Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Arthur was a boy, just on the cusp of adolescence, his nursemaid gifted him with a crystal vial. 

“This belonged to your mother,” she explained. “It contains the breath of a powerful guardian. Once summoned, he will come to your aid in your hour of need.”

Arthur peered at it curiously, his heart suddenly thudding wildly in his chest. He took the vial with a hesitant hand and looked up at her with wide eyes.

“She had wished to give it to you herself when you come of age,” she said wistfully, a faraway look in her eyes. “It was presented to her by a friend during the feast celebrating her pregnancy. She entrusted it to me, shortly before your birth, and I have had the honour of keeping it safe since.”

Arthur’s throat felt funny. “Why now?"

“You will start training with a real sword soon, my Lord.” she smiled. Her meaning wasn't lost on Arthur, even then: he was becoming too old for a nursemaid. 

Arthur closed his hand around the vial. His mother held this vial too, once upon a time, and she was thinking of him. His eyes burned when he told her, “thank you.”

TWELVE YEARS LATER

Arthur returns from a hunting trip only to see a pyre being built in the courtyard. 

“You’re back early, my Lord,” one of the knights, Sir Ewan, greets him.

“We had to cut it short,” replies Arthur, slightly irritably. The newest knights to join the ranks had tripped over a tree root and broken his arm, like the buffoon Arthur always thought he was. Arthur jerks his head towards the half-constructed pyre. “Who is that for?”

“One of the servants, my Lord,” Ewan shifts uncomfortably, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. “One of the watchmen accused her of ensorcelling him.”

“Oh?”

“She enchanted him to fall in love with her, the watchman said,” Ewan offers. Then he continues, his voice almost pleading, “your father ordered the pyre to be built immediately. Shall I notify him of your arrival, my Lord?”

Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ewan looks terrified. “Go on then.”

He bolts immediately out of Arthur’s sight. 

The reason why they constructed the pyre with such haste made itself clear when Arthur finds out who the pyre was for.

Arthur remembers Bronwyn, the kindly nursemaid from his childhood. As a young boy, Bronwyn had been his favourite, always there with a caring word and whispered stories about his mother. She was Ygraine’s handmaiden, all those years ago, a friend and confidante who came with her all the way from Tintagel. 

“What was she like?” Arthur asked.

“Very beautiful, my Lord, and very kind,” Bronwyn told him as she brushed his hair. “She would mingle with the commonfolk, never caring much about the difference in statuses. It drove her father quite mad.” She smiled fondly, her eyes glazed with distant memory. “She was very loved by her people.”

“I wish I could’ve met her,” Arthur confessed in a small voice. 

His father never talked about his mother, and none ever dared mention her name in his presence. Bronwyn, on the other hand, never shied from telling Arthur stories about the shenanigans his mother and she used to get up to. They were always his favourite bedtime stories. Arthur hoarded every little detail about his mother that Bronwyn would give him, guarding them closely under his ribcage.

Bronwyn cleared her throat. “She loved you very much, my Lord,” she said in a choked voice. 

“But she never even met me.”

“Even then,” said Bronwyn, “She used to sing to you when she was pregnant with you. You were so wanted. Please don’t ever doubt that, even for a second.”

“Father, surely you can’t believe this nonsense!” protests Arthur. “Bronwyn would never—“

His father doesn’t even look up from the report he is reading. “The watchman saw her selling it with his own eyes.” 

“And you trust him?” demands Arthur. “Over Bronwyn, who has loyally served our family for years?”

“His sister testified at her trial.”

“Would hardly be a fair one, would it—“

“Careful, Arthur,” his father’s eyes flash dangerously. “The evidence is conclusive. I will not have my judgement questioned.”

Bronwyn doesn’t have a single malicious bone in her body. Even after she left her post as his nursemaid, Arthur would see her from time to time in Camelot, always with a kindly smile and a warmth to her words. 

“I am sorry, Arthur,” says his father, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “I know you are fond of her. Perhaps this can be a lesson for you—no one is immune to magic’s corrupting power.”

Arthur manages to sneak into the dungeons without much issue, making a mental note to have a word with the Head of Guards later. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with regret. “I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen—“

“It’s all right, my Lord,” says Bronwyn, smiling bravely though there are tears streaming down her face. “Thank you.”

“It’s not right,” Arthur shakes his head. “I know you wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“You are so much like your mother,” she chokes out in a sob. “Watching you grow into a fine young man has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. She would be so proud of you.”

The watchman who brought forward the accusation was in love with Bronwyn, only for her to reject him, Arthur learns later. But nobody seems to find it particularly intriguing. 

Chapter Text

There is a plague upon Camelot. 

It creeps in slowly at first, taking victims from the Outer Town, before barreling into the heart of Camelot with astonishing speed. Each of the victim dies within a day, with bluish-white skins and open white eyes, and no matter how many books Geoffrey and Gaius consult, they can’t seem to find any illness that would display these same symptoms.

“What have you found?” demands Uther tersely. “We need answers, and urgently.”

“Sire, I have seen nothing like it,” answers Gaius, equally tersely. His eyes are fixed on the corpse on the floor, not daring to meet Uther’s. “The victims are dying in twenty-four hours, and it’s spreading fast.”

“What is the cause?”

Gaius takes a deep breath. “I think you could say that the most likely cause is sorcery.”

The room falls silent. 

“Who would do such a thing?” pipes up one of Uther’s councillors. “Who stands to gain from wiping out a city?”

Uther’s jaw tightens. “There is no limit to the wickedness of sorcerers.”

Under his father’s orders, Arthur takes a handful of knights and searches the entire town. He can barely meet his father’s eyes when he reports to him that they found nothing.

“I want you to impose a curfew,” commands Uther. “No one is to be allowed onto the streets after the great bell.”

“Father?”

“And cordon off the Lower Town.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where most of the victims are,” Uther explains with barely-controlled impatience. “Let’s isolate it, stop this disease from spreading.”

Arthur baulks. “What about the people who live there?”

“Don’t you think I haven’t considered it?” his father snaps. “What else can I do? I have to protect the rest of the city.”

None dared to look Arthur in the eye as he storms through the hallways and into his chambers. 

“Leave me,” Arthur barks at the servant. 

The boy bows hurriedly before scurrying away. 

Arthur sinks down into his chair. He takes his boots off and tosses them aside, leaning back with a heavy sigh. He puts a hand in his pocket, seeking the reassuring weight of his mother’s crystal vial. Its metal case is warm—Arthur had it made years ago to protect the vial from accidental knocks and drops, secretly commissioned from Tom the Smith as a personal favour. 

He takes it out of his pocket, fiddling with it absently.

It’s not the first time he considered summoning his guardian. As the Crown Prince and Knight of Camelot, Arthur has been in many perilous situations before, though none that seems as dire as this. 

The thing is, Arthur can see his father’s point. If they don’t cordon off the Lower Town, the disease will continue its rampant spread. With the rate the disease is spreading, Gaius reckons that without intervention, they have a week—a fortnight, perhaps, if they’re lucky—before it reaches the castle. Many of the servants live in the Lower Town with their families, after all. But isolating the Lower Town, leaving the most vulnerable to fend for themselves, doesn’t feel like the right way to go about it. Even if it is for the greater good, as his father puts it.

Arthur has searched the whole town, leaving no stone unturned. He has gone door to door, scouring each house with more desperation and more urgency than the last, only to come home empty-handed. And he will keep searching, of course, but if there is a sorcerer out there, casting a curse upon Camelot, how can he go about finding them? He’s not even sure what he’s looking for. He doesn’t know what the sorcerer looks like, or where they could be casting their spell from. All known associates of sorcerers, as far as he is aware, have been purged from Camelot. And coming up with a list of those who would wish to harm Camelot after the Purge—well, it would be far quicker to come up with a list of those who don’t wish to harm Camelot. 

He takes the crystal vial out of its case, closing his fingers around it and bringing it up to his lips. “Help me,” he whispers against it, willing his guardian to listen. “I don’t know what to do.”

Arthur wakes the next morning to find a boy with bright blue eyes and dark hair that looks like it has never known a comb standing in his bedchamber. He leaps immediately out of bed, sword in hand, kicking the duvet that seems insistent on tangling up his legs. 

“Who are you?” he demands. “What are you doing here?”

The boy looks at him strangely, canting his head in confusion. “You summoned me.”

“You can’t be serious,” Arthur lowers his sword, if only marginally. He narrows his eyes in suspicion. The boy is lanky, probably the same height as Arthur. He is dressed finely—finely enough, anyway—in dark leathers that make him look more severe than his stature would suggest. Arthur supposes he could kind of see it, if he squints; there is an ethereal, fey quality to his face, and a refined bone structure that many nobles would envy in private. But still—he looks like he has never been in a fight all his life. “You don’t look like a powerful guardian.”

Out of nowhere, the boy’s eyes flare gold. Without uttering a single word, Arthur’s sword tugs free of his grasp and flies into the boy’s outstretched hand.

Before Arthur could shout for a guard, the boy twirls the sword in his hand easily before offering it back to Arthur. Arthur grabs it back without hesitation, gripping it tightly with both hands and pointing it back against the boy.

“You’re a sorcerer,” Arthur breathes, a little bit stunned by the display of casual power. To be fair to him, he only had just woken up. “Sorcery is punishable by death in Camelot.”

“I am immortal, so you’re welcome to give that execution a go,” the boy proclaims, not seeming particularly bothered. He looks down at the sword pointed at his chest with disdain. “Besides, it’s not as if you can defeat a magical plague without magic.”

The point that the boy made is fair enough, but that wasn’t the bit that has got Arthur completely dumbfounded.

“Immortal?” he repeats, “what do you mean, immortal?”

“It means that I can’t die,“ the boy answers easily. Men has sought immortality for centuries, but this strange boy announces it as though he is merely commenting about the weather. “Or—well. I can, but then I would come back to life. Come on, then,” says the boy rather impatiently, tilting his head towards the door, “are you just going to stand there like a lemon or are you going to get dressed so we can banish the plague?”

Chapter Text

The boy’s name is Merlin. Before arriving in Camelot, he served a Dragonlord and his wife in Ealdor, just beyond the borders Camelot shares with Essetir. 

“I thought all the Dragonlords were dead?” asks Arthur. His father has driven the dragons to extinction, and with the dragons, their lords. Becoming a dragonslayer is something that his father is very proud about, and Arthur idolised him for, and to hear that it’s not all true—

A strange, unreadable expression flashes across Merlin’s face. “He was the last one,” he says in a tone that brooks no further conversation. 

It’s clearly something Merlin would much rather not discuss. Much as Arthur would like to pry, doing so just before Merlin helps him out with a plague ridding Camelot doesn’t seem like a great idea. 

Arthur clears his throat. “So, do you know what’s causing the plague, then?”

“The creature is an afanc,” explains Merlin as they make their way down to the water cavern. “It’s a beast born of clay, and only the most powerful of sorcerers can conjure it.”

“Right,” Arthur nods dubiously. He has never heard of an afanc before. “And how can we defeat it?”

“The afanc is a creature made from earth and water. That’s two of the four base elements. The other two are wind and fire, so we need them to destroy it.”

“Right,” Arthur says again. “And how do you know this, exactly?”

Perhaps Merlin has encountered the creature in his travels. Perhaps he’s fought one in person, even. 

Merlin glances at Arthur, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I read about it in a book.”

Despite himself, and despite his wariness about magic users, Arthur bursts out in a surprised laugh.

The descent towards the water cavern is long and winding. Arthur leads the way, a lit torch held aloft in one hand and the other hand firmly around the grip of his sword. 

The air is remarkably still, with a damp smell that permeates through his nostrils. “There’s no wind in here,” Arthur observes. 

“No,” replies Merlin easily. “But there’s magic.”

Right. “You’d better be right about this, Merlin,” he grits his teeth. He’d rather not think about what his father would say if he ever finds out that Arthur is abetting a sorcerer, but it’s not as if the plague has left them with many choices. 

Merlin opens his mouth to respond, but before he can say a single word, there is a low growl from somewhere behind them, echoing eerily between the stone walls. Arthur whirls around but sees nothing but their own shadow. 

Merlin utters a strange, guttural string of words that Arthur soon realises is a spell. A blue ball of light raises from his open palm, illuminating the cavern. 

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?”

Merlin glares at him, unimpressed. “A thank you would have sufficed.”

Then they see it. It’s a horrible-looking creature, like a hunched man-lizard with skin that is reminiscent of cow pat. It doesn’t smell much better, either. Arthur scrunches up his nose in disgust.

The afanc bares its teeth. It moves quickly and silently, swiping at Arthur. Arthur steps back with barely enough time, swinging his sword. Undeterred, the afanc advances closer to Arthur, growling.

“Arthur, use the torch!”

Arthur raises his torch and the afanc steps back, looking up at the fire with fear. Emboldened, Arthur  takes another step forward.

“Lyfte ic þe in balwen ac forhienan!” cries Merlin. The fire erupts, catching the afanc and causing it to fall backwards. Arthur watches in morbid curiosity as the afanc’s arms swing madly in an attempt to extinguish himself.  It wasn’t long at all before it is completely incinerated. 

As the fire dies down, silence falls upon the cavern.

“Well then,” says Merlin, looking up at Arthur from the afanc’s smouldering remains. “That was quick. What now?”

“Thank you for your assistance in saving the kingdom, Merlin.” Arthur clears his throat. “I can take it from here. Despite your lawbreaking, I will personally ensure your safe passage out of Camelot.”

Merlin raises a nonplussed eyebrow, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Your presence is no longer needed,” confirms Arthur, nodding. “You are free to go.”

Merlin lets out a startled laugh. “Arthur, what did you think summoning me would do?”

He should’ve known that this was too easy. 

“I’m in your service, now,” explains Merlin patiently, as though to a very slow child, “I am bound to you.”

“What?” Arthur exclaims. He racks his brain, trying to remember if Bronwyn had mentioned lifetime servitude when she gave Arthur the vial. He’s fairly sure she never did. “For how long?”

Merlin looks at him strangely. “Until the day you die.”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head, half in indignation and half in horror. “No. You can’t be serious. This isn’t what I asked for.”

“Well, it is,” Merlin frowns.

“I can’t be seen associating with a sorcerer!”

“You were the one who summoned me,” Merlin points out, irritated, “so I suggest you start getting used to the magic.”

“No,” Arthur says, getting riled up too now. “No. If you’re in my service, then I dismiss you.”

“It’s a binding magical contract, Arthur. That’s not how it works,” Merlin snaps. “You know, other people would have been grateful. Kings have gone to war trying to get their hands on that vial.”

“I’m not other people.”

“Clearly.”

“You can’t talk to me like that!”

“What are you going to do, stab me?” Merlin sneers. 

“Don’t give me ideas, Merlin,” Arthur growls. “I have been trained to kill since birth. I can take you apart with one blow.”

Merlin scoffs, crossing his arms, looking Arthur up and down in a clear challenge. “I can take you apart with less than that.” 

Arthur—well, he’s never much good when someone is goading him. 

Arthur launches himself at Merlin, but Merlin dodges easily out of his way. Arthur tries again, this time knocking Merlin flat on the floor. He squirms under Arthur’s weight, but his struggle doesn’t last long because his eyes then become awash with gold. Next thing he knows, Arthur is the one on his back, Merlin on top of him. 

“That’s cheating!” shouts Arthur, outraged.

“Use your head, Arthur,” Merlin bites out, pinning Arthur down as Arthur tries his best to buck him off. “This is only the beginning. The sorcerer who summoned the afanc is still out there, and how do you hope to find and fight them without magic?”

Merlin may be right, but it doesn’t mean that Arthur has to like it. 

Arthur lies awake that night, torn between guilt and relief. He has used magic to save his kingdom. No, perhaps that’s not quite right. Merlin had used magic to save Arthur’s kingdom, and Arthur had stood by and allowed it to happen. What other choice does he have? Camelot would’ve perished if he hadn’t done it.

“Thank you, Mother,” he whispers to the dark. 

Arthur assigns Merlin to aid Gaius while he figures out what to do with the situation. Gaius is old, after all, and he would appreciate the help, especially after he finds out that Merlin can read and write. 

“Tell no one else of this,” says Arthur. “Not even my father. Swear it to me, Gaius.”

Gaius swears it. He glances at Merlin with barely-suppressed delight, curiosity sparkling in his wisened eyes. 

“And Merlin, do try to keep a low profile.”

Merlin, naturally, does not keep a low profile. 

Being Gaius’ dogsbody means that their paths hardly cross, though Arthur would catch a glimpse of him from time to time. The next time Arthur sees him up close, he is running to the midst of the Great Hall, shouting at Arthur to stop drinking. 

“It’s poisoned! Don’t drink it!” he runs up to Arthur, snatching the goblet out of his hand. 

“What?” exclaims Uther. “Arthur, who is this?”

“This is Merlin, my Lord,” Arthur grits out with a pinched expression. “My—er. My manservant. Merlin, what are you doing?”

Merlin shoots a venomous glare at Arthur, but turns back to Uther. “Bayard laced Arthur’s goblet with poison.”

“This is an outrage!” Bayard shouts, drawing his sword. Across the hall, his men and Camelot’s knights do the same. “I will not this insult to go unchallenged!”

Uther regards Merlin with a cold look. “On what grounds do you base this accusation?”

“I’ll handle this,” says Arthur, walking towards the middle of the room to grab Merlin and snatch the goblet. “Merlin, you idiot. Have we been at the sloe gin again?”

His father pays Arthur no mind and says to Merlin, “unless you want to be strung up, you will tell me why you think it’s poisoned now.”

Merlin gulps under Uther’s unflinching eyes. “He was seen lacing it.”

“By whom?”

“I can’t say.”

Bayard is red with rage. “I won’t listen to this anymore.”

“Pass me the goblet,” says Uther to Arthur. “If you’re telling the truth—“

“I am—“

“Then you have nothing to fear, do you?”

Bayard sheathes his sword, gesturing for Uther to pass him the goblet. 

“No. If this does prove to be poisoned, I want the pleasure of killing you myself.” He holds the goblet up to Merlin. “He’ll drink it.”

Arthur gapes, outraged. “But if it is poisoned, he’ll die!”

Uther’s eyes remain fixed on Merlin. “Then we’ll know he was telling the truth.”

“Merlin, apologise.” Arthur urges, reaching for the goblet. “This is a mistake. I’ll drink it.”

Merlin moves the goblet out of Arthur’s reach. He shoots Arthur a knowing look. “No, no, no, no, no. It’s alright.” He raises a goblet in a toast to Arthur and Bayard before chugging down the content of the goblet. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a deep breath. Then he says, astonished, “it’s fine.”

Uther gestures to Bayard. “He’s all yours.”

But then Merlin begins choking, gasping for air and clutching at his throat before collapsing on the floor, unconscious. 

The hall breaks into commotion. Distantly, Arthur hears swords being drawn again, but the chaos fades into the background as he crouches over Merlin. 

“Merlin, can you hear me?” Gaius looks up at Arthur. “We have to get him back to my chambers. Bring the goblet, I need to identify the poison.”

They depart for Gaius’ chambers at once, Arthur slinging Merlin’s unconscious body over his shoulder easily and Morgana’s servant Guinevere trailing after them, carrying the goblet. He lays Merlin on Gaius’ patient bed. 

In the short journey they made between the Great Hall and Gaius’ chambers, Merlin has begun burning up, a sweaty sheen upon his brow. Despite unconsciousness, Merlin is still making that horrible choking noises. Real tendrils of worry begin to grip tight around Arthur’s chest. “Is he going to be alright?”

Gaius directs Guinevere to tend to Merlin as he searches his book for an answer. Gaius flicks through the pages quickly, trying to find an illustration to match the flower petal he found in the goblet. It doesn’t take long for him to find it. He points at the illustration with triumph. 

“The petal comes from the Mortaeus flower. It says here that someone poisoned by the Mortaeus can only be saved by a potion made from the leaf of the very same flower. It can only be found in the caves deep beneath the Forest of Balor. The flower grows on the roots of the Mortaeus tree.”

Arthur is half-listening—there is another illustration on the page that catches his eye. “That doesn’t look particularly friendly.”

“A cockatrice. It guards the forest. Its venom is potent. A single drop would mean a certain death. Few who have crossed the Mountains of Isgaard in search of the Mortaeus flower have made it back alive.”

Arthur lets out a slow breath. “Sounds like fun.”

Gaius shoots Arthur a concerned look. “Arthur, it’s too dangerous.”

“If I don’t get the antidote, what happens to Merlin?”

“The Mortaeus induces a slow and painful death. He may hold out for four, maybe five days, but not for much longer.” Gaius hesitates. “Eventually, he will die.”

Arthur lowers his voice. “How will it react with…” he sneaks a glance towards Guinevere, who is wiping Merlin’s brow. “His condition?”

“I’m not sure, Arthur,” Gaius admits. “Stories about—those with his condition—say that he will make it out alive. But how it works, I don’t know.”

“First he saved Camelot, and now he’s saved my life,” says Arthur. He takes another look at Merlin, who is tossing and turning on his bed, face twisting with pain. His pale face is limned with sweat; Arthur’s heart gives a painful twinge. “I can’t take that chance.”

As Arthur expected, his father wouldn’t let him make the journey. He fumes all the way back to his own chambers, except that Morgana accosts him before he could make it back. 

“So,” she puts her hand upon his arm. “I didn’t realise Merlin was your servant.”

Arthur suppresses a sigh. Of course Morgana already knew about Merlin—she knows everything that goes on in the castle. He asks anyway, “how did you know about Merlin?”

“He’s a friend of Gwen’s,” she replies. “When did he become your servant?”

“Recently.”

“That’s funny, I swear he was Gaius’ apprentice this afternoon.”

“Look, Morgana, I don’t have time for this,” he pulls his arm away. “He’s dying. But there is still a chance that I can save him.”

“So what’s keeping you, then?” Morgana presses. “Father?”

“He’s right,” sighs Arthur. “If I don’t make it back, who will be the next king of Camelot? There’s more than just my life at stake.”

“And what kind of king would Camelot want?” retorts Morgana, a challenging tilt to her jaw. “One that would risk his life to save that of a lowly servant, or the one who does what his father tells him to?”

“You think I should go?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Arthur boggles at her, but she pays him no mind. “Sometimes you’ve got to do what you think is right, and damn the consequences.”

Arthur rides hard through the night, past the countryside and through the mountains, reaching the Forest of Balor just as dawn breaks. 

He hears the woman’s cries before he sees her. When she claims that she can lead him to the flower, he’s not sure at first whether he could trust her and take her at her word. But she seems so vulnerable, so harmless. It seems impossible that she would do him harm.

The woman leads him through the twisting and turning of the cave, stopping just short of a large gap with a long drop. 

“There they are,” she smiles pleasantly, pointing across the gap. 

He almost misses them in the darkness of the cave, but once she pointed it out, he sees them: little yellow flowers like upturned daffodils, just as they look in Gaius’ book. Arthur’s shoulders sag with relief. 

“Thank you,” he tells her. “Keep back from the edge. Don’t worry, we’ll be out of here soon.”

But the woman starts muttering something—belatedly, Arthur recognises it as the same language Merlin speaks when he is chanting a spell. 

The cave begins to shake. 

“What are you doing?”

The rock falls out from beneath him, causing Arthur to drop his torch. Arthur reacts on instincts alone; leaping across the ledge and catching it. He scrabbles to find purchase, but his feet find nothing.

“I expected so much more,” the woman taunts from across the ledge. 

“Who are you?”

“The last face you’ll ever see,” she replies, smug. 

She taunts him further, but Arthur doesn’t listen; he’s too busy trying to fend off the army of spiders trying to eat him alive. The woman’s departure with Arthur’s torch plunges the whole cave into darkness, and Arthur swings wildly to fight the spiders off, but it’s too dark and there's too many of them. Arthur shouts at them, words filled with bravado and challenge and not enough sense, but he shouts them anyway because if he doesn’t, the fear will creep in.

Perhaps he should’ve stayed in Camelot. Perhaps his father was right, and he is going to die running some fools’ errand. 

And then, suddenly, a familiar blue glowing light rises from the bottom of the drop. Arthur looks at it in surprise as it floats above his head. It illuminates the cave enough for him to be able to see where he should place his feet to find purchase, allowing him to pull himself up onto the ledge. The light moves higher still, and Arthur sees the damned flower. 

Well. He’s already here, anyway. 

He climbs up, fast as he can, grabbing the flowers as he climbs past and securing them in his pouch. The light disappears as soon as he reaches safety, and Arthur knows, immediately, who has come to his aid. 

It’s good news, then, because at least, Merlin is still alive. 

Arthur is arrested immediately upon his return. It is an undignified affair, and on a different day, he would be much more furious about being so publicly humiliated. As it stands, however, Arthur is far more concerned about getting the flower to Gaius. He watches in horrified disbelief as his father crushes the flower in front of his eyes, dropping it unceremoniously to the ground as though Arthur hadn’t nearly died trying to get it. He strains and strains against the iron bars, nearly dislocating his shoulder trying to reach the dropped flower. He manages to get them back, eventually, but that’s only half the battle. 

When Guinevere turns up, radiating anxiety but impressively managing to appear calm, Arthur has never been so pleased to see her. 

Arthur stays in the dungeon for three nights. It is the longest he has stayed in a cell—no doubt his father is making his displeasure clear. 

Morgana visits him on the second night. 

“The King is awfully cross with you,” she says. The quirk of her lips makes it clear that she doesn’t share his opinion. “Okay, let the bragging begin. How did you manage it?”

“I had help,” Arthur admits. “Someone knew I was in trouble and sent a light to guide the way.”

Morgana frowns, looking at him in askance. “Who?”

“Whoever it was, I’m only here because of them,” replies Arthur, meeting her curious gaze. “The flower—did it work?”

“It did,” Morgana smiles. “Gwen said that it was touch and go—she’s convinced that his heart stopped for a solid minute.”

Arthur nods brusquely. “Good.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” says Morgana. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“A servant?” Merlin screeches the moment Arthur walks through the door to the physician’s chambers. “A servant? I saved your life twice and you made me your servant?”

“It’s an honour, you know,” Arthur points out, suppressing a wicked grin. To be honest, it’s bewildering that anybody would take this appointment as anything other than the highest honour. “Serving the kingdom, protecting her Crown Prince—“

“You couldn’t have made me a knight, at least?”

“What do you know about becoming a knight?” Arthur snorts. “We’d have to forge a believable identity for you—far too much hassle. Besides, think about it, you idiot. It’s the least suspicious place you could be, if you were to carry on with your guardian duties.”

“Fine,” Merlin grits his teeth. “But I hope you know that I will be using magic to do my chores.”

“That’s punishable by death, Merlin.”

“Well, you didn’t mind it so much when I was using it to save your kingdom!”

“Fine,” he smirks. “I suppose it means that you will have time to get more things done.” Arthur exhales. “Good to see that you’re still alive.”

“Oh, yeah, just about,” Merlin softens, some of the irritation bleeding from his expression. “I understand I have you to thank for that.”

“Yeah, well, it was nothing,” replies Arthur, thinking of the damned cockatrice and the damned spiders. “Merlin—when I was hanging off the ledge, about to be eaten by spiders, there was a light guiding the way.” He searches Merlin’s face. “Was that you?”

“It might have been,” Merlin looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Though I’m not quite sure how. That has never happened before.”

Arthur isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “Well, I appreciated the help,” he replies, equally uncomfortably, “I expect you to start work tomorrow.”

The glare Merlin shoots him is downright murderous. “Bright and early.”

Chapter Text

The first thing that crosses Arthur’s mind the moment he leaves Gaius’ chambers is,  oh gods, what had he done.

It’s one thing to harbour a sorcerer for a day as they try to banish a magical plague, but it’s another thing entirely to keep a sorcerer in his employ indefinitely. It’s another thing to look his father in the eye, every day, and not say a word about the magic present at the heart of his kingdom. It’s another thing entirely to lie to everyone he knows about Merlin’s true nature and cover up for him.

A part of Arthur is intrigued. His father has made it his life’s mission to eradicate magic, calling it the roots of all evil. His single-mindedness has led to innocents dying—there is no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Bronwyn was innocent. A whisper of magic and his father’s entire mood would change; he’d forego any attempts to reason and go straight for the scorched earth option. 

Arthur can feel a thread of doubt niggling in the back of his head. He's not sure what started it. Perhaps it was Bronwyn's execution, the casual disregard his father had for her years of service.

(Perhaps it's Merlin.)

What if it’s not as clear-cut as Arthur has been led to believe? What if not all magic is evil? After all, it did defeat the afanc. It did save his life when he was hanging off the edge of that cliff. How can magic be so rotten to the core when it had saved his life and his kingdom twice?

Besides, it was Arthur who summoned Merlin. How can Arthur summon a man, use his powers to help his goal, and then put him on the pyre once he outlasts his usefulness? Not that he knows how it would work, mind, if Merlin is as immortal as he claims to be.

Arthur might not have known what he was getting into at the time, believing it to be a one-off thing rather than a binding magical contract. But Merlin deserves better than the pyre and the banishment. 

And the truth of the matter is, well. His mother had wanted him to have the vial. She had wanted Arthur to be protected by a magical guardian. 

Arthur reaches for the vial in his pocket, fingering the smooth surface of the metal case. The stopper bears her sigil; Arthur traces it with a gentle touch. She wanted to protect Arthur, even from beyond the veil of death. 

Perhaps it doesn’t have to be all horrible.

Arthur has never paid much attention to the state of his chambers, let alone to the servants that cleaned them. Usually, they putter in the background, sweeping and dusting and whatever else it is that servants do before slipping back out as quietly as they slinked in. Merlin, however, seems to have made it his personal mission to be impossible to ignore. As if he knew exactly what Arthur was thinking, Merlin then promptly trips over Arthur’s boots, sending things crashing one after another.

If Arthur jumped out of his skin a little bit, it’s not like anybody would have noticed. 

“You’ve never been a servant, have you,” observes Arthur dryly, affecting calm in his tone and not bothering to look up from his stack of papers. 

Merlin sounds mutinous. “No.”

“It’s an honour, Merlin,” Arthur tells him again, grinning at Merlin’s evident displeasure. “Besides, if I were to allow magic in my household, I might as well benefit from it.”

“Benefit?” Merlin scowls. “You mean, in addition to my regularly saving your life and your kingdom?”

“Indeed,” intones Arthur unapologetically. “A clean and organised bedchamber is indispensable to the smooth running of the kingdom.”

Merlin mutters something unintelligible under his breath, no doubt something impertinent and horribly uncharitable about Arthur’s character. 

Arthur tamps down on a genuine smile, but his amusement is short-lived. “In all seriousness, Merlin, we need to talk about your magic.”

Merlin’s reply is sullen. “What about it?”

“It goes without saying that you need to keep it hidden,” Arthur drawls, as though speaking to a slow child. “And I want you to swear an oath to me that you will not use it against me.”

“Arthur, I am bound to you,” Merlin explains patiently for what seems like the hundredth time. “I cannot go against you even if I wanted to. That’s generally how we work.”

Arthur heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Just swear it, Merlin.”

“Fine, if it’s really important to you, then I swear it,” Merlin replies before going back to his dusting. 

It's not the solemn oath Arthur had half-hoped for. Knowing Merlin, it is the best that Arthur is going to receive. 

They don’t want to trust each other, at first. But despite their less than ideal start, they begin to grow closer. Perhaps it’s the fact that Merlin had drunk poison for him. Perhaps it’s the way Merlin saved him, even when the man is unconscious.

People have always bent over backwards to please Arthur, clamouring for even a mere scrap of his approval. Not Merlin, though. Merlin is nothing like anybody Arthur has ever met. There’s something about Merlin that piques Arthur’s curiosity and worms under Arthur’s skin, and it’s certainly nothing to do with his magic. He’s terribly insolent—Arthur finds it difficult to believe that Merlin has ever served in a court before. Whether his lack of manners comes from a complete lack of self-preservation, security in the knowledge that he could smite his enemies with one look, or genuine disrespect, Arthur can’t be sure.

Merlin clearly takes his duty seriously even if he spends most of his time sniping at Arthur. Merlin using his magic is something astonishing to behold: it comes to him as easily and as naturally as breathing. 

(What else has his father lied about?)

“So how does it work?” asks Arthur, a month into Merlin’s service. He is planning out patrol routes and Merlin is sitting in the corner of his room, polishing different bits and bobs making up Arthur’s armour.

Merlin lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Sire.”

Merlin has taken to calling him with his title lately—no doubt under Guinevere’s good tutelage—although how he has managed to infuse  you arrogant pig  into the honorific is both impressive and something worth studying. Come to think of it, it is entirely believable that Merlin had served in court, after all.

Arthur makes a vague gesture. “You know, your—er,” he drops his “immortality.”

“Oh, well, um,” Merlin scratches his head. “I’m not too sure, actually. Sometimes I’d think, that’s it, I’m dying for good this time, and then I’d wake up.” Merlin narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Why? Are you planning an execution soon?”

“No,” Arthur rolls his eyes heartily. “You know, just for future reference.”

“What future reference?” demands Merlin. Then adds, belatedly, “Sire, I mean.”

“Hmm, your tone still needs some work,” Arthur comments, hiding a smile. “You need to make it sound convincing, Merlin.”

“Oh, don’t change the subject,” Merlin huffs.

“You still can’t talk to me like that, either.”

Merlin grins, all cheek and twinkling mischief. “You don’t seem to awfully mind, Sire.”

Damn. He’d hidden it worse than he thought. He asks instead, “so if you were dying, like when you drank that poison. Would you have been fine without the antidote?”

Was there a need for Arthur to actually go and rescue Merlin?

“Um, to be fair, I probably would have stayed dead for a good bit, if not for the antidote,” replies Merlin. “Or perhaps I would’ve healed in time. I’m not sure,” he shoots a warning look. “I’m not too keen on finding out, either.”

Arthur snorts. “Don’t worry about it.”

The next threat to Camelot comes in the form of a vicious half-eagle, half-lion creature. 

“What creature could have done this?” asks Uther, surveying the burning village with dismay. 

Arthur relays the information the villagers had given him. “We found no tracks in or out,” he reports, “what the villagers say must be true: it has wings and—“

“What?”

“It took no livestock, only people,” Arthur finishes grimly. “Whatever it is, it has a taste for human flesh.”

Arthur comes into Gaius’ chambers unannounced, the slam of the door against the wall causing Merlin to jump clear out of his skin.

“What can you tell me about a creature with the wings of an eagle and the body of a lion?”

“Hello to you too, Arthur,” says Merlin, barely glancing up from his book. “Can’t say I’ve heard of one. Gaius?”

Gaius shakes his head. “I haven’t heard about it either, Sire.”

“The reports of a winged creature attacking our villages are true,” says Arthur. He can still hear the sobs of the villagers as they watch their livelihoods burn down. “First it was Greenswood, and then down to Willowdale. It’s heading south towards Camelot.”

Gaius is already standing up, picking up a couple of hefty tomes from his shelves. 

“The reports said that the creature has eyes the size of a man’s head, talons as long as a man’s arm. It’s fast and agile, but big enough to hit and hit hard. I want you to search every record of known creatures in the kingdom,” orders Arthur. “We don’t have much time.”

The warning bells toll that same night. 

Arthur takes off without a second of hesitation, getting the nearest squire to help him don his armour. When he arrives in the courtyard, some of the knights are already there, half of them looking around like headless chickens, swords dangling uselessly in their grip as they try not to provoke the creature. 

The creature towers over the courtyard, and it looks just as the villagers described: sharp, menacing yellow eyes that miss nothing, curved sharp talons that look like they could slice through a man like butter, powerful wings that send ripples of wind as they flap. 

“On me! On me!” shouts Arthur. “Defence!"

The knights look at him, grateful for the instruction, before they surround him, falling into a defensive formation. They crouch down as the creature rears, aggravated. 

Arthur points his spear upward and hurls it at the creature’s chest. The spear breaks, the wood splintering in half and bouncing off the creature’s hide harmlessly. The momentum was enough to knock Arthur backwards, landing him flat on his arse. As he looks up, a guard passes him a torch and Arthur takes it gratefully, waving it at the creature.

The creature hisses balefully. With one last, disgruntled look at Arthur and his knights, the creature takes off into the night.

Gaius enters the room as Arthur and his father were discussing the attack, looking dishevelled and out of breath as though he had run all the way from his chambers. “Sire, if I may?”

“Gaius?”

“I have been researching this creature, Sire. I believe it to be a griffin.”

“A griffin?" repeats Uther. "What’s in a name?”

Gaius glances at Arthur quickly before continuing, “the griffin is a creature of magic.”

Arthur’s heart sinks.

“I don’t have time for this, physician,” Uther scowls.

“It is born of magic, Sire. It can only be killed by magic,” Gaius tries again.

Uther’s scowl only deepens. “You are mistaken,” he says, almost in a snarl. “It’s a creature of flesh and blood like any other. Arthur proved that today.”

“I’m not so sure, Father,” Arthur frowns, “I think there may be some truth in what he says.”

“What truth?”

“The griffin was unharmed, Sire,” explains Arthur hesitantly. “Our weapons seemed useless against it.”

“Useless?” Uther repeats, eyes flashing dangerously. “I think not. No, it’s tasted our steel once. The next time will be its last. When will your knights be ready to ride again?”

Arthur steels his spine. “An hour, maybe two.”

“Good,” Uther nods. “We finish this tonight.”

“Tell me you found a spell to defeat it,” huffs Arthur when Merlin enters his room. 

“As soon as Gaius told me what it was, I started practising,” Merlin admits. He doesn't appear to be convincingly confident.

“Good,” Arthur nods. “You must be discreet, though. You can’t let the other knights see you.”

“I know, I know,” Merlin rolls his eyes. He grimaces. “I’ve never cast a spell of enchantment this powerful.”

“Don’t worry about it, Merlin,” Arthur claps his shoulder, baring his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “We have plenty of time.”

It takes several hours before the griffin decides that it’s ready to try again.

The second fight is far more brutal than the first. The griffin clearly didn’t appreciate Arthur’s attempt to stab him earlier, because it makes a beeline for him straight away. Arthur swerves away to avoid the incoming strike, only for another knight to charge and be swiped away like an annoying gnat. 

It’s embarrassing, how quickly the griffin goes through Arthur’s rank of knights. Arthur looks around him, not a quarter of an hour after the battle started, only to realise that he’s the only one still astride his horse. His other men are strewn all over the courtyard, some groaning in pain and others dying. 

It’s astonishing how much damage one creature could havoc. 

He glances at the stone pillar he knows Merlin is hiding behind, wondering what on earth could be keeping him up. 

Arthur rides into a charging position with grim determination and lowers his visor shut. As if sensing Arthur’s presence, the griffin whirls around to face him, away from the three men it’s currently fighting.

Arthur rears his horse and positions his lance before charging forth. Now that the griffin has Arthur in its sights, it charges too.

The griffin screeches upon impact, and Arthur catches the barest glimpse of blue before his lance sinks into the gryphon’s chest. The gryphon’s cry dies down, wings flapping madly once, twice, before it collapses, Arthur's lance sticking out his chest. 

Arthur cries out, triumph and relief and sheer exhilaration rolled into one. He glances at the stone pillar, his eyes drawn as if by instinct. Somehow, he knows already that Merlin is no longer there. 

Chapter Text

“So, Merlin,” says Arthur one night. He is relaxed and loose-limbed, having come back from a dinner with his father and Morgana which, rarely, didn’t devolve into one argument or another. The fire is roaring heartily in the hearth and Arthur leans back against his chair, twirling a dagger in his hand. “How long have you been alive?”

Merlin drops the gauntlet he was polishing. 

“Oi, watch that,” Arthur drawls lazily, without heat. Merlin can mend the dink with a blink of his eye, so Arthur isn’t particularly bothered. 

“Oh, er,” Merlin appears shifty. “Not very long at all, actually.”

Arthur huffs. It’s not an answer at all. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“How long is not very long?”

Merlin sighs. “You are my third,” he picks up the gauntlet he dropped and continues polishing, not looking at Arthur. “Charge, I mean. I’m quite young. All things considered.”

There’s a vacant look in his eyes, Arthur notes. As though he is lost in some distant memories. Arthur presses anyway. 

“What happened to the two before me?”

“What do you think?” Merlin snaps. He lifts his head, looking at Arthur straight on. His voice is hard when he says, “they died.” 

“Oh,” says Arthur intelligently, feeling a bit like an arse.

Merlin looks away again, regret colouring his features. “I couldn’t save them.”

Arthur shifts in discomfort. “I’m sorry.”

“Magic can’t be the answer to everything,” Merlin mutters, polishing viciously. “Sometimes, there is only so much magic can do against the nature of men.”

Arthur isn’t sure what to make of Merlin’s reply. It makes perfect sense, though, so he doesn’t question it. Arthur has seen men die—on battlefields, in silly accidents, on occasions where they were caught simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes, it happens so quickly that they would die before they hit the ground, and there wouldn’t be anything that anyone can do. 

But he is still curious. He softens his voice when he asks, “what were they like?”

“Less of a nosy prat than you,” answers Merlin readily, but despite his words, he glances at Arthur with a twinkle in his eye. “Certainly less bossy, too.” 

Arthur grins, pleased that they’re back on familiar grounds. There are still so many questions that he wants to ask, but perhaps he’d save it for another time. 

A thought occurs to him. He sits up, and teases, almost gleefully, “does this make you older than Gaius?”

Merlin bursts out in a surprised laugh. 

It becomes a nightly routine for them both: Arthur would sit at his desk, pretending to read reports or write a speech or memorise his schedule for the morrow, and Merlin would be there, pretending not to use magic to complete his chores, though not very well. 

Arthur learns that no, it wasn’t always full lifetimes that he has lived and no, he’s not old enough to be Arthur’s father. He is older than Arthur, though not by much—only by three years or so. Arthur should’ve known, really, because Merlin doesn’t have the wariness that he sometimes sees in his father’s eyes. He doesn’t bear the weight many older nobles he speaks to in council seem to wear on their shoulders.

“Is there some form of training that you have to undertake to become a guardian?” asks Arthur one night. The new crop of recruits will turn up at training first thing in the morning, and Arthur prays to all the gods that they won’t be half as useless as the last. 

“It’s not an occupation, necessarily,” answers Merlin. He is sitting by the fireplace, reading a book while the floor scrubs itself. “I was born to be a guardian, just as you were born to be a king.”

“Yes, but I received formal education and had to train to become a knight,” Arthur points out. “I wasn’t born with my skills.” He gesticulates vaguely at the floor and sighs, “can you try to at least be a bit discreet about this?”

“Why?” challenges Merlin. “You already know I’m doing it.”

”What if somebody comes in?”

”Who would barge into the Prince’s chambers without knocking?”

”Other than you, you mean?” snorts Arthur. “Answer the question, Merlin.”

“I suppose I was born with magic and the ability to come back to life,” Merlin hums thoughtfully. “But I had to learn to control and channel it.” He snorts with amusement. “There’s no big school in the sky taught by gods or anything.”

“So you were born, then?” asks Arthur. It’s a silly question, perhaps, but how would he know? “To a mother and a father?”

“The Druids found me in the woods when I was just a babe,” he frowns. “They taught me to control my magic, to an extent. I had to figure out the rest on the go.”

Arthur was fourteen when his father ordered him to lead a campaign. By the time he was sixteen, he had seen his fair share of battles, killing his fair share of men. He supposes it’s the same with Merlin. 

A sense of unease begins to grow within Arthur, for reasons he can’t quite pinpoint. He wonders what it’s like, living one’s life knowing full well that he is living only to serve another. He wonders if Merlin gets a say in deciding whose life he will guard like it was his own. But Arthur decides to bite his tongue instead. He has a feeling that he knows exactly what the answer would be.

Other times, Merlin is the one to ask questions. 

“How did you come across the æðm?”

Arthur stares at him blankly.

“The vial,” Merlin gesticulates vaguely. “The one with my breath in it. I would’ve thought that your father would have destroyed it during the Purge.”

Merlin says your father as though he was referring to something terribly unpleasant, but Arthur graciously lets it slide. It’s a fair enough question. “He doesn’t know of its existence,” admits Arthur carefully. He can feel its reassuring weight in his pocket and suppresses the instinct to run his finger along its case. “It was my mother’s.”

Merlin seems stunned into silence. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Her handmaiden gave it to me,” Arthur volunteers. He takes it out of his pocket, tracing the sigil engraved on its stopper. “She said that my mother received it as a gift when she became pregnant with me.”

Merlin opens his mouth, closes it again, and then opens it again. As though he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should.

Arthur waits expectantly. 

“Your mother loved magic,” Merlin finally offers; softly, hesitantly.

His words suck all the air from the room. 

Arthur is torn between outrage and desperation to know more. Merlin watches him with a careful eye—guarded, but with no small amount of sympathy. Eventually, curiosity wins out and Arthur demands, “how the hell would you know that?”

“My previous charge told me.”

The answer takes Arthur by surprise. Merlin is referring to the Dragonlord. But how would a Dragonlord—?

“Dragonlords were considered nobles, once upon a time,” Merlin continues, still in that cautious tone. “He lived in Camelot, before the Purge, and was often invited to Court.” He smiles, a bit ruefully. “You can imagine why kings would vie for the support of Dragonlords.”

Arthur wonders if Merlin’s Lord had ended up on the pyre, and if that’s why Merlin is always so secretive about his previous life. Or if the Dragonlord had managed to escape his decreed death, and if Merlin had a hand in ensuring his escape.

“He spoke of frequent banquets held in Camelot’s halls,” Merlin carries on. “The best warlocks and witches from across Albion would come and perform before the High Table. Much like a tourney. The Queen had loved every second of it—you could see it in her eyes.” Merlin pauses again, glancing nervously at Arthur. “It reminded her of home.”

Arthur falls silent. A part of him wants to shout at Merlin for his audacity, for all that he is insinuating about Arthur’s father. He would demand why he had never heard of this before, to know if Merlin is feeding him lies. Arthur has garnered that magic thrived in Camelot before his birth, and this only further explains why his mother would have no qualms in keeping an artefact that is clearly magical in nature. 

Perhaps that’s why his father hates magic so much,  Arthur thinks to himself.  Magic reminds him of her. She had loved it, and it only took her life—

“Tintagel has always been a mystical place,” says Merlin, oblivious to the turmoil raging in Arthur’s mind. “You could taste the magic in the salty air. You can hear it in the rolling waves, shortly before they crash upon the cliffs.” 

“Have you been?” Arthur blurts out before he could stop himself. 

“It’s where the Dragonlord hails from,” replies Merlin. “It’s beautiful there.”

Arthur falls quiet. He has never been to his mother’s land. He has always longed to visit, almost desperately so, but to this day, Tintagel has refused to renounce magic and purge its land of magic. And as long as they continue to allow magic within their borders, Arthur knows that his father would never allow Arthur to cross their borders. 

Arthur wonders what Tintagel would be like. As a boy, he used to pore over Camelot’s library books and the map scrolls for hours, his mind full of heady images of what his mother’s land would look like. He remembers telling Geoffrey that he was simply studying the geography of Albion, and Geoffrey had indulged him, accepting Arthur’s excuses without question. In hindsight, Arthur has no doubt that Geoffrey knew perfectly well what he was doing. And Geoffrey had encouraged it, too—bringing him all the illustrations of Tintagel that he could find, even without Arthur requesting him to do so.  

Arthur can count the number of times he has been to the sea in one hand. Camelot borders the Great Seas of Meredor on the southwest, and despite the rare visits, Arthur still remembers perfectly clear how the salty wind whipped at his hair, how the sea waves felt lapping at his skin. The sloping rocks where Camelot falls to the sea make for a striking sight; Arthur remembers taking it all in with awe, chest full of love for his land. 

The coast of Tintagel, Arthur heard, is a different league entirely. Passing merchants speak admiringly of clear cerulean waters and fine, golden sand on a warm summer’s day. They speak of beaches that stretch as far as the eyes could see; sandy, rather than rocky, the way they are in Camelot. They speak reverently of the violent seas, too; so tumultuous in a storm that it would take a great wooden ship in its grasp with ease and slam it to splinters against the rocks, like a child throwing his toy in a tantrum. 

“I should like to see it,” says Arthur out loud. He wants to meet his family, he wants to see the home his mother grew up in. He wonders if it is still full of people who once knew her. Then he frowns. Come to think of it, there isn’t much that he knows about his mother’s side of the family, either. His mother has a living brother—Agravaine, now the Lord of Tintagel—but that is the extent of Arthur’s knowledge. He knows that his father’s relations with Agravaine are frosty at best, so Arthur isn’t likely to meet him soon. “Perhaps one day.”

Chapter Text

Morgana arrived in Camelot when Arthur was only eight. She is only a couple of years older than him, but it never stopped her from having an air of knowing superiority, as though she holds the keys to all the world’s secrets and Arthur doesn’t. Upon her arrival in Camelot, she smoothly weaved her way into the heart of the highborn cliques, and it wasn’t long at all before she was trailed by a gaggle of giggling girls wherever she went.

As a young boy, Arthur always thought she was pretty, with her bright blue-green eyes and dark hair that cascaded down her back in waves. It was unfortunate that she was also tremendously annoying. 

Arthur was used to girls competing for his attention, to honeyed words and fluttered lashes. Morgana came along and offered nothing of the sort; she was all razor-sharp wit and a scathing tongue. He supposed that a part of it could be explained away by the fact that she never needed to impress him. They would never marry; his father would never expend them so cheaply. 

It never occurred to him once that perhaps, Morgana just didn’t like him. After all, why wouldn’t she like him? He's a prince, he’s handsome, he’s good with a sword. Any girl would be lucky if Arthur were gracious enough to bestow his attention upon them. But even as a young girl, Morgana has always been rather individual. Even though her upbringing is immaculate—she was taught to dance and sing and engage in all sorts of things highborn girls were meant to engage in—she has always been headstrong rather than meek, a hurricane if there ever was one. 

Arthur remembers protesting vehemently when his father announced that Morgana was to join him in sword training. 

“It’s not ladylike for a girl to practice sword training,” Arthur had said, scrunching up his nose in distaste. 

Morgana simply raised an eyebrow in response, smirking. “Why not?” she challenged, “afraid to be shown up by a girl? Not very gallant of you, I’d say.”

“Don’t you have some embroidering to do?”

Morgana shot him an unimpressed glare. “Don’t you have some squire to wave a stick at?”

“Arthur,” intervened his father, who had a vein throbbing on his temple. “Sir Roderick will be training you and Morgana first thing in the morrow. I will hear no more of this.”

Arthur had scoffed and sputtered, stomping off when his father refused to listen to reason. 

It came as a surprise to Arthur that his father would allow it at all. Perhaps he was simply being kind and accommodating—after all, Morgana was a guest in Camelot. And she had just lost her father in a war that his father had waged. Arthur could allow her to join in on his training.

But even in those early days, Morgana had managed to unlock a side to his father that Arthur had never seen. Arthur didn’t miss a thing: the gleam of pride in his father’s eyes the first time he saw Morgana knocking the sword away from Sir Roderick’s hand, the gentle way he told Morgana of Camelot’s proud history.

To Arthur, his father was always a strong king, a role model for him to look up to. To Morgana, it’s almost as if he was her father.

Somewhere along the line, Arthur and Morgana began to get on, and for once in his life, Arthur felt like he had a solid ally, one who saw him as him instead of as a means to an end. 

It started slowly at first, just quick exchanged glances when his father inevitably began another one of his diatribes. They’d catch each other’s eye and look away as if they hadn’t meant for their eyes to meet; as if the interaction hadn’t happened at all. It was such a minor thing, just a way of making sure that they heard Uther right, and that what he said was as outrageous as Arthur thought it was. 

Before too long, Arthur would find himself coming to her when his father was being particularly difficult—Morgana seemed to have a higher success rate than anybody in getting his father to listen—and Morgana would come to him when a particular lordling or knight needs taking down a peg or two. Not that she needed any help handling anybody, mind, but it was always good practice to ensure that one’s message was solidly delivered. 

Arthur grew fond of her, eventually. And eventually, Morgana, too, conceded that perhaps, Arthur may have some redeeming qualities. 

(This also isn’t to say that she ever stopped being tremendously annoying, but loathe as he was to admit it, Morgana does have a point from time to time. )

Merlin doesn’t seem to like Morgana very much.

This comes as a surprise to Arthur, considering how friendly Merlin seems to be with Morgana’s handmaiden. Merlin has always reminded him a bit of Morgana—not just in appearance, but also in the way they treat Arthur. Morgana never treats Arthur as her prince, and in the same vein, Merlin never treats Arthur as his lord. They both don’t afford Arthur the respect his status demands.

“It’s to keep your head from getting too big, Sire,” Merlin said to him once. “If anything, I am doing the kingdom a great service.”

It was eerie, because Arthur vaguely recalls Morgana saying the exact same thing once many years ago.

Arthur thought they would get along like a house on fire. Instead, Merlin watches Morgana with hawk-like eyes and something akin to distrust, almost as if he is waiting for her to make a misstep.

Arthur tries asking Merlin about it, one night.

“What is the matter with you and Morgana?” he asks with false nonchalance. 

Merlin, equally, pretends like he doesn’t tense up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You seem awfully close with her handmaiden.”

Merlin glances up from his book. “Been watching me, have you?”

Arthur snorts. “I need to ensure that you’re not embarrassing me, don’t I?”

Merlin doesn’t rise to the bait, looking back down to his book. “If you say so, Sire.”

Merlin’s defensiveness only caused Arthur to watch them closer.

There isn’t technically anything wrong with the way Merlin interacts with Morgana. He treats her the way any castle servant would; with deference and utmost courtesy. He bows before her and addresses her properly, all politeness and good manners. It’s correct. It’s proper. Arthur finds it all incredibly suspicious. 

“Something is the matter with you and Morgana.” Arthur declares one night. He is reading through a report, pretending that any of the words actually stick, and Merlin is once again sitting in the corner of his room, polishing away.

“What is this obsession you have with me and the Lady Morgana?” Merlin replies. Rather outrageously, Arthur thinks. “Nothing is the matter. She seems like a lovely person.”

“You call her your Lady,” accuses Arthur. “And you seem to mean it.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, putting down his polishing cloth. “This is a problem how, exactly?”

“This is what I mean!” cries Arthur. “You call me Arthur—“

“Unless I'm very much mistaken, that is your name—“

“You disrespect me constantly—“

“Only when you deserve it—“

“You talk back to me.” Arthur narrows his eyes. “You don’t do that with her.”

“Arthur, I don’t even know her,” Merlin huffs. “This is ridiculous. You are upset because I—what, don’t  talk back to her and address her with due respect?”

Put in such a way, Arthur is forced to admit that it does sounds a little bit ridiculous. “I’m not upset.”

“Okay,” agrees Merlin dubiously, slowly picking up his polishing cloth again. “I still don’t understand what the problem is.”

“You treat her with respect,” Arthur tries again. “You don’t treat anybody with respect.”

Merlin stills. Arthur only notices because he is watching Merlin closely. 

“Fine, if you must know. Gwen said she’s a good employer,” mutters Merlin. He polishes Arthur’s pauldron with extra ardour. “She would give her days off to go to the fete. Or even some paid time to help out at the armoury, if her father needs an extra hand…”

Arthur lets Merlin rant about how much of a good employer Morgana is and how much Arthur pales in comparison. There is a strange feeling in his chest—something tells him that perhaps, Merlin isn’t telling the whole truth.

Their first fight—after the initial rough patch, that is—comes not too long after that. 

Once again, Merlin is sitting in the corner of Arthur’s room—Arthur had, unconsciously, started referring to it as Merlin’s Spot in the privacy of his own mind—while Arthur is studying a map of Camelot. Merlin is flicking absently through his book as a broom sweeps back and forth, floating a few inches above Arthur’s fireplace. 

Arthur glances up from his map at the broom. He may have grown lax in his threats of execution, but this does not mean that he is exceedingly comfortable with such a blatant display of magic. “You need to be more careful.”

“I am being careful,” Merlin replies, not even bothering to look up from his book. “No need to worry your big head.”

Arthur gestures pointedly at the magical floating broom. “I’d be more inclined to believe you if you were not trying to sweep my floor without even touching the broom,” Arthur points out. “You’d have more success if the broom actually touches the surface of the floor, by the way.”

“Hm?” Merlin looks up. “Oh,” with a flick of his finger, he brings the broom down marginally so that it touches the ground.

“Merlin, we spoke about this.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s one thing to see big, occasional displays of lifesaving magic. Seeing small, everyday magic used so casually feels like he has betrayed his kingdom to a whole different degree. “Can you not do it when I’m around, at least?”

“Why?” Arthur can see Merlin’s hackles beginning to rise. “You seem perfectly fine with it when I’m using it to save your kingdom.”

“That’s different,” Arthur bites out. “That’s a necessity.”

“You were the one who insisted that a freshly swept fireplace is a necessity,” Merlin mutters back viciously. 

“I’m the Crown Prince, Merlin,” says Arthur, feeling the beginnings of a headache pounding in his temples. “I can’t be seen condoning the use of magic in my own bedchambers—“

“So? No one will see,” says Merlin, aggravated. “It’s not as if someone will barge in here.”

It would’ve been more convincing if he hadn’t glanced nervously at the door when he says this.

“That’s not the point though, is it,” Arthur exhales with aggravation. “I swore an oath to uphold the laws of the land—“

Merlin slams his book shut and stands abruptly, shooting Arthur a frosty glare. Arthur tenses, eyes immediately glancing to where his sword is lying. It’s often easy to forget that Merlin is a powerful being of magic when he is so often covered in horse manure under Arthur’s orders, but Arthur is harshly reminded of who Merlin truly is now. Something crackles in the air as Merlin draws himself to his full height. Merlin flicks a finger sharply, wordlessly, and the broom clatters to the floor.

His voice is soft and ice-cold when he says, “you should’ve thought about that before you summoned and bound a magical guardian to save your kingdom.”

Merlin makes sure to slam the door as he leaves, leaving Arthur wondering how the hell it had gone so wrong so quickly.

Merlin doesn’t turn up the next morning. 

“Have you seen my idiot servant?” he demands when midday comes and goes without any sign of Merlin.

“I thought he was with you, Sire,” Gaius frowns. “He was already out of bed when I went in to rouse him this morning. I thought he had gone and fetched your breakfast.”

“I haven’t seen him all day,” Arthur bites out. 

As far as days go, he is having an exceptionally terrible one. He overslept without anyone to wake him, and by the time he was up, the sun was high in the sky. He was already late to the knights’ training and there was no time to flag down a passing servant for breakfast. Foregoing his breakfast meant that he had less energy than most of the other knights, which meant that the insufferable Sir Caradoc had managed to knock Arthur flat on his arse. It was humiliating. Worse still is the knowledge that Arthur would never live it down.

“When did you last see him?” asked Gaius, interrupting Arthur’s painful reliving of the day’s shambolic events. 

“Last night.” When things went terribly awry. “When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday evening,” replies Gaius uneasily. “I sent him out for a round of deliveries and didn’t see him for supper. He must’ve gone straight to your chambers after.”

Arthur wants to be more furious than he currently is, because how dare Merlin leave his station without Arthur’s leave? How dare he make Arthur look like a mug, running around the castle trying to find his wayward servant?

Yet at the same time, an uneasiness begins to make itself known in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. because if Merlin had meant to leave, surely Gaius would know about it?

Arthur narrows his eyes. “If you are covering for him—“

“No, Sire,” denies Gaius quickly. “I haven’t seen him at all today, either.”

Arthur grits his teeth with irritation. “Well, the next time you see him, tell him he can look forward to spending the whole day in the stocks.”

Chapter Text

Arthur does not worry.

He spends his time carrying out his many, many duties, thank you very much, and does not spare a single thought about where his recalcitrant servant may have gone. It’s not like said servant was any good, anyway, and there’s plenty more in the castle that can do the job a thousand times better than Merlin can. So instead of wondering where on earth Merlin might be, or if he is even all right, Arthur shouts at the green new knights and barks orders at the squires quaking in their boots. In a record-breaking two hours, the news about Arthur’s foul mood has spread throughout the castle. It must have done, anyway, because the hallways are empty wherever he goes. 

The castle steward assigns him a new manservant by the name of George, who is the best that the castle can offer. Subservient, well-trained and thoroughly inflated with a sense of purpose, George talks too much and simultaneously too little. He never seems to say the right thing, no matter what he says. No doubt that George’s training is thorough, but every little thing he does seems to be wrong.

By the next morning, the supercilious lords attending court know better than to stoke Arthur’s ire, and by the time it hits twenty-four hours, even his father begins to notice that something is amiss. 

His father spares him a mildly intrigued glance when they sit down for dinner. He purses his lips and asks, “Everything in order, Arthur?”

“Yes, Father,” Arthur intones, blandly and without hesitation.

His father nods once, though by the way his glance lingers on Arthur, it is evident that he is not fooled by Arthur’s answer. It is a small mercy that his father doesn’t pry, trusting that Arthur will volunteer information if he considers it relevant for his father to know. 

Arthur’s fork pierces his capon not at all forcefully; his wine goes down at a respectable speed. It’s a regular evening without anything outside of the ordinary. As far as Arthur is concerned, there isn’t a threat to the kingdom that they need to be aware of. 

Merlin is probably fine. 

“I never realised how messy he actually leaves my chambers until now,” he muses out loud to Morgana, who is just about the only person left in the castle who can tolerate Arthur’s mood. “It’s incredible, how much difference a proper servant can make.”

“If Merlin was so incompetent, why didn’t you sack him sooner?” Morgana raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure it wouldn’t have been too difficult to find another servant who would fall over themselves to serve the Crown Prince.”

“I never sacked him. I have no idea where he went,” says Arthur defensively. “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone now.” 

Morgana hides her snort behind her hand and turns to watch him with unnervingly shrewd eyes. There’s a smugness to her air that grates on Arthur’s nerves, as though she knows something he doesn’t. 

“You miss him.”

Arthur scoffs derisively. “How on earth did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“You haven’t talked about anything else since you got here,” Morgana points out. Rather erroneously, Arthur thinks, but it’s not as if it has ever stopped her. “Or anyone. Not even a peep about your best knight Sir Caradoc.”

He scoffs again.

“It’s all right to admit it,” she pats his hand condescendingly. “Perhaps this would teach you to treat your servants better.”

“I treat Merlin well enough,” Arthur retorts indignantly. “Honestly, Morgana, you have no idea what I’ve had to put up with. I found the white tunic I had been searching for stuffed underneath the mattress just yesterday—the idiot somehow managed to turn the colour pink.”

“I’m sure the colour would suit you,” she says nonchalantly. “So if you didn’t sack him, what happened? Did you have a fight?”

“Something like that,” mumbles Arthur. It’s not like he can tell her about Merlin’s magic, or how Merlin really arrived in the castle. It’s not only his secret to tell. 

“Well, then,” says Morgana with infinite patience. “Are you going to do something about it?”

“Why?” Arthur stares at her. “Do you think I should do something?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours,” she rolls her eyes. “If you want him back, then go fix it.”

“Who said anything about wanting him back?” retorts Arthur. “Maybe I like having a clean room.”

“There’s truly no hope for you,” Morgana declares despairingly. 

Days continue to pass, and still, Arthur doesn’t hear from Merlin. 

“You don’t think he’s in trouble or anything, do you?” muses Arthur aloud, not at all worriedly. He’s standing by his window, watching pensively as the city bustles with life below him. 

“I’m certain that someone with Merlin’s skills would be fully capable of taking care of themselves,” assures Gaius, who still hasn’t mustered the grace to sound even remotely convincing.

Arthur is not in the habit of being introspective, but he has begun to wonder if the words he said were enough to send Merlin away for good. 

But he is sworn to me, a little voice in the back of his head says. 

Of course, he only has Merlin’s word for it. It’s not like Arthur would’ve known any different, considering the substantial gap in his knowledge where magic is concerned.

It’s probably something he should’ve called into question earlier. 

Arthur twists the ring around his thumb absently. There is pent-up energy simmering under his skin with no outlet to channel out. “Have you heard of guardians like him, Gaius?”

Gaius seems uncertain, suddenly on edge. “Sire?”

“Are they—you know,” Arthur gesticulates vaguely. “Magical guardians. Like Merlin. Were they known about, before the Purge?”

“There were always stories throughout history,” Gaius admits, frowning. “But to my knowledge, they are incredibly rare and elusive. Every other century or so, legend would inevitably emerge about new kings with guardians bound to them and all they achieve together.“

“So they do exist.”

“Before Merlin arrived, I did not think the stories were anything more than mere legends,” says Gaius. “I daresay most people who heard the stories would have thought the same way.”

Arthur must admit that the legend is a compelling one. No doubt that if his father had caught wind of it, he would have tried to capture one for himself to ensure constant glory. “I have never heard of them,” he murmurs. 

Gaius is hesitant when he offers, “They are said to be creatures of the Old Religion.” He glances at Arthur uncertainly. “Any records of them would have perished in the Purge.”

It’s like being plunged into a cold river. Despite the occasional argument, talking to Merlin had been easy as breathing, and despite what Arthur tells himself, he had grown to enjoy Merlin’s company. The tentative trust blooming between them feels natural as anything, like puzzle pieces falling into place. Merlin’s humanity has made it easy to overlook the fact that Merlin is a creature of magic, something not quite human. But somewhere along the line, Arthur has forgotten.

Somewhere along the line, Merlin has made Arthur forget that he’s only a Crown Prince whose entire life is dictated by the crown that will one day be placed on his head. He reminded Arthur that there are things other than duty; there’s a whole world outside of Camelot’s gates and whole lifetimes lived before Arthur even took his first breath. 

He reminded Arthur that underneath the circlet, there is still the man. Despite the circumstances that brought them together, Arthur had grown to consider Merlin a friend. And now that Arthur knows what it’s like to have a friend, he doesn’t quite know how to do without. In the short space of time that Merlin had been in Arthur’s life, he certainly has left his mark.

It’s too quiet without Merlin’s incessant chatter. He also never realised how much more lively a damp rag washing the floor of its own accord or a floating broomstick can make a chamber. 

“If that will be all, Sire?” asks Gaius, snapping Arthur out of his reverie.

“Oh yes, of course. Thank you, Gaius.”

Arthur knows that he should be relieved. Every day Merlin stays in Arthur’s employ is another day of Arthur betraying his father. Merlin’s disappearance is a conflict that has resolved itself: no longer will Arthur have to lie about harbouring and abetting a sorcerer, breaking the law day in and day out right underneath his father’s nose.

He knows he should be pleased, but instead, he finds himself growing increasingly uneasy. 

The thing is that Arthur had tried to dismiss Merlin from his service, shortly after they killed the afanc. He didn’t know Merlin then—there was no trust to speak of, budding or otherwise. But Merlin didn’t leave, claiming that there was a magical contract binding him to Arthur that wouldn’t let him leave, even if he tried. Even if he wanted to. 

But for all that Merlin argued then, he seems to have managed to find a way around said contract. It stings sharper than Arthur cares to admit. Was the fight they had so terrible, was he so unreasonable in asking Merlin to stop using his magic? Is he such an awful lord, that Merlin would choose to break his oath—the very reason he exists, based on Arthur’s admittedly limited understanding—rather than stick around a little longer?

It’s still his father’s voice that he hears, over and over. Magic is evil. It’s the reason he didn’t have a mother. Magic is wicked, and it will corrupt everything it touches until everything good about it withers and dies. It’s one of the very first lessons Arthur was taught as a child. It’s a mantra that doesn’t leave any room for questioning. And with every magical incident that happens in his life, the lesson only rang truer and truer.

But his mother also loved magic, according to Merlin.

Before Arthur can talk himself out of it, he finds himself walking to Gaius’ chambers.

“Sire,” greets Gaius, bowing slightly. Despite the hour, he doesn’t seem surprised to see Arthur.

“My apologies, Gaius. I know it’s late.”

“Not at all, Sire,” Gaius returns politely. “You appear troubled. How may I help you?”

“I have questions I believe you may be best placed to answer them,” says Arthur. “May I come in?”

Gaius opens his door wider and Arthur follows him into the room, perching himself at the end of Gaius’ workbench. 

“There were things Merlin said about my mother, some time ago,” he begins conversationally, calmly, as though his heart isn’t thundering away at his ribcage. “His previous charge knew her, or so he said.” He braces himself for a moment before forcing the question out. “Is it true that she loved magic?”

He almost cannot bear to look at Gaius to see how he would respond to such a question. He feels like a little boy again, desperate to know the mother he never met, chasing whispers just to find any ghosts of her lingering between the walls. 

There is a sharp inhale; the tension in the room suddenly rockets, growing thick enough to be cut with a knife. 

“Sire, I—“ Gaius begins, wrong-footed, before trailing off helplessly. It becomes evident that Arthur has him pinned between a rock and a hard place, torn between whatever promise he may have sworn to Uther and the true answer to Arthur’s question. 

It’s not a no, though. If Merlin was lying, Gaius would’ve said no outright.

She was my mother, Arthur wants to say. Don’t you think I deserved to know?

He just wanted to know if Merlin was telling the truth, or if he simply was trying to manipulate Arthur into accepting magic. But he wouldn’t beg, not even in this. 

“I see,” says Arthur thickly. Gaius’ reaction, in itself, is an answer. “So Merlin wasn’t lying.”

Gaius shakes his head silently. He is wary; Arthur can tell. 

Arthur pulls out the glass vial containing Merlin’s breath from his pocket, placing it in his open palm so Gaius can see it clearly. Gaius wanders over for a closer look, his eyes widening in recognition. 

“May I?”

Arthur nods without a word. 

Gaius takes the vial and inspects it carefully, bringing it up towards the candlelight. The mist it contains wafts and weaves, shimmering gently reflecting the flame. 

“Cornish glass,” he murmurs as he brings the vial closer to his eye. “The man who presented this to your mother said that this will offer her protection and help in her time of need. I remember. I didn’t realise what this was at the time—I thought it was a simple protection charm.” He peers at Arthur curiously. “Sire, how did you come across this?”

“Bronwyn gave it to me a long time ago,” explains Arthur, his voice rough. His heart still aches at the memory of her. “She said that my mother gave it to her for safekeeping. According to her, that my mother had wanted to gift it to me herself when I became of age.”

“The late Queen and Bronwyn had always been very close,” says Gaius, growing misty-eyed. “Bronwyn was your mother’s closest companion. She had been her handmaiden ever since your mother was only a girl. I can’t say I knew Bronwyn particularly well, but I can’t think of a reason why she would lie to you.”

Arthur is silent for a long time. There is a pang of guilt, now, making its presence clearly felt in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. This is not what his mother had intended for him. She had gifted him Merlin’s protection, and what had Arthur done with it? He’s only managed to drive Merlin away. “One day, I will ask you more about this,” he says quietly. Tomorrow morning, he has a guardian to track down. 

Arthur never gets the chance. 

That very night, Arthur is woken by the sound of the door to his bedchamber closing shut. Immediately he is alert, grabbing his sword from where it rests against the wall next to his bed. 

It takes another moment before his eyes fully adjust to the darkness, and it’s only then that Arthur can fully make out the figure stumbling slowly towards the foot of his bed, their gait limping and unsteady. 

“Who goes there?”

The reply is hardly more than a strangled croak. “Arthur?”

Arthur squints, taken aback. “Merlin?”

Merlin steps closer and the moonlight streaming through the window bathes him all at once: he is covered in blood and dirt, clutching a wound on his side. 

“Merlin!” Arthur exclaims, alarmed. He scrambles to Merlin’s side, feet tangled in the haphazardly-strewn sheet. He holds the other man up as he sways on his feet. “What happened?” He demands. “Who did this to you?”

“Good to see you,” Merlin exhales, dry cracked lips stretching into an exhausted smile. 

And then his eyes drift closed, and Arthur barely catches him as he crumbles to the floor.