Purge?”

His voice was low and gravelly. It scarcely sounded like Merlin at all.

Arthur froze, anger and disbelief clouding his vision and briefly overtaking his revulsion. He couldn’t even speak.

Merlin chuckled beside him.

“You don’t even know how many, do you? I’d wager you never cared enough to ask.”

The moment the words left his lips he froze, turning to Arthur with panic stricken eyes. Some of the film cleared and he clasped a white hand over his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to…” He let the words die in his throat, a mask of confusion falling over his features.

It must have been Uther, Arthur managed to realize through the haze. He understood the hostility that came with his father’s presence and recognized it in Merlin’s voice subconsciously, even if the words were entirely unlike Uther. That didn’t stop the bitter taste of betrayal from creeping back onto his tongue, however. He set his jaw and waved a hand, pretending to be dismissive.

“That’s not fair to you.” Merlin turned away, obviously not buying it. After a moment, though, he tensed.

“I’m not sorry for saying it.”

Arthur forced himself to look Merlin in the eye, scanning for either dishonesty or traces of Uther’s influence, for he refused to believe that these were Merlin’s words.

Merlin’s eyes were foggy again, but there was less ice than before.

“If I’m going to die I want you to know how I feel,” he explained. “And I feel as though the thing that corrupted Morgana wasn’t her magic, it was how your father treated those with magic.”

Arthur still couldn’t speak. His tongue felt like lead and his head was spinning.

“I don’t blame you for how you feel. I couldn’t. Not even if I tried. But if you’re going to accept your father for who he is, or let go, or do whatever this ritual needs you to do to get rid of him,” Merlin spat, the words coming out quickly and steadily growing in volume. “Then you need to accept that magic isn’t always the grand evil that he raised you to believe it is.”

“Magic is evil,” Arthur snarled, his voice suddenly returning. “It took everything from me.”

“It’s the last real pillar of control Uther has over you,” Merlin shot back, just as vicious. “As long as you keep this up he’ll never leave you alone.”

He gestured to Guinevere and Morgana, and Arthur followed his gaze reluctantly. Morgana’s eyes were blazing golden, her fingers delicately twirling through the air and creating pictures out of the embers from the fire. Little images of roses, vines, birds, and butterflies rose from her fingertips, sailing into the sky and dissipating once they reached the treeline. Guinevere watched quietly, her eyes wide with awe and a huge grin on her face. It was the happiest Arthur had seen her in weeks.

“Gwen isn’t calm because she believes Morgana hasn’t done anything wrong, she’s calm because she knows Morgana won’t hurt her. At least not yet,” Merlin said, the earlier venom creeping back into his voice. “It’s not the magic that frightens her. It never was. So stop treating her like she’s an idiot for enjoying this while it lasts.”

Merlin winced immediately, regret dawning on his face.

“They missed each other,” he finished, nudging Arthur’s shoulder gently. “Guinevere isn’t naive; she knows Morgana is dangerous. She also knows it’s not because she’s a sorceress.” The tenderness of it shocked him more than any of the prior conversations had. Arthur faced him abruptly, caught between a sudden anger and an all-consuming confusion that had lingered for months, now.

“Why?” He spluttered, finding nothing more articulate to say.

Merlin shrugged.

“They care about each other,” he said, a smile on his lips that was deeply saddened in a way that Arthur couldn’t begin to understand.

“I don’t understand,” Arthur admitted, searching Merlin’s expressions for some indication of what to say. What the right thing to say even was, for he couldn’t tell at the moment. He had a looming sense that he was being offered something extremely precious and was equal parts confused by it and terrified of losing it.

Merlin sighed.

“Do you think your father still loves Morgana?”

“Of course,” Arthur said quickly. “Her betrayal wouldn't have destroyed him if it didn’t.”

“Do you still love her?” Merlin looked up, eyes slightly narrowed.

“We grew up together, of course I do,” Arthur insisted. “She’ll always be my little sister.”

“Then you do understand. Possibly better than anyone.”

Arthur scoffed.

“Morgana is my family. Guinevere was only her servant.”

Merlin‘s entire demeanor grew hostile in an instant. Arthur realized what he’d said far too late to do anything about it, so he remained firm.

Merlin stared back at him, eyes blazing with something unnameable. Arthur fought the urge to look away, unable to shake the feeling that he was being tested. Like this was the most important conversation he would ever have.

“Why are you so passionate about this all of a sudden?” He challenged, suddenly angry. Merlin’s eyes widened minutely, giving Arthur just enough leeway to dig the knife in further.

He knew exactly why Merlin was acting this way. He didn’t care. He just needed release.

“First that story about the sorcerer back in Ealdor and now this. What am I meant to make of this?”

“Arthur.” It sounded like a warning.

“You know how difficult this has been for me,” Arthur snapped. “All I want to do is release my father’s soul and keep you alive. I don’t need this from you.”

Merlin turned away at that, an almost derisive grin on his face that quickly turned into a grimace as seconds passed. He shook his head, sending a shower of snowflakes into the fire, and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. He makes me want to say things,” Merlin said slowly. “Things I’d normally never say.” He shuddered once, violently, and wrapped his arms around himself.

Arthur allowed himself a moment to calm down before answering.

“I know,” he said bitterly, though his voice had lost some of its edge. “He was in my head for weeks.”

Merlin let out a wry chuckle.

“I think he’s trying to make it easier for you. You won’t need to mourn if you hate me before I’m gone.”

Arthur frowned. He watched Merlin’s profile carefully. Backlit by the fire, Merlin seemed to glow with quietly contained rage. It was an expression Arthur recognized.

“Is that really how you feel?” Arthur asked quietly. He already knew the answer.

Merlin’s eyes slid shut. He nodded.

“Yes.”

“You believe magic is a force for good? After all it’s done?” Arthur couldn’t keep the betrayal out of his voice.

“I don’t believe it’s a force for good,” Merlin admitted. “But I don’t believe it’s a force for evil, either. It’s just a force.”

He ran a hand through his hair, which appeared almost white from the snow that coated it. Arthur frowned.

“Like a sword?” The king asked. “Evil men with swords cause harm, good men with swords prevent harm?”

Merlin cracked a small smile.

“Not really.”

“What’s the difference?”

“People aren’t born with swords in their hands.” Merlin answered simply, folding his hands in his lap and closing his eyes as if the conversation was over.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“That’s not true. Gaius told me himself; nobody is born with magic.”

Merlin kicked a ball of snow into the fire, watching the thin tendril of smoke it created snake into the air.

“You don’t believe that.”

Arthur froze as the truth in Merlin’s words sank in. He was right, somehow, but Arthur hadn’t realized it until he’d said it.

“I’m sorry that you believe it’s just a weapon,” Merlin said quietly. “It’s natural that it would look like that from where you’re standing. It’s only ever been used against you.”

Arthur could do nothing but stare, hanging on Merlin’s every word like a lifeline.

“But it can be used to heal, too.” His words came out like a sigh, and his lips curled up into a soft smile. “It can be beautiful.”

The combination of Merlin’s smile with the snowflakes on his eyelashes and the firelight on his skin made Arthur feel like he was losing his mind.

“Do you speak from experience?” He asked, grinning as if it were a joke but feeling like he might pass out.

Merlin only offered him a sad smile in return.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

He stood and made his way to his bedroll. Arthur did the same, casting one last look at the other fire. Guinevere was asleep, and Morgana was sitting by herself atop a log, still forming pictures from the embers. She looked up abruptly and caught Arthur’s eye. After a tense silence, she raised a hand in a sort of half-hearted greeting.

Arthur returned the gesture.

He settled down into his bedroll, thoughts buzzing at a million miles a second. He rolled over and pulled the ice-covered blankets closer around him.

He didn’t sleep.

Chapter Text

Merlin grew steadily worse.

No one wanted to acknowledge it, least of all Arthur. He pretended that his arms weren’t numb from Merlin’s contact and ignored the searing pain that shot through his raw fingertips every time he moved. It didn’t matter.

Gaius and Gwen took to walking even further ahead to try and avoid the cold; the radius of Merlin’s icy footsteps had increased dramatically and he was turning the forest white forty feet in every direction.

Morgana attempted in vain to melt some of the ice directly in front of Arthur. Her magic had no effect. She didn’t comment on it, though she seemed to pale even more at the sight.

Merlin hadn’t spoken for hours. It was beginning to feel like carrying a corpse, a thought which Arthur immediately drove from his mind the moment it surfaced. He snuck glances at Merlin frequently, disguising the action as a quick turn of the head over his shoulder to check if the path was safe. Arthur didn’t quite understand who he was concealing this from; everyone else was far ahead and it would certainly go unnoticed if he looked backwards occasionally.

He glanced over again. Merlin was practically dead weight; his head was slumped against Arthur’s shoulder and he could barely keep his eyes open longer than a few seconds.

Merlin’s skin was still faintly blue tinged. His cracked lips were turning purple and there seemed to be a thin coating of ice on every inch of his skin, forming intricate designs of frost that crept across his face and hair like veins. It was pretty in a twisted way.

As if he could feel Arthur’s gaze on him, Merlin’s eyes fluttered open. Arthur winced. He missed the blue; it had been hours since its last appearance and currently, Merlin’s eyes were still completely white. It was hard to tell where he was looking anymore, since his pupils had also disappeared beneath the ice.

“Can you speak?” Arthur asked, voice barely a whisper. He held his breath.

Merlin lifted his head slightly, grimacing with the effort, and nodded once.

Arthur let the breath out with a sigh. He was still coherent. Good.

“Can I ask you something?”

A pause. Another nod.

Arthur tore his eyes away from Merlin’s face for what came next.

“Last night.” The rest of his words died in his throat. Guilt overtook him suddenly; this could be the last time he ever got to speak with Merlin while he was alive and he was wasting it on this. It was ridiculous. He knew what Merlin was trying to say that night. He would be a fool not to. He also knew that it was selfish to demand to hear it out loud.

Why, then, did he care so much? Why did he need to hear it for anything to seem real? To seem worth it? Arthur knew. Why wasn’t that enough?

Perhaps he was waiting for the anger, for the blind and bloody tidal wave of betrayal and resentment that was five years in the making, demanding recompense for the years Merlin had spent lying to him. But it wasn’t here and Arthur wasn’t an idiot, he knew it wasn’t coming. It didn’t exist. He understood why he wasn’t told.

The implications of what this meant for Uther were not far from his mind. If magic truly wasn’t evil, (and it couldn’t be, if Merlin had been born with it,) then his father had spent over twenty years executing and persecuting innocent people. Arthur turned Merlin’s words from that night over in his mind. Perhaps this was what he needed to reckon with. The last pillar of control.

Innocent blood, spilled by the hundred gallons, all in the name of a lie. More blood coated Arthur’s own hands. All of the violence avoidable. All of it unnecessary.

Did Uther know? Was he truly so fearful? So hateful of his own people that he pretended their deaths were deserved even while knowing they were not?

Was his mother’s name tainted by thousands of murders out of his father’s grief, or was she merely a convenient excuse for a madman’s power trip?

Arthur felt sick.

He looked towards Guinevere and felt a weight unlike anything he’d ever felt before descend upon him.

Merlin had begged him to understand her. And Arthur had pushed back in every way he knew how. He promised to listen and he hadn’t. The unspoken hypothetical had been lost on him.

He thought about Morgana, then.

She had grown up under Uther’s rule. It’s no wonder, a small voice in Arthur’s head whispered. She was doomed from the moment of her birth.

Arthur watched the sorceress ahead of him, feeling nauseous.

She was thirteen when she had her first nightmare. Nightmares, Arthur now understood, that were actually visions.

Prophetic. Rare. Indicative of sorcery.

Only thirteen.

The closer they got to the Isle, the less Gwen and Morgana seemed to speak. They must’ve known that their time together was limited in a way that Arthur could never grasp, in a way he could never fully allow himself to. Morgana must’ve been aware that she would be back to being the enemy tomorrow. And Guinevere must’ve been aware that she would go back to being nothing but a target tomorrow.

But for now, they just walked.

Arthur looked back to Merlin and found him struggling to stay awake. It was now or never. He needed to ask. It was only four words with an inevitable answer, anyways. Arthur closed his eyes briefly and took in a steadying breath. When he opened them, Merlin was smiling. Smiling, but with a sorrow so heavy Arthur felt like he was going to drown. Arthur’s question froze on his tongue.

“No matter how hard we try,” Merlin said, his voice quiet and strained with effort. “Eventually we’re all found out.”

Arthur stared, unable to respond.

Merlin’s eyes slid closed and he sighed.

“I was born with it, you know.”

Arthur lowered his gaze to the floor. He wanted to be angry. It was easier than whatever this was. This was something unnameable, something in between every emotion he was familiar with. It just felt like nothing.

Merlin watched him carefully for a reaction. Finally, Arthur nodded.

“I know.”

Merlin grinned at that, eyes glassy and vacant. He lost consciousness soon after.

Arthur gripped Merlin’s shoulder tighter, as if he could force him to hang on. He couldn’t die. Not when Arthur had only just begun to know him.

After another tense hour or two, Morgana paused up ahead, her face turned to the sky.

“We’re here.”

The Isle was mostly obscured by mist, with unnaturally dark water surrounding the base of the decrepit structures. They looked like old castles, or perhaps a temple, long forgotten and crumbling with age.

Arthur squinted through the mist and felt a pit of dread settle within his stomach. He’d heard Uther talk about this place only once, and with an almost fearful reverence. It seemed to hold power far beyond what his father was comfortable dismissing as merely superstition. This memory combined with Gaius’s reluctance to take Merlin in the first place left Arthur feeling very, very small. There was something so obviously greater than himself on this Isle, something that would have nothing to do with a Pendragon.

Or perhaps more likely, the power within the Isle of the Blessed was so old and so great that a single man would mean nothing to it.

Arthur shuddered.

Only the centermost area of the Isle even had land that one could stand on, though there was no obvious way to reach it without a boat.

Gwen turned around when she reached the edge of the water and hummed quietly. Gaius raised an inquisitive eyebrow and she silently pointed at Merlin. Confusion and then realization dawned on Gaius’s face.

“Arthur?” He called.

The king looked up, still shivering violently. Merlin stirred slightly and renewed waves of stinging pain accompanied his movements. It was almost as if he had frozen to Arthur’s skin.

Arthur glanced at the water and understood immediately what they were trying to tell him. He nodded, his lips chattering too violently to respond verbally.

Morgana rolled her eyes.

“It won’t work. Not even my magic is strong enough to affect the water around the Isle.”

Arthur ignored her, focusing instead on placing one frozen foot in front of the other. He was nearing the edge, and Merlin’s sphere of icy influence was creeping towards the water.

Gaius and Gwen stepped out of his way, violent shivers overtaking them as he passed.

“Did you hear me? It won’t work,” Morgana snapped. “The Isle is filled with the entire concentrated power of the Old Religion. It’s been protected from trespassers for centuries, and you’re a fool if you think-!”

She cut herself off abruptly as the edge of the water froze solid.

Arthur kept walking wordlessly, and when he set foot on the ice it held his weight with no protest. The water further ahead began to freeze beneath his steps. Or Merlin’s, more accurately. He glanced backwards and waved a hand, indicating that the others should follow.

Gaius and Gwen set off immediately, carefully making their way across the ice and using each other as support. Morgana remained on the bank, eyes wide.

“Morgana?” Arthur turned as the footsteps behind him came to a halt. Guinevere had a hand outstretched towards Morgana, who was still staring straight ahead with a stormy expression. She locked eyes with Arthur from across the water and something in her green eyes seemed to snap. Arthur felt his blood run cold. He recognized that expression, particularly because it was one that seldom appeared on his sister’s face. Fear.

Morgana stepped carefully down onto the ice and, once it was clear it would hold her weight, began walking quickly.

Gwen smiled and retracted her hand.

“See? It’s actually quite easy to walk on.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Morgana replied coldly, shouldering past Guinevere and almost knocking her over. Gwen took a moment to look hurt before anger fell over her features. She continued helping Gaius across, though her eyes were considerably darkened.

Morgana reached Arthur and roughly placed a hand on Merlin’s other shoulder. Upon seeing Arthur’s startled expression she tightened her grip.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping.”

Something in her tone scared Arthur.

They reached the center of the Isle in silence, and Merlin was placed onto a stone altar in the center of what looked to be an old courtyard. Arthur stood by restlessly, grateful for a break from the cold but watching Morgana’s every move like a hawk. The witch laid out the contents of the bag and began arranging them in circles around Merlin, whispering small spells over every single one.

Gaius watched her as well, frequently checking his notes to ensure she was actually doing the correct ritual.

Guinevere opted to stand beside Arthur, clasping her hands around his in an attempt to warm them up.

“He’ll be okay,” she whispered, smiling softly. “He always is.”

It didn’t comfort Arthur in the slightest, but he managed a smile for Gwen’s sake. She was just as scared as him, he knew.

The ritual materials seemed to consist of several little bags filled with plants and marked with complex symbols in a language Arthur didn’t know. They formed six increasingly large circles around the center platform. The ice surrounding Merlin just barely fit within the sixth circle. Nobody commented on it, but Arthur suspected it meant they were only just in time.

Once Morgana was finished enchanting the bags, she turned to Gaius who nodded his approval.

“It’s all ready,” he announced. “Arthur, you’ll need to stand opposite of Morgana, on the other side of the third circle.”

Arthur did as he was told, feeling uneasy.

“Guinevere, you’ll stand over here with me. We must remain outside the circle at all times. No matter what. We don’t want to add yet another soul to this ritual.”

“Will we be able to see them?” Guinevere asked, casting Merlin an anxious glance.

“No. Only those within the circle will be able to see.”

Gwen squeezed Arthur’s hand one last time and moved to stand by Gaius.

The old man nodded grimly.

“Let’s begin.”

Morgana caught Arthur’s eye one last time and raised her eyebrows.

“Ready,” Arthur said, inferring the meaning behind her look.

She nodded and raised her arms towards the sky. Her eyes blazed gold and she began to speak, loudly and clearly, in the language of the Old Religion. The same language Arthur had heard many a sorcerer direct at him in their numerous failed attempts to kill him.

The language Merlin knew.

Immediately, the circles on the floor began to glow with a deep red light. Arthur looked up at Morgana, startled, but she kept on chanting. He calmed down slightly, guessing that this was part of the ritual after all.

Then Merlin began to float.

Arthur could only watch in horror as Merlin’s body was lifted ten feet into the air, his limbs dangling beneath him as if a rope had been tied around his waist. Then, with another word from Morgana, he grew rigid and his eyes shot open. The ice melted from his eyes and skin all at once, and he was lowered back to the altar, free from the cold.

At the same time, there was a loud crack as if lightning had struck directly in front of him and the circles grew even brighter. Arthur blinked through the light to see two figures had appeared before him.

Merlin, his body translucent and glowing. His father’s spirit, looking the same as he always had. The two were motionless, floating a few inches above the ground with their eyes shut and their heads bowed.

Merlin’s body lay on the altar, white and unmoving.

Arthur felt sick.

Morgana lowered her arms. Her hands were shaking. She turned, an almost sympathetic look in her eyes.

“It’s up to you now. Listen carefully: the ritual is vague on what exactly you have to do, but it’s likely you’ll need to verbalize whatever you need to accept. Rituals from this time period generally place emphasis on the power of words. Figure out what you’ve been avoiding about Father, say it out loud, and make damn sure that you believe it when you do.”

“Of course.” Arthur was numb with anxiety, barely processing her words but trying all the same. Morgana nodded, satisfied.

“Most importantly,” she added, her voice dropping into a low warning. “Don’t think about Merlin. Don’t even talk to him. If you come to even the slightest realization about him, no matter how small, the ritual may take him instead. Don’t verbalize anything unless it’s about Uther.”

Then she grinned, something sharp in her eyes.

“See to it that the bastard stays dead this time, brother.”

She stepped backwards out of the circle.

Immediately, the two spirits’ eyes snapped open. Merlin let out a small gasp and his hands immediately flew up to touch his face. Uther was understandably less shocked, having been dead for much longer than Merlin. The dead king reacted to his surroundings first, bristling with rage and pointing an accusatory finger at Arthur.

“Have you learned nothing?”

“Father,” Arthur greeted, pretending he didn’t feel like turning and running away.

The spirit’s eyes narrowed.

“You have put both your life and the kingdom’s future in the hands of a sorceress,” Uther growled. “All in the name of that boy.” He spat out the last word as if it were poisonous. Merlin remained silent, running his hands up and down his arms and looking nearly as sick as Arthur felt.

Arthur didn’t speak at first, opting instead to let his father wear himself out before attempting to defend himself. Hopefully, this would make things easier. While Uther spoke, Arthur could try to “let go” or “accept his father for who he really is” or whatever he needed to do. It was vague at best and utterly incomprehensible at worst.

Uther took his silence in with an almost bored raise of the eyebrow.

“Alright,” he drawled. “Perhaps an apology is in order.”

Uther’s lips curled into a sneer and he gestured to where Gaius and Guinevere were standing outside of the circle.

“I was wrong to attack the maid,” Uther said. “If only because I misjudged her importance to you.”

The ghost gestured to Merlin, then. His body, not his soul.

“He is the true threat.”

“You’re a liar.” Arthur responded immediately, forgetting himself.

Uther’s eyebrows shot up.

“Arthur?” He looked as if he were seeing his son for the first time.

“I have questions,” Arthur said, keeping his voice level. “You’re going to answer them honestly. You owe me as much.”

Uther cast a sideways glance at Morgana, who was still outside the circle. The action sparked a deep anger within Arthur and he repeated himself more forcefully.

“You’re going to answer me honestly.”

The ghost’s expression darkened. He nodded.

Arthur let out a small sigh of relief.

“My mother,” he began. “How did she die?”

“She was killed by a sorceress,” Uther supplied immediately.

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

“All those years ago, Morgause said-“

“She’s a liar. All sorceresses lie,” Uther cut in.

“Don’t interrupt me.”

This, of all things, was what genuinely surprised Uther. He fell silent, though his eyes were practically glowing with thinly veiled anger.

“You know I take no pleasure in discussing what happened to Ygraine.” The spirit’s eyes almost seemed sad. Arthur remained stoic.

“I’ll make this easy for you then. Just answer with ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Can you manage that?” Any vow to remain civil was quickly fading in the face of Uther’s evasiveness.

Uther glared. He glanced around, likely realizing he had little choice.

He nodded.

“Were you warned about my mother’s death?” Arthur asked. He was surprised by the strength of his voice.

Uther remained silent. After a few minutes, though, he shook his head. Just once, but it was enough.

“Were you warned that a life would be taken?” Arthur rephrased.

A pause. A nod.

“Thank you,” Arthur said quietly. “I only have one more thing to ask.”

“Anything, Arthur.” The spirit’s words did little to ease the pit in Arthur’s stomach.

Merlin was shooting panicked glances back and forth. He caught Arthur’s eye and immediately let his gaze fall to the floor. I hope you know what you’re doing, the action said.

Arthur took a deep breath and looked his father dead in the eyes.

“Do you believe that magic is evil?”

Uther hesitated.

He hesitated.

Never once in his entire life had Uther needed to think about the answer to that question. The answer had always been sharp, immediate, and overwhelmingly affirmative. Of course magic was evil. It was as ingrained as every other piece of knowledge Arthur had been fed his entire life.

The sky was blue.

Words hurt.

Fire burned.

Swords cut.

Magic was evil.

But Uther had hesitated.

Arthur wasn’t going to wait for an answer, and Uther seemed to realize he didn’t even need one. His father sighed.

“I wish you hadn’t forced me to take such drastic measures, Arthur,” he said. “But I cannot leave you alone to rule while a traitor sits by your side. I speak not as your king, but as your father. Please.”

Not Merlin, Arthur thought. He couldn’t hear anything about Merlin. Not yet.

He couldn’t deny the paranoia that creeped into the edges of his vision upon hearing Uther’s words, though.

The dead king’s face melted into a scowl at the lack of response.

Merlin only stared, eyes wide. He seemed to understand, whether implicitly or because he’d heard Morgana earlier, that it was best if he remained silent.

“I understand the heartbreak that knowledge such as this can bring, son,” Uther continued. His tone seemed softer. Almost sympathetic. He reached his hand forward and laid it on Arthur’s shoulder.

“I never wanted this for you. So, as my final act of mercy, I will offer you the choice to not hear it. You needn’t know how Merlin has betrayed you.”

He smiled.

“Step out of the circle. Let us both be free of this mess.”

Arthur froze. He glanced at Merlin, who was still refusing to meet his eye.

He looked back to his father and shook his head, his decision made.

Uther sighed, seeming genuinely regretful. It was unnerving.

“I have been inside Merlin’s head,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen every thought he’s ever had, and I know him better than you ever will. Believe me when I say that this boy is your enemy.”

“Because of his magic?” Arthur scoffed, his anger surging in suddenly. “Yes, Father. I know all about it and I couldn’t care less. You can’t hold it over my head anymore.”

Uther didn’t respond, instead cracking a small smile.

Arthur saw red.

“You’ve admitted yourself that such things aren’t markers of evil,” he roared. “Your entire reign was built on the blood of innocents. You defiled my mother’s memory. I killed for you. I trusted you. We all did. I trusted that you would never lead me astray, and instead you have slaughtered hundreds of thousands of your own people like animals.”

Arthur stopped himself, breathing heavily.

“And you would dare call Merlin a traitor?”

Arthur suddenly became aware of Morgana, Gaius, and Gwen in his peripherals. They looked on with wide eyes, shell-shocked. Morgana was the first to break the spell, glancing around expectantly and frowning at the silence that followed.

“If that didn’t do it,” she muttered grimly. “I don’t know what will.”

Uther’s eyes narrowed.

“You have your mother’s spirit.”

“Don’t.” Arthur glared.

“What you’ve predictably failed to acknowledge, Arthur, is that I did those things to protect you,” Uther replied sternly. “Magic leads us to heartbreak. I wished to prevent you from making my same mistakes. Ygraine was taken from me because I was a fool. I was taken from you for the same reason.”

Arthur faltered.

“What do you mean?”

Uther extended an arm and, in a gesture that seemed far too similar to something Arthur might have done, clasped it around Merlin’s shoulder. Arthur’s blood ran cold.

“I fear you won’t believe me if you don’t hear it straight from the source,” Uther drawled. “Being as far gone as you are.”

“Merlin?” Arthur turned to face him, and the blue eyes finally allowed themselves to meet his gaze.

“Arthur…”

He sounded sorrowful.

“Whatever honor you have left,” Uther snarled into Merlin’s ear. “I suggest you call upon it now. Tell him the truth.”

Arthur reminded himself to remain silent. No matter what he was about to be told. He must remain silent. No matter what Merlin did, it wasn’t worth losing him.

“Arthur,” Merlin said quietly. “I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to.”

Arthur could barely hear him over his own thoughts.

“Tell him.” Uther gave Merlin a violent shove, causing him to stagger a few feet forward until he was directly in front of Arthur.

Arthur set his jaw and nodded, an indication to spit whatever it was out and let things move forward, if only to stop this miserable display his father was putting on. Merlin returned the nod and stood perfectly straight, backlit by the red light of the circles. He sighed, and his expression softened into one of resignation.

“It was me. I killed Uther.”

Chapter Text

Arthur didn’t say a word. He couldn’t even if he tried.

His thoughts had taken the forms of images rather than words; he saw fleeting glimpses of both his father and Merlin’s life as if they were a river, rushing senselessly towards a point in the distance that was beyond Arthur’s view.

He saw Merlin on the first day he arrived to Camelot, tall and thin and fierce, filled to the brim with some overwhelming sense of justice that Arthur couldn’t understand, even if he felt some strange and impossibly strong desire to try.

He understood it, now. The innate anger Merlin seemed to carry on that day. The anger that had been directed at Arthur himself, for reasons that seemed all too blatant in hindsight.

He saw his father smiling, holding a small dagger in his hands. It was elegant, bearing a dark blue gem in the center and missing most of the elaborate carvings that daggers of its kind usually bore. Arthur reached out a small hand to touch it. He was young.

Uther was young, too. His hair was dark and his smile was wide, still more or less untouched by old age. He winked mischievously and placed the dagger on Arthur’s bedside table.

“Happy birthday, Arthur.” He stood up, his back straight and his posture regal. As Arthur watched, his eyes lost their warmth and grew weary. He cast Arthur a conflicted glance and sighed, a grave expression falling over his features.

“Enemies can come from everywhere. Even within our own homes. It’s my job to prepare you for it.”

He ruffled Arthur’s hair with a hand and left, gesturing to the knife as he went.

“You’d better figure out how to use that soon,” he said, turning his head with a small smile. “Morgana is none too pleased that you’re getting one before her.”

“Thank you, Father,” Arthur heard himself say in a small voice. “I love you.”

Uther seemed taken aback by this. His eyebrows knitted together and he raised a hand in a sort of half hearted wave goodbye.

“I love you. More than you’ll ever know.”

Then he was gone.

Arthur saw his death, next. He saw his father’s serene face and wide smile grow sour and turn to cold fear. He saw the rosy cheeks turn grey and his blue eyes roll back and he saw that his father was gone.

He saw himself crying.

The rage seeped in immediately after.

He didn’t understand how he never realized the sorcerer was crying, too. His wrinkled hands extended forward as if to grip his father’s face, as if to pay his respects. Or perhaps it was to make sure the curse had worked, to ensure that the man was dead and throttle him if he was not. Arthur couldn’t be sure.

Arthur blinked, and reality smashed back into his awareness with ten tons of force. He couldn’t breathe. He looked to Merlin, who seemed to have given up on being afraid. Pieces of the Merlin from his memory were floating to the surface, defiant as they’d always been. He stood with a tense jaw and clenched fists, taking several deep, steadying breaths.

“I’m Dragoon,” Merlin admitted. “I always have been.”

Arthur’s mouth tasted like blood. He saw a familiar set of blue eyes in an old man’s face that seemed to peer into his very soul. He saw those eyes turn gold. He saw his father die.

Merlin took in his lack of response with a pained expression. He sighed. Arthur stared. The old Merlin wasn’t like this. This Merlin was softer. Calmer. Devoid of the fire that had colored their first interaction.

Arthur found himself wondering where it had gone.

Perhaps it had slipped away along with his father.

“I thought that I could change your mind about magic,” Merlin explained. “I thought that I could save Uther and fix everything and then I’d tell you and…”

He hesitated, looking deflated.

“I’m sorry. I tried to save him. I swear.”

Arthur closed his eyes briefly and ran a hand down his face. Each word from Merlin felt like a physical blow.

He still couldn’t speak.

“He’s a liar,” Uther scoffed, moving to place himself between Merlin and Arthur. “Look at me, son. Didn’t I warn you? Didn’t I tell you you couldn’t trust him? Your fondness for the boy has led you to nothing but heartbreak.”

Arthur didn’t respond, and Uther’s eyes narrowed.

“It was only a matter of time before one of his kind took their revenge on our family.”

“I never wanted revenge,” Merlin snapped. “If I did, you would know. Believe me.”

Uther laughed out loud at that, and pointed to Arthur aggressively. The smile he gave Merlin was manic. Almost triumphant.

“I was in your head, boy. I know exactly what you want.”

Merlin paled.

“Enough.” Arthur cut in.

Uther turned, eyes filled with a strange combination of malice and something resembling sorrow.

“What are you waiting for?” He snarled. “You know what you must do. Step out of the circle. Allow me to go in peace knowing that the traitor will go with me.”

Uther’s features softened slightly and he chanced a small smile.

“Please,” he said quietly. “I want to leave this life knowing that you will be safe. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Grant me this one thing, Arthur. That’s all I ask.”

Uther spoke as if it were trivial. A mere favor.

Arthur’s heart sank. The spirit before him did not resemble the Uther from his memories in anything except name.

Or maybe he did, but to a more uncomfortable degree. Perhaps he was the same, only more desperate.

Less redeemable.

He’d murdered thousands in the name of a lie. Did he really have a reason to see one more man’s life as any worse? Would it even make sense?

Arthur sidestepped and addressed Merlin directly, whose head snapped up as if he’d been expecting to be ignored.

“Do you regret it?” Arthur asked. “Killing him?”

“I regret the pain that it caused you,” Merlin said immediately. “Sometimes I wonder if things would be better if I hadn’t even tried, but I know that if I were given the chance to go back, I’d do it all again.”

His blue eyes rose to meet Arthur’s.

“Somebody had to try.”

The familiar blue. Always so familiar. How had he never seen it before?

“And if someone else had tried?” Arthur asked. He didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

Merlin frowned.

“I don’t know what-“

“If I had gone to someone else for help,” Arthur interrupted. “If my father had ended up dead through no fault of your own, how would you feel?”

From outside the circle there came a soft gasp that Arthur assumed to be from Guinevere. His wording could have been better, he reflected. Now those outside the circle had heard about what Merlin had done.

“I would have been heartbroken for you,” Merlin answered carefully, eyes darting to the side. “I would have been upset that you had to experience the loss of a father.”

Arthur closed his eyes again. Merlin was avoiding the true question.

“You’d celebrate, wouldn’t you?”

“No. I could never celebrate someone’s death.” Merlin shot Uther a venomous sideways glance. “Not even his.”

Uther, for once in his life, was speechless.

“You felt all of that heartbreak anyways, though.” Arthur looked Merlin dead in the eyes. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Merlin admitted.

“You hated him.”

“Sometimes.”

“For what he did to your people?”

“Partly.”

“Partly?”

“That’s only the start of it. The other part is what he did to you.”

Merlin’s expression turned grim.

“And what he still does to you.”

Arthur winced.

Uther bristled with rage and placed himself between the two once again. He pointed at Merlin.

“He admitted it. He wanted me dead.”

Arthur remained silent, multiplying Uther’s rage tenfold. He smiled, though it was more of a grimace, and moved his face until it was only inches from Arthur’s.

“I didn’t realize I’d raised such an arrogant fool,” Uther snarled. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Indeed.” A new voice chimed in.

Arthur whipped his head around to see Morgana, who had stepped back into the circle and was grinning like a madman. She raised a pale hand and pointed at Merlin, eyes wide with a terrifying mixture of rage and pure glee. She spat out a single word as if it were poison.

“Emrys.”

Everything clicked for Arthur all at once.

He shot Merlin a sideways glance and noted the sudden coolness that fell over his expression. He seemed more irritated than intimidated.

This, more than anything, confirmed Arthur’s suspicion.

It was almost ironic. All of Arthur’s lies about being best friends with Emrys had ended up being true. Most of them, anyways.

He supposed it made sense. Arthur had survived a few too many near death experiences and seen a fair few sorcerer’s plans crumble around them, seemingly without cause. He never had that kind of luck in his youth.

He felt a pang of gratitude wash over him and he resolved to thank Merlin properly once they arrived back home. That was, of course, if any of them survived this.

“I went through all this trouble for nothing.”

Morgana’s voice was shaking, but it was obvious that it wasn’t out of any sense of fear or anger. It was pure excitement. “No other sorcerer has the ability to manipulate the water around the Isle. No other sorcerer can resist the magic of a high priestess even whilst unconscious.”

She grinned, hands trembling.

“I should thank you, Father. You’ve just brought me the key to my destiny, after all. I’m almost sad that you won’t be around to see it fulfilled.”

Merlin clenched his fists and took a step forward, immediately shrinking back with a pained hiss. The circle beneath his feet let out a thin tendril of smoke, as if it had burned him.

“I wouldn’t do that.” Morgana turned to Arthur then, her green eyes practically glowing.

“Stop this,” Arthur said quietly, holding up a hand to pacify her. “Let me free them. Our deal can still be fulfilled.”

“Nice try, brother,” Morgana purred. “But you’ve just lost your only leverage. I’m afraid I set the terms now.”

Arthur glanced sideways and noted that his sword still lay outside the circle. He couldn’t retrieve it without ending the ritual. Morgana truly was in control.

“Please,” he tried again. “You don’t want to do this.”

“You’re powerless,” Morgana continued gleefully, approaching Arthur slowly. “Emrys is powerless. And now you’ll die along with Uther, and Camelot will be free of the three greatest threats she has ever faced.”

The red from light the circles flared up, highlighting her terrible expression in harsh crimson detail. She smiled.

“I’ll be a hero.”

“They’ll never accept you,” Arthur said. “You know that.”

Her expression turned stormy at that, and she bristled with rage.

“While you’re here, I may as well tell you the best part.”

She looked around at the three others within the circle and grinned triumphantly.

“You’ve spent all this time blaming Emrys for your death, Father,” Morgana spat, speaking quickly with the air of one who can’t wait to get the words out. “But it wasn’t his doing.”

Uther was stone-faced as he listened, occasionally shooting Arthur glances that contained silent requests for clarification. They went unanswered.

“It was an enchantment,” Morgana continued proudly. “Any attempts to heal you were reversed and multiplied tenfold. Emrys may have struck the final blow, but I’m the one who truly killed you.”

Uther looked physically ill at the revelation. Arthur was too stunned to move.

Merlin was the first to break the silence. His eyes were wide.

“It wasn’t my fault?”

He locked eyes with Arthur, who nodded once. It made sense. The information slotted comfortably into Arthur’s mind. True. Easy. Correct.

He’d already known Merlin was innocent. This only served to confirm it.

He looked to Uther, then, and found him staring at Morgana and looking completely, utterly broken.

“Why?” The spirit whispered, his voice breaking. “You would kill your own father?”

“Incredible,” Morgana spat, rounding on Uther. “You don’t even realize how much you deserved it.”

“I loved you,” Uther insisted. “I never stopped loving you. Even when you left.”

“You never loved me,” Morgana snorted, dismissive. She turned her back on him completely to face Arthur once again.

“You’ve broken him,” Arthur said. “He never recovered after you left.”

Morgana grinned, her expression wolflike.

“Good. My only hope is that he feels a fraction of what he inflicted on me.”

Arthur frowned reflexively, causing Morgana to glare and gesture wildly at Uther.

“He withheld food from me if I said something he didn’t approve of, locked me in the dungeons, criticized my every move when it didn’t fit his idea of how a king’s ward should act,” Morgana snarled. “He’d tell me I was worthless when he got angry and then he’d cry and say he didn’t mean it two days later. He talked about marrying me off to some lowlife noblemen constantly by the time I turned thirteen. And if I ever suggested that I wanted to marry for love? He’d slap me or lock me in my room for a month. He never even publicly acknowledged me as his daughter and he still treated me like property.”

She paused, breathless, and laughed.

“I don’t care if I broke him. I only wish I could’ve done more damage.”

Arthur took this in silently. It was all true, obviously. He’d seen it all happen. Half of it had happened to him, too.

He’d been yelled at. Slapped, starved, threatened with marriage, (at age fifteen, in his case,) and he’d been privy to several of Uther’s tearful apologies and pledges to do better.

He never did.

Arthur watched Morgana carefully, taking in the wild anger in her eyes and the unkempt state of her hair. The black dress that was obviously homemade, the clenched fists, the tense jaw.

She still looked so young, if Arthur ignored the very real threat of violence behind her anger. She could’ve been fourteen, interrupting their father in the middle of a counsel meeting or demanding that Arthur teach her everything he’d learned during training that day.

He remembered the punishments he’d endured after Uther discovered they’d been training together. He remembered hugging Morgana at age sixteen and insisting that it was okay, that Uther would burn himself out sooner or later. That he loved them, despite it all. She’d whispered that she hated him, and Arthur disagreed. Morgana cried, and he wanted to join her. He couldn’t.

Morgana was watching Arthur carefully, at the moment, and her eyes lost some of their fire the longer she stood still. As if she could read his mind, she frowned.

“I wish you’d join me.”

Arthur scoffed.

“Join you? You want me dead.”

“Only if you get in the way.” Morgana turned to face Merlin, who was glaring with more venom than Arthur could ever remember seeing from him. This Merlin could easily pass for the one in Arthur’s memory.

“Step out of the circle.” Morgana glanced back at Arthur expectantly. “If Uther and Emrys are gone there’s nobody to stop me.”

“Except me. And Guinevere, and Gaius, and everyone else in Camelot who would never bow to a usurper,” Arthur said.

Morgana smiled and jerked her head towards Uther.

“They already have.”

Arthur bit back the defensive comment that instinctively flared up on his tongue and forced himself to hold Morgana’s gaze. He shook his head.

“I won’t let Merlin die.”

Morgana narrowed her eyes.

“He served you well. He was loyal. He protected you,” she drawled, placing herself between Arthur and Merlin. It disrupted the line of sight between the two, and Arthur couldn’t help but see the similarities in her and Uther’s persuasion tactics.

“But his purpose is served. His life is a small price to pay if it means we can fix everything our father broke.”

Uther was still silent, eyes wide with an overwhelmingly betrayed expression. Arthur couldn’t even look at him.

“Come on, Arthur.” If Arthur didn’t know any better, it sounded like she was pleading. “My power will soon surpass his in strength. I would be a much more valuable ally.”

Arthur remembered the pained expression on her face upon lifting the spell she’d cast two days ago in the forest, when she’d wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and glanced around to check that no one had seen. He almost laughed.

Merlin was still frozen, his eyes practically glowing with carefully contained anger.

Morgana seemed to register his expression as a rejection and tried a different approach.

“He won’t let me live now that I know,” she insisted, a new hint of urgency creeping into her tone. “If you let him go you’ll be sentencing me to death. I’m your sister, Arthur. Please.”

Arthur stepped to the side and met Merlin’s eye. The other man’s expression softened and he shook his head once. Arthur nodded.

He turned back to Morgana.

“You’re lying.”

She sighed, not bothering to argue.

“I really didn’t want to kill you,” Morgana said quietly. Her hesitation faded quickly, though, and she raised her hands to her eye level, facing Arthur. Small flames roared to life in the center of her palms and she smiled.

“Goodbye, Arthur.”

She had never resembled Uther more.

Arthur forced himself to meet her eyes and he smiled. A soft, deeply sorrowful gesture, and one that seemed to disturb Morgana to her core. Her hands dropped ever so slightly.

“You deserved better than Uther,” Arthur said. “We both did.”

Everything went red.

Chapter Text

Arthur hit the ground hard.

His shoulder broke his fall with a sickening thud and pain shot through his arm like he’d been struck by lightning. His vision went blurry from the impact but he could still make out a shadowy figure advancing towards him. Morgana, most likely, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about anyone except for the crumpled man on the altar.

The circles of light were long gone, leaving the bare dirt a charred and uneven mess; a large crater had formed around the altar and its edge stopped just short of where the final circle had been drawn. Merlin lay flat upon the altar, unmoved from the position he’d last been in. Arthur managed to reassure himself that this was probably a good thing; it meant that the blast had likely been centered around Merlin and therefore would have done one of two things:

Merlin was either unharmed and simply unconscious, or he was dead and it had been quick.

Arthur wasn’t feeling very optimistic about the second option, but his knee-jerk reaction upon considering anyone’s death was to hope that, at the very least, they had been granted an easy passage. It was something he’d been taught since he was a child, and it was one of the only things that kept him sane throughout his earlier years spent on patrols with the knights.

He’d been an observer, mostly, superior in rank but vastly inferior in terms of experience. He was 13 when he first started attending. When bandit raids or enemy forces came from nowhere and slaughtered half the party, Arthur would always be carted off by one or two knights, leaving the rest to fight alone. This was a command from Uther himself; Arthur must gain more experience but never at the expense of his life. Protect the heir above everything and anyone, or else the whole party would be executed upon returning to Camelot. Luckily, Arthur never had to find out if his father was serious or not.

And when his protectors crept back into the battlefield late at night to find that, inevitably, they were the only ones left, the knights would harden their mouths and bow their heads and kneel beside their fallen friends. They’d examine their wounds and ask Arthur to come closer, and when he did they would tell him each man’s name. They would produce scraps of parchment and quills from their packs and hand them to Arthur, moving with slow and deliberate care and never quite managing to look the young prince in the eye.

Arthur would listen to the names of the fallen and write them in shaky calligraphy, doing his best to form the complicated letters semi-correctly, the way he had been taught. The list of names would be presented first to Uther, to ensure Arthur’s writing was going well. Then, it would be read aloud in the citadel while the families gathered round and listened, some screaming themselves hoarse with grief and some simply staring, glassy-eyed and disbelieving.

The bodies were always too numerous to take home.

Then, when the list was completed and thoroughly checked for errors, the knights would point at and name every major organ and artery that was hit, and approximately how much damage was done. Arthur would listen and try not to cry, feeling the weight of a guilt he would not understand for at least another decade.

Quick, came the assessments in a gruff voice. Not quick. Quick. Not quick.

Arthur listened intently every single time, cataloging what types of injuries were treatable and what types were fatal, and how quickly. By age 15, he could tell a man’s time of death to the second based on his injuries. Just as every knight of Camelot could.

Arthur blinked, and reality came seeping gently back in. He was on his back, and something was coming towards him. Something fast. He frowned.

He registered what was happening just in time to roll out of the way of the sword. It sank into the dirt just centimeters from his head and Morgana screamed, the sound a terrifying howl that tore out of her throat like a wounded animal.

Arthur’s shoulder still hurt like hell, but he forced himself to a more upright position lest he need to evade her again.

Morgana retrieved the sword and swung with a guttural roar, only to fall roughly to the side before the sword made contact.

Gwen, the source of the kick that had sent the witch flying, lifted her own blade. She knelt beside Arthur, tapped his shoulder, and smiled grimly when he nodded back.

“I’m fine,” he choked out. The images of fallen soldiers and grieving families and haunted eyes wouldn’t go away. “Just sore.”

“Get to Merlin. We’ll hold her off.” Guinevere offered him a hand and hauled him back to a standing position.

Arthur nodded numbly, clutching his pained shoulder with his good arm and beginning to stagger towards Merlin’s unconscious form.

Unconscious. Not dead.

Guinevere turned to face Morgana as the sorceress struggled to recover, clawing her way to her feet with all the grace and ferocity of a cornered animal. Gwen’s eyes were hard, the dark brown devoid of its usual warmth but glinting with a determination that never seemed to waver. Her mouth tightened into a thin line and she sank into a slight crouch, her sword angled towards Morgana. A defensive position.

“Stop this,” She urged, taking a careful step forward. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Morgana growled, finally regaining her balance and lifting the sword to be perpendicular to Gwen. “But if you get in my way, I’ll have no choice.”

Despite her words, she’d also chosen a defensive position, Arthur noted with interest. Morgana may have been crazed, but even she knew better than to underestimate Guinevere.

Morgana never came along on patrols; Uther thought it inappropriate to subject a noblewoman to such violence. Which, upon reflection, was ironic, given the sheer number of people that ended up meeting their end by her hand.

Arthur knew firsthand, as he had been the one to see most of them fall. He’d knelt by their sides and slid two fingers over their eyelids, masking the fear that still permeated their expression, electric and unyielding. He’d take note of broken bones, cuts, wounds, scorch marks that were certainly caused by sorcery, and he’d come to a decision.

Quick.

For all of Morgana’s cruelty and all of her anger, Arthur could always grant her one thing; the one last shred of nobility that perhaps still surged through her veins, preventing her from being the worst possible version of herself:

She was quick.

“You will not harm Merlin.”

Morgana’s eyes snapped to Gaius with an obvious suspicion in her gaze. The old man was slowly making his way from a seated position to rise and stand beside Gwen, wincing in pain with every movement.

Morgana’s face gained an ounce of mirth at the sight and she grinned triumphantly. It was easy to see Uther’s influence in the way she scanned her opponents, sizing them up and relishing their weaknesses when they were finally spotted. Gaius did not seem to be subject to the same wariness as Guinevere; rather the sorceress seemed amused by him.

“Gaius,” Morgana snarled. “It appears as though old age has rendered you even more useless than usual.”

Gaius didn’t respond, only raised his eyes to meet Morgana’s and gave her a grim look.

He suddenly began speaking loudly in the language of the Old Religion and moving his hands in a small circle. Morgana seemed to recognize the spell and froze. A brief flash of anger colored her features before she turned and broke into a dead sprint, heading straight for Merlin.

Making a split second decision, Arthur lunged at her and tackled her to the ground.

Morgana screamed and fought like a wild animal, clawing at his arms and digging her thumbs painfully into Arthur’s wounded shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, not willing to give her the knowledge that she was hurting him.

Guinevere came running and slid to a halt beside them. She busied herself with wrenching the sword out of Morgana’s grasp; Arthur was barely managing to avoid the edge as she struggled to unsheath it.

Gaius was unperturbed; he continued shouting the words and moving his hands, eventually sinking to his knees and raising his hands towards the sky.

Morgana gained an inch of freedom and kicked Arthur square in the chest, sending him flying backwards with enough force that he suspected there may have been a hint of magic involved. His back connected with the altar with a sharp crack, leaving him gasping for breath but otherwise mostly unharmed.

Morgana fought like her life depended on it, screaming and slashing but never getting far enough past Guinevere’s defenses to even have a shot at harming Arthur.

Gaius smashed his hands into the dirt, and his yelling ceased with a flash of gold and two words that were finally recognizable:

“Arthur Pendragon.”

A thin line of golden light emerged from the point at which Gaius’s palm had struck the dirt, and it snaked along the ground and stopped at Arthur’s feet. It curled until it folded in on itself and created a circle, about three feet in diameter. A shield of some kind, he reasoned.

He took a moment to mourn Gaius’s skill. How many of Uther’s men could’ve been saved with a spell like that?

Sending Gaius a quick nod that he hoped conveyed both his gratitude and his apologies, he used the edge of the altar to haul himself up to a standing position. He immediately placed two fingers on the underside of Merlin’s neck. He felt warm, and his pulse was strong.

Good.

Now Merlin just needed to wake up before Morgana managed to run them all through.

He looked back to see how the fight was going and found Gaius kneeling with his hands in the dirt, breathing hard. Whatever spell he’d cast certainly hadn’t been an easy one.

Morgana was still slashing at Guinevere like a madman but they seemed to be just about evenly matched. Morgana’s swordsmanship was worlds better, (Arthur should know, he’d trained her himself,) but Gwen was calmer and more composed. Her strikes were careful and clean, while Morgana’s were reckless and entirely on the offense.

“No magic, my lady?” Gwen asked, neatly dodging another blow. Morgana barreled past her like an angry bull before turning and laughing, though it sounded more like several short screams in succession.

“I don’t need it,” Morgana roared, lunging towards Gwen again. “Not for a peasant like you.”

When she stepped back to recover, though, her movements were sluggish and her brow was beaded with sweat. The ritual must have taken its toll on her. Arthur didn’t know a lot about magic, admittedly, but it made sense that it would take some sort of physical strength to command such power.

Guinevere seemed to notice this too, and easily sank back into a readied position with her sword aimed to defend. She knitted her brows together, face fraught with a very real sense of concern.

“You’re exhausted.”

Something heavy passed between the two women, and Arthur forced himself to look away. It didn’t feel like something he was allowed to watch.

He busied himself with trying to wake Merlin. He looked healthy, all things considered. His chest moved evenly with slow, deep breaths. Arthur watched it for a moment, reassuring himself that he was alive.

His spirit had just been forced out and then back into his body in the span of a few minutes; it followed that Merlin would need time to recover. Likely days, but they didn’t exactly have that kind of time.

“Come on, idiot,” the king whispered, lightly tapping Merlin’s cheek. “You’re the only one that can stop her.”

Merlin didn’t answer.

“I know it’s you in there.” Arthur wrapped a hand around Merlin’s shoulder and squeezed. “Wake up. You’ve got work tomorrow.”

He didn’t stir.

Arthur refused to ask himself why.

“Get in the circle at least,” he hissed, and slid his hands underneath Merlin’s back. With some difficulty due to the pain in his arm, he managed to lift him off of the altar and into his lap.

Just as Merlin’s head passed beyond the golden border into the circle, a ball of fire whizzed past and exploded upon contact with the altar. It shattered into a million pieces, but the debris was deflected before it hit Arthur, assumedly due to the magic barrier. The scream that followed the explosion confirmed exactly who had sent it.

It wasn’t any wonder Morgana was so angry to hear Gaius reciting those words.

Arthur lowered Merlin to the ground, carefully arranging his arms and legs to avoid any inch of the two of them leaving the circle.

“Now would be a great time for you to wake up,” he muttered. “I’ll give you a day off. No, a week. Two weeks. Hell, I’ll give you the year off.”

Merlin didn’t answer. The muffled sound of fireballs bouncing off of the barrier did nothing to drown out the panicked thoughts that raged within Arthur’s mind.

What if he never woke up? What if it wasn’t even Merlin in there? What if both souls had been sent away, leaving him an empty shell? What if Arthur never got the chance to apologize for all that he’d done?

“What the hell do you want from me?” Arthur snapped, fear causing his tone to sound far more irritated than he’d intended. “True love’s kiss?”

Merlin stirred slightly, sending a tidal wave of cold fear through Arthur that Merlin had heard him. It was quickly alleviated when Merlin’s eyes fluttered open for a half second before closing again, his movements slow and groggy. He appeared to have just started waking up on his own.

Arthur frowned, suddenly embarrassed by his own thought process. He was relieved that Merlin (probably) hadn’t heard all of that.

Gwen was growing steadily more messy. While the sorceress was still drained, Guinevere was only narrowly dodging attacks. Morgana was regaining her composure, the fluid movement and precise nature of her fighting style creeping back into view. Morgana was beginning to realize she ought to use her magic against Gwen instead of trying in vain to breach the barrier, and Gaius was using every last bit of strength he had left to cast more spells to protect Gwen. Little flimsy shields made of golden light erected themselves before her every other second before being immediately shattered by a blast of fire from Morgana’s fingertips. Gaius was sweating and red in the face from the effort, and he shook like a leaf every time he raised his hands and began another spell.

Eventually, Morgana got the upper hand, and a particularly well aimed spell sent Gwen and Gaius to their knees. The same spell from the other day, only with a lot more malice behind it. Gwen cried out in pain.

Morgana threw her sword into the ground so that it stuck upright, swaying slightly. She was red in the face, breathing heavily, and looked even worse for wear than Gaius. She turned to face Arthur, green eyes filled with ice cold anger.

“Bring me Emrys.”

Arthur wasn’t inclined to listen to her. He shook his head.

“I don’t need to hurt any of you,” Morgana growled. She produced a dagger from her belt and positioned herself behind Guinevere. “But I will.”

Her hands shook.

Arthur stood, leaving Merlin curled up safely within the barrier. He took a step towards the edge of the golden line.

“Arthur, stop,” Guinevere warned, her voice sounding strained. “She doesn’t fight fair.”

“You should listen to her,” Morgana hissed, a hollow grin stretching across her face. “She always was smarter than you.”

Arthur winced. Morgana scarcely sounded human anymore, let alone like his little sister.

He pictured her only a few short years ago, with soft smiles and melodic laughter and little whispered jokes that almost made family dinners bearable.

“I challenge you,” Arthur said, ignoring the pangs of guilt that seemed to accompany that image. “One on one. Death or disarmament. No magic.”

He stepped up to the edge of the circle but didn’t go beyond it.

Morgana cocked an eyebrow and laughed, her voice reduced to a harsh cackling sound after all of her screaming.

“And why would I agree to that? I could just as easily kill you and everyone here without so much as lifting a finger.”

Not true, Arthur thought. Not anymore.

“Because,” Arthur said, jutting his chin out at her. “You’d be a coward to refuse.”

Morgana’s grin widened. Even though she was all but unrecognizable now, the same love of competition shone through at the edges of her expression, jaded though it was.

“A coward?” She purred. “That’s rich coming from the man inside the magic bubble.”

“Then prove you’re not afraid to face me,” Arthur insisted, placing himself in front of Merlin’s body. “Hand me a sword and we’ll settle this like adults.”

He wasn’t truly intending on fighting her; even if she did play fair, Morgana’s swordsmanship was usually perfect and with Arthur’s sword arm still throbbing with pain, he really didn’t like his chances.

That didn’t matter though, because she’d never agree to the offer and Arthur didn’t want her to. He just wanted her to relish in her own assumed victory for a little longer. She always did have a problem with premature celebration.

Just a little longer.

“That won’t be happening,” Morgana sneered, gesturing to Gwen and Gaius. “I’m growing tired of your games, brother. Bring me Emrys before my patience runs out.”

“That won’t be happening, either,” Arthur admitted.

“I could always break every bone in Gaius’s legs if that would be preferable,” Morgana suggested, her eyes wide with faux innocence. “Or Gwen. It doesn’t make much of a difference to me.”

“What happened to killing them?” Arthur challenged. “Have you suddenly grown a heart?”

He felt movement from behind him and he tensed. He glanced around and saw that Gaius had noticed as well, and the old man’s face grew significantly less grim.

Morgana didn’t seem to notice. Guinevere, positioned directly in front of her, also seemed unaware.

Arthur almost smiled. They couldn’t see him.

“I like to keep things interesting,” Morgana said airily, flashing him a smile that came off as more of a grimace. “There’s a lot I could do. Stay inside that circle and you’ll find out soon enough.”

Arthur watched her carefully, noting with a slight sense of smugness that her posture was relaxed. Her hands shook but they were wrapped loosely around the dagger. He let his eyes fall on Gaius, who was tentatively moving one of his legs to a more comfortable position.

Arthur grinned.

Morgana had stopped the spell.

It was true, then. She was too exhausted to keep them contained and was banking on them being too afraid to move despite that fact.

Better still, he felt a tap on his shoulder and a voice whispered in his ear, its tone tinged with anger:

“Let me handle this.”

Morgana finally noticed the shift in Arthur’s expression and narrowed her eyes.

“Is something funny?”

She held the dagger closer to Guinevere, eyes carefully scanning Arthur’s face. She looked a lot like Uther, Arthur thought. The same suspicious expression Morgana now wore was one Arthur had seen on Uther many times, usually directed across banquet tables at noblemen he didn’t particularly like.

“Last chance,” Arthur said, ignoring her. “You can face me or you can face the consequences. It’s your choice.”

Guinevere picked up on his change of tone and glanced up, still unable to figure out what was happening. She caught his eye and frowned, which he answered with what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

Morgana scoffed, offended by the offer.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Arthur bowed his head, conceding, and took a step to the side.

Morgana paled.

Merlin stepped forward.

He was menacing in every sense of the word. Despite his thin frame and the baggy clothes that hung off of it, power radiated from every inch of Merlin, and the look in his eyes was a dangerous one.

Arthur was suddenly extraordinarily glad that it was Merlin in there and not Uther.

Even still, to say it was Merlin was to concede that it was Merlin in the most unrecognizable sense, and Arthur felt a slight tremble in his knees as he watched the two sorcerers stare each other down.

Merlin raised a hand, his palm facing outwards towards Morgana. A threat.

Morgana flinched and immediately raised both of her hands in a pacifying gesture, eyes never leaving Merlin’s face.

They were lucky that Merlin was on their side, Arthur realized all at once. Incredibly lucky.

Merlin lowered his hand and took another step forward.

He was outside of the barrier.

It was only then that the true extent of Merlin’s power became clear to Arthur, reflected in the pure terror that slipped through Morgana’s carefully aloof expression. It appeared for only a second, but it was there, as raw and vulnerable as an exposed nerve.

“Gwen. Gaius.” Merlin gestured to the circle.

The two exchanged nervous glances before hauling themselves to their feet and moving dutifully to stand behind Arthur, safely tucked within the confines of the magic’s protection.

Morgana’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, giving away her shock.

She hadn’t even known that the spell was gone, Arthur realized. But Merlin had.

He glanced sideways at Merlin, taking in the hard lines of his face and the ice in his eyes.

Was that his doing? Had he broken the spell without a word? Without leaving any trace that it had lifted? Controlled the magic so expertly that even the spell’s caster was unaware of its departure?

If Arthur stared long enough, he could almost convince himself that he saw the power surging beneath Merlin’s skin, that he felt the steady flow of energy that radiated from somewhere deep within Merlin’s chest.

It was invigorating, suddenly, to stand so close to him.

“Incredible,” Arthur murmured, forgetting himself.

Merlin’s eyes snapped towards him.

Arthur froze. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

The blue eyes softened slightly, and the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Merlin’s mouth. He shifted his gaze forward again, back to Morgana, leaving Arthur more embarrassed than he could ever remember feeling in his entire life.

Morgana smiled as Guinevere and Gaius crossed the barrier, though the shiftiness of her eyes betrayed her discomfort. She laughed.

“They're only alive because I allowed it.”

“So are you.” Merlin’s voice was quiet.

Morgana arched an eyebrow skeptically but it was clear the comment had gotten to her.

“You were never going to kill me,” she drawled. “You’re too noble for murder. That’s why I let you take care of Uther for me.”

Her smile grew and she chanced a step forward. Merlin didn’t move.

“I knew how it would destroy you,” she hissed, eyes wild. “I knew you’d never forgive yourself.”

Merlin still remained silent, fists clenched by his sides.

Unsure of how else to help, Arthur clasped a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. He hoped it conveyed all of the thousands of things he wanted it to.

Merlin turned his head slightly. Arthur thought he saw his head dip into a short nod of gratitude.

Morgana’s expression became more and more desperate by the second.

“Do you really think this will change anything?” She laughed, the sound reminiscent of a wounded animal. She pointed towards Arthur. “I grew up with him. I know him better than you could ever hope to. He won’t change. He isn’t capable of it.”

The comment sent a pang of sorrow through Arthur’s chest. Morgana must have noticed his face, because she grinned directly at him with an extra hint of sharpness than before.

Merlin didn’t respond, his face almost statuesque in its lack of expression. Arthur prayed he didn’t believe Morgana’s words, though he couldn’t be sure. The man was unreadable.

“You could do so much for our kind,” Morgana urged, her smirk softening to what appeared to be a genuine smile. It was unnerving. “With power like yours we wouldn’t even need Arthur. We could fix things together.”

She smiled wide, injecting every ounce of non threatening energy she had left into her expression and even going so far as to extend her hand towards Merlin. It wasn’t intended for an attack, like most of her gestures. Instead, it was a handshake.

Arthur found himself disappointed with the obvious nature of the lie. She’d offered Arthur the very same thing earlier; surely she knew that it was useless to try again.

However, an unhelpful voice in the back of his head chimed in, Merlin might just be strong enough to hold her to her word. If anyone could actually count on Morgana’s cooperation, it was the single person alive who was more powerful than her.

Merlin took a tentative step forward.

Arthur’s heart sank.

He should’ve known. There hadn’t been time to apologize, to atone, to pledge to do better. It was too late.

Morgana smiled even wider, her eyebrows shooting up in an expression of pure disbelief.

Merlin was looking straight at her, his expression shielded from Arthur’s point of view.

Morgana kept smiling, eyes filled with such an overwhelming sense of triumph that Arthur thought he was going to be sick.

Something changed in a single instant, though, and her smile vanished. She retracted her hand immediately as if it had been burned.

Merlin spoke, then, in a voice that was all too calm for the words it carried.

“Do you think you’re the first person to ask this of me?”

His voice felt heavy, burdened by thousands of unspoken words that Arthur was incapable of understanding.

Morgana didn’t respond, only continuing to stare with something resembling revulsion on her face. Arthur couldn’t even begin to imagine what she must’ve seen in Merlin to bring about such a reaction.

Morgana took several steps back, never breaking eye contact. She narrowed her eyes.

“One wrong move and you’ll be sent to the same gallows as the rest of us.”

Her features were softened by resignation, her sharp green eyes the only indication that she had yet to give up completely.

Merlin responded by turning his back to her. He did it casually, as if it were a conversation between friends that had come to its natural close.

Morgana bristled with rage but didn’t react further.

As Merlin turned, Arthur’s eyes met his and it was as if the air was pulled from his lungs in one swift motion, leaving him dizzy and entirely unable to process the myriad of emotions that flashed across the other man’s face. They struggled against one another for a second more before fading back into the same quiet stoicism from before.

Arthur stared.

When Merlin spoke again, his voice was dangerously calm.

“Leave us.”

Morgana’s eyes narrowed again, and she cast a few unreadable glances at her surroundings before taking a step backwards. She paused, hands half raised, before thinking better of it and turning her back.

She started walking with her shoulders tensed and her head held high.

“Don’t come back,” Merlin called after her.

Then, in a quieter voice:

“Please.”

Morgana didn’t respond, only waved a hand and disappeared with a silent spell.

Merlin let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand down his face. He turned to Guinevere and Gaius, then, and raised his eyebrows.

“Are you okay?” He asked gently.

Gaius nodded, a reserved smile on his face. He reached forward and pulled Merlin into a hug, cradling his head with one hand and patting him on the back with the other.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, releasing Merlin and holding him at arm’s length. “So, so proud of you.”

Merlin smiled, bowing his head shyly and waving a hand as if to physically dismiss the compliment.

Guinevere hugged him next, ushering a surprised wheeze out of him when she utilized her full strength.

“Thank you,” she whispered fiercely. “For everything.”

When they broke apart, she took his hands in hers and grinned good-naturedly.

“So, you’re a sorcerer, huh?”

A painful flash of fear lit up in Merlin’s eyes before he registered her expression as a friendly one, and he nodded.

“I’ll be expecting more help with my chores going forward, then,” Gwen teased. “After everything you’ve done I expect magicking some dirty dishes won’t be too difficult.”

Merlin grinned.

“Of course,” he agreed. “Anything you need.”

Guinevere seemed to read something on his face and she nodded once, giving his hands one last squeeze before letting them go. She and Gaius caught each other’s eye and exchanged a look that Arthur couldn’t read. They set off together towards the other end of the Isle, picking up the remnants of the ritual as they went.

“-you may as well be trained to find them as well,” Gaius was saying quietly. “I don’t often get the chance to collect herbs this far from Camelot.”

Merlin let out a long-suffering sigh.

“We shouldn’t have let her go with him,” he quipped, shooting Arthur an exasperated grin. “Now we’ll have to drag the both of them back home.”

“You’ll come back with us, won’t you?” Arthur asked before he had a chance to stop himself.

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up as if he couldn’t quite believe the question and he shook his head, concealing a small smile.

Arthur suddenly felt exposed, like he’d given something precious away despite being unaware of exactly what it was or how much it was worth to him.

Something about the way Merlin was looking at him made Arthur feel like he was in a trance, as if the very air he breathed was hanging on the sorcerer’s every word.

“You wouldn’t last a day without me,” Merlin finally said, giving Arthur an easy smile that loosened the knot in his stomach somewhat. “Besides, you said it yourself. I’ve got work tomorrow.“

Arthur winced.

“You heard all of that, did you?”

Merlin grinned mischievously.

“Bits and pieces. Something about giving me the year off?“

“I never said that,” Arthur insisted, turning away. “I would remember saying that. And I don’t. So I didn’t.”

Merlin just kept grinning, and the two fell into an easy silence for a few moments. It didn’t last long though, and Arthur noticed the line between Merlin’s eyebrows that indicated he was gearing up to say something.

“Thank you,” Merlin said, finally spitting the words out.

Arthur blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“What for?”

“You saved me, didn’t you?” Merlin stifled a chuckle at Arthur’s baffled expression. A cautious smile was playing at his lips. “Thank you.”

“You saved me,” Arthur said dumbly. “All of us, I mean.”

Merlin scoffed.

“Yeah, right. All I did was stand there.”

Arthur frowned.

“That’s not true.”

Merlin’s eyes shot up, startled. He searched Arthur’s face frantically for a moment before lowering his gaze, apparently not finding what he was looking for. He shook his head.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Morgana’s spell,” Arthur pointed out as gently as he could. Merlin’s reaction had thrown him off. “You broke it.”

Merlin’s expression went from shock, to disbelief, to an almost-smile in the span of a few seconds.

“You noticed.” It was a statement, but something about his tone made it feel like a question.

Arthur nodded, feeling like he was being tested somehow. He hoped he was passing.

There was something strange about the way Merlin was looking at him; Arthur felt as if every single part of his soul was being drawn out into the open air, scrutinized, and assessed before being carefully placed back where they came from.

It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling by any means, but it was an unfamiliar one. No one else seemed to be able to pick him apart quite like Merlin could.

“It’s easier to notice now that I know what to look for,” Arthur admitted.

Merlin hummed in response, flashing a quick smile that quickly evolved into concern. He hesitated, clearly fighting a mental battle before giving in and clearing his throat.

“What happens now?” He asked. “I’d rather know ahead of time if I’m going to be burnt at the stake when we get back.”

Arthur managed a smile, his tongue already wrapped around a snarky reply that involved some form of casual threat of execution. He stopped, though, allowing himself to take in the cautious distance in Merlin’s eyes and register that now was not the time for jokes, and the words died in his throat.

He paused and allowed a new answer to form. One that was actually true.

“I’m going to lift the ban.”

Merlin seemed to stop breathing. His features froze in place, leaving behind a stricken expression. He didn’t react otherwise.

Fear creeped into Arthur’s mind that he’d said the wrong thing, but he swallowed it down and continued in an even voice, with a tone he desperately hoped was convincing.

“I’ll enact a stay of execution immediately, so that no more people will suffer while the law is being changed. After that, I’ll work on fixing the language in other laws that specifically target magic users, pardons for those who were killed or banished unjustly, then of course we’ll need to arrange meetings with our anti-magic allies to update the terms of our treaties, perhaps meet with the Druids to make amends…”

Arthur’s voice trailed off, lost in thought.

“There’s a lot to be done,” he admitted. “But all of it will happen. You have my word on that.”

Merlin didn't respond, just continued to stare.

Arthur grew anxious again, so he kept talking.

“Gaius will be allowed to resume his magical studies, obviously. My father mentioned he used to be interested in healing, so of course he’ll be free to use any healing magic in his practice that he’d like. And as for you, you’re free to stay within Gaius’s employ if you’d like, or not, but I mean…”

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to look directly at Merlin.

“I’ll need help,” he finally managed to say, the words coming out as a sigh. “I don’t know the first thing about magic. I’ll need advisors who are knowledgeable, members of my court who know better than me, possibly a few sorcerers to help train the knights better. I’ll also officially reinstate the position of Court Sorcerer.”

Arthur paused, suddenly embarrassed. Merlin still hadn’t moved.

“I would hope that this goes without saying, but the position is yours if you want it,” he said, chancing a small smile. “Any position you’d like is yours, to be honest. I understand if you’ve had your fill of responsibility and would rather take time off, or if you’d like to remain my servant, or if you’d like to leave. You’ll always have a place in my court, no matter what you decide.”

Arthur finished breathlessly and awaited judgement.

Merlin’s expression had softened considerably but there was still something unreadable in his eyes that prevented Arthur from relaxing. He crossed his arms and looked away, appearing to be deep in thought.

Arthur thought it best to remain silent, but the instinct to keep adding on promises until Merlin spoke was an incredibly difficult one to ignore.

Finally, after a moment or two of silence, Merlin nodded.

“Alright,” he said. Upon seeing the pure relief in Arthur’s expression, Merlin laughed.

The corners of his eyes crinkled and he smiled and he had finally laughed. Arthur couldn’t remember how long it had been.

The sound was sweeter than any song and more beautiful than any sunrise and Arthur found himself thinking that he’d do anything to keep that smile on Merlin’s lips; that giddy and overjoyed grin that only appeared once every few months, if Arthur was lucky.

Confusion crept across Merlin’s face, as Arthur had been struck dumb by his reaction and was staring openly.

The smile faded and he frowned.

“What is it?”

”I was worried about you,” Arthur blurted out, a note of urgency in his tone that he hadn’t intended. He winced, still uncomfortable admitting such things out loud,

Merlin cocked an eyebrow and scoffed as if it were a joke, only the mistiness in his eyes to give away his sincerity.

“I would hope so,” he deadpanned. “I did almost die, after all.”

He frowned, then, thinking harder.

“Or, I suppose I did die. At least for a minute or two.”

Merlin seemed to be unsure how to continue from there, attempting to pick his way through whatever emotional mess Arthur had unintentionally put them in. The king felt a pang of guilt for not just holding his tongue, but he couldn't deny the relief that came with getting the words out. Merlin seemed to decide something, and he sighed.

“I was worried about you, too.” He looked up, blue eyes filled with unease. “I’m still worried about you, to be honest. He was your father. It can’t have been easy.”

“It isn’t,” Arthur admitted. “But I’d banish him a thousand times over if it meant keeping you safe.”

He didn’t mean to say it, and his knee jerk reaction was to regret it immediately, but when the words came out of his lips they tasted sweet. They were true, and Arthur could feel physical weight being lifted off of his shoulders upon saying them.

Anything would have been worth it, Arthur realized, to keep Merlin around.

Merlin was watching him with a soft smile and even softer eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said. “I mean it.”

Arthur stared, turning the words over in his mind and wondering absently how long it had been since he’d heard something like that directed at himself. He’d done loads of hard things, impossible things, things that still kept him up some nights; but to his knowledge, no one had ever been proud of him for it. It was an expectation that he would persevere, and therefore to come out at the other end warranted no praise.

As if guided by some invisible force, he took a few steps forward until he was scarcely a foot from Merlin before hesitating, unsure of what his intentions even were.

Merlin didn’t seem to notice that he’d moved at all, and instead was frowning to himself and fiddling with the ends of his sleeves.

“Court Sorcerer,” he mused. “I want to know what my duties would be before I accept them, obviously. I’d rather not get stuck writing papers all day.”

“Everything is negotiable,” Arthur cut in hurriedly. “There hasn’t been a Court Sorcerer in decades so you needn’t follow any strict codes if you don’t want to. It can be your position to shape however you’d like.”

Merlin hummed thoughtfully.

“Are any of the records from that time still preserved? Notes from the previous Court Sorcerers?”

Arthur nodded.

“If memory serves, yes.”

“I’d like to see them, if that’s alright,” Merlin said, crossing his arms. “Just to get a sense of what I’m getting myself into.”

Arthur perked up.

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

Merlin grinned.

“As if I’d let anyone else do it.”

“Thank you,” Arthur replied, breathless. “I’m glad to have you back.”

Merlin frowned, confused.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Arthur froze, not entirely sure what it was supposed to mean himself. Merlin seemed to recognize this, and his features softened.

“Stop me if I’m wrong,” he started, his voice a gentle mixture of teasing and amusement. “But I feel as though you’ve convinced yourself that I was going to leave once all this was over.”

Arthur shrugged.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” he admitted. “I’ve done terrible things. To you and your people.”

“True,” Merlin conceded. “But you’re fixing it. You’ve been trying to fix it for years already. I’ve been watching it happen, little by little.”

“I didn’t think it was enough,” Arthur mumbled. “Not for what I’ve done.”

Merlin sighed.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I didn’t deserve what you put me through, sometimes. But neither did you, and neither did anyone in Camelot that had to suffer under your father’s rule. It’s all unfair and we all wish it had been different.”

His gaze hardened.

“But respectfully, my lord, I’m tired of hearing about it.”

Arthur blinked, struck dumb by the fierceness in Merlin’s voice. The words stung a little, but the truth in them rang clear.

“You’re fixing things now. That’s what matters,” Merlin continued. “And I’m going to stick by your side for as long as I live, because if you haven’t noticed yet, there was only ever one thing keeping me in Camelot and it was you.”

Merlin paused, closing his eyes and letting out a heavy sigh.

“So, all that being said,” he finished nonchalantly. “You’ll probably have to get yourself a new servant.”

He glanced back up, a hint of nervousness in the defiant look he gave Arthur.

Arthur smiled.

“Hopefully a better one.”

Merlin took a second to look offended before hooking his arm around the back of Arthur’s head and pulling him into a tight embrace.

It felt good to be held. It occurred to him suddenly that it had been years since anyone had hugged him, let alone in such a protective way. Merlin’s hand cradled the back of his neck and the other lay flat on his back, keeping him close.

He let his head droop until his forehead came into contact with Merlin’s shoulder, and a sudden truth descended upon him so quickly that he scarcely had time to acknowledge it before it came spilling out of his mouth.

“I think I love you,” Arthur murmured. “I think I always have.”

Merlin responded by gently guiding Arthur’s head away from his, creating just enough space that the two could look each other in the eye.

“Say that again,” Merlin said quietly. His eyes were like stars.

“I love you.” Arthur didn’t mind repeating it. He was dizzy with how much he enjoyed saying it.

Merlin grinned.

“That’s not what you said.”

“It’s the truth.”

Merlin rolled his eyes before wrapping Arthur up in his arms again.

“I love you too,” he whispered. “I always will.”

• • •

Arthur hadn’t been down to the catacombs in over a year.

He eased open the door to the burial chamber and paused, using the cool stone beneath his fingertips to ground himself. Merlin stilled beside him, hands curled around the ball of fire that was lighting their way.

“I’ll stay if you need me to,” he reminded Arthur for the hundredth time that night. “Just say the word.”

Arthur smiled, casting him a fond glance.

“No, thank you. Leave the fire. I’ll be up shortly.”

Merlin nodded. He whispered a short spell and blew into his hands, sending the fire sailing gently upward. It stopped just short of making contact with the ceiling and remained there, hovering a few feet above Arthur’s head. It cast a warm golden light over everything beneath it.

Arthur smiled.

“Thank you.”

Merlin stepped forward and placed a hand on the side of Arthur’s face, mouth tight with concern. With the other, he grasped Arthur’s arm tightly.

His eyes were narrowed, filled with uncertainty.

“It’s alright,” Arthur assured him, bringing his free hand to cover Merlin’s. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Merlin nodded, satisfied, and pressed a soft kiss to the center of Arthur’s forehead.

“Good luck.”

Arthur drew him in for one last embrace.

Still obviously hesitant, Merlin turned and began his descent back up the hundreds of steep stone stairs that lay between them and the surface.

Arthur took a steadying breath and stepped inside the burial chamber.

His father’s tomb was the only thing in the room, the rest being nothing but black stone and long extinguished torches.

Uther himself lay still in his bed of stone, cold and grey and devoid of the fiery hatred and venom-filled curses that had colored his lifetime. Arthur found it within himself to come closer, and upon reaching the dead king he placed a hand on the side of the tomb. Everything was the same as the last time Arthur had seen him: white hair, grey skin, black robes… everything except for the eyes, which were currently closed and therefore hiding the sharp cruelty that used to lie within.

Arthur took no pleasure in remembering his father’s spirit, the damage it had done, or the way it had spoken to the people he loved; so he pushed those thoughts from his mind and produced a dagger from his pocket.

It was simple for a royal weapon, made of silver and bearing only a single blue gem in the center of the hilt. It was far too small for any adult to use.

Arthur pressed two fingers beneath Uther’s jaw and waited.

Nothing.

He took a measured step back, repositioned the knife in his hand so that the hilt rested more comfortably in his palm, and took a deep breath.

He reared back and jammed the little dagger deep into the left side of his father’s chest.

He waited again, this time for several minutes.

Nothing.

“Keep it,” Arthur muttered, turning his back on the tomb. “May it never serve you again.”